Chapter Text
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YOONGI
The door slams shut, the sound reverberating through my apartment like a thunderclap, echoing off the walls and settling deep in my chest.
It feels as if the air itself has been sucked out of the room, leaving me standing frozen in my kitchen, the ghost of Jimin's touch still burning on my lips. His scent, lavender oil and something warmer, uniquely him, lingers in the air, a cruel reminder of what just happened.
My chest aches with a pain I can't name, sharp and unrelenting, like a wound that won't stop bleeding.
I fucked up.
I knew it the moment I pulled back from the kiss, the moment I saw the light in Jimin's eyes shatter, replaced by a raw, unguarded hurt that cut deeper than any words could. His face, flushed and hopeful one second, crumbling the next, it is seared into my mind, a loop I can't escape.
"Jimin, I'm sorry, I can't... I'm not..."
The words I said replay in my head, my voice trembling with panic, and I watched him crumble, his apologies spilling out like he was the one who had done something wrong.
He left with tears in his eyes, and it is my fault.
I should go after him.
I know I should.
My feet itch to move, to chase him down the hallway, into the elevator, out onto the street. To grab his arm, to pull him back, to explain... something. Anything.
But what would I say?
That I'm sorry?
That I didn't mean it?
That I'm terrified because kissing him felt right, felt like something I have been missing without knowing it?
That I have spent my whole life thinking I was straight, only to have him unravel everything with a single touch?
I can't move.
My legs feel like lead, anchored by the weight of my confusion, my fear.
The apartment is too quiet now, the jazz still playing softly in the background, mocking me with its mellow rhythm. I lean against the counter, my hands gripping the edge so hard my knuckles turn white, and let out a shaky breath.
I'm angry at myself, furious for panicking, for pushing him away when every part of me wanted to pull him closer. The kiss... God, the kiss. It was tentative at first, his lips soft and hesitant against mine, but when I responded, when I finally responded, it was like a dam breaking. Heat, need, a connection that felt so natural it scared the hell out of me.
I enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. It felt right, like something clicking into place, and that terrifies me.
What does it mean?
Who am I if I'm not who I thought I was?
I slide down to the floor, my back against the cabinets, and bury my face in my hands. The tile is cold against my skin, grounding me in the moment, but it does nothing to ease the storm inside.
I need to talk to someone.
Anyone.
My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over Jimin's contact. I could text him, call him, beg him to come back.
But I can't.
The words aren't there, tangled up in my fear.
Instead, I scroll to Jin's number and hit call, my pulse pounding in my ears like a drum.
He picks up on the third ring, his voice bright and teasing, oblivious to the chaos on my end.
"Yoongi! What's up? You survive another session with your favorite masseuse?"
"Jin," I say, my voice rough, unsteady, cracking on the single syllable. "I fucked up."
The line goes quiet for a moment, the teasing gone, replaced by sharp concern.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the words tumble out in a rush, raw and unfiltered.
I recount the afternoon, Jimin arriving late, flustered and hungry, the way my stomach twisted when his stomach growled during the session, how I couldn't let him leave without eating. The japchae, the dishes, the way we laughed, the way he tripped, and I caught him. The kiss, so soft, tentative, and then deepening, his lips moving against mine like they belonged there. And then my panic, my stupid, knee-jerk reaction, the way I pulled back and broke his heart.
When I'm done, Jin lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
"Yoongi, you idiot. Why the hell did you do that?"
"I don't know," I say, my voice breaking, tears stinging my eyes. "I panicked, okay?"
"Yoongi, you are so dense sometimes. Listen, I'm coming over. I'm bringing Namjoon and Hoseok. We need to talk some sense into you before you screw this up any worse."
"Jin, you don't have to—"
"I'm not asking," he interrupts, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Stay put. We will be there in twenty."
The line goes dead, and I'm left staring at my phone, my heart still racing, the silence of the apartment pressing in like a vice.
I want to call Jimin, to text him, to do something, but I can't. The hurt in his eyes is still too fresh, and I'm terrified of making it worse. Instead, I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands, the weight of my mistake crushing me.
Twenty minutes later, the intercom buzzes, and I let Jin, Namjoon, and Hoseok in. They file into my apartment, their faces a mix of concern and exasperation. Jin is carrying a six-pack of beer, Namjoon has a bag of snacks, and Hoseok's bright energy feels almost out of place in the heavy air.
"Okay," Jin says, setting the beers on the coffee table and cracking one open with a sharp hiss. "Sit down, Yoongi. We are having an intervention."
I roll my eyes but do as he says, dropping onto the couch with a heavy sigh.
"This is dramatic, even for you."
"Dramatic?"
Jin scoffs, handing me a beer, his eyes narrowing.
"You just broke Taehyung's best friend's heart because you are too stubborn to admit you are in love with him. That is dramatic."
"I'm not in love with him," I say, but the words feel hollow, even to me.
I take a swig of the beer, the cold bitterness grounding me slightly, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Namjoon raises an eyebrow, settling into an armchair, his gaze steady and probing.
"Yoongi, come on. We haven't all hung out since that night at The KOSMOS, but you have been talking about Jimin nonstop for weeks. Every time we see you, it is 'Jimin said this' or 'Jimin did that.' You light up when you talk about him."
"I do not," I mutter, but my face is heating up, and I know they are not buying it.
I take another sip, avoiding their eyes.
Hoseok leans forward from his spot on the floor, his expression softer but no less serious, his usual energy tempered by concern.
"Yoongi, you remember that night at the club? The way you watched him dance? You couldn't take your eyes off him. And not in a 'just friends' way. You were gone."
I wince, the memory of Jimin on the dance floor, his body moving like liquid fire under the strobe lights, still vivid. The way his eyes had met mine across the crowd, a spark that had ignited something in me I couldn't ignore.
"I was just... making sure he was okay. That guy he was dancing with was a creep."
Jin snorts, shaking his head as he takes a swig of his beer.
"Sure, that is why you looked like you wanted to punch the guy. You were jealous, Yoongi. Admit it."
"I wasn't—"
I start, but Namjoon cuts me off, his voice calm but firm, like he is dissecting a problem at work.
"Yoongi, you don't have to have it all figured out right now. But you need to be honest with yourself. You care about Jimin, more than you are letting on. And from what you told Jin, it sounds like he cares about you too. So why did you push him away?"
I set the beer down, running a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up like acid in my throat.
"Because I'm scared, okay? I have never felt like this about a guy before. I have always been into women, always thought I was straight. But with Jimin, it's... it's different. He makes me question everything, and I don't know what to do with that."
"Different how?" Jin asks, his tone sharp but not unkind, leaning forward like he is trying to pull the truth out of me. "Be honest, Yoongi. What do you feel when you are with him?"
I close my eyes, the words tumbling out before I can stop them, raw and unfiltered.
"He makes me feel... alive. Like I can breathe easier when he's around. I look forward to seeing him, not just for the massages, but for him. His laugh, his stories, the way he listens. But I'm not... I'm not supposed to feel like this, right?"
Jin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, his patience visibly fraying.
"Yoongi, you're so dense sometimes. Listen, I'm not saying you have to label yourself right now, but feelings don't always fit into neat little boxes. What you did today, pushing him away like that? You hurt him. Badly. And if you don't figure out what you want, you might lose him for good."
The thought of losing Jimin, of never seeing his smile again, never hearing his laugh, makes my chest tighten so painfully I can barely breathe.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, tears stinging my eyes. "I saw his face, Jin. He looked... broken. I hate that I did that to him."
Hoseok reaches over, squeezing my shoulder, his touch grounding me.
"Then fix it. You don't have to have all the answers right now, but you need to talk to him. Tell him you are confused, tell him you care. He deserves that much."
"I don't even know where to start," I admit, my voice cracking, the weight of it all crashing down. "What if he doesn't believe me? What if I don't even believe myself?"
"You start with the truth," Namjoon says simply, his gaze steady. "You said it yourself, he makes you feel alive. That is not nothing, Yoongi. That is worth fighting for."
I nod, but the fear is still there, a cold knot in my stomach. I have spent my life building walls, keeping people at a distance, but Jimin slipped through without me even realizing it. Now, those walls are crumbling, and I'm terrified of what is on the other side.
"Remember that time you told us about the coffee thing?" Jin says, breaking the silence, his voice softer now. "How Jimin stayed after a session, and you guys talked for, like, an hour about music? You were smiling so big I thought your face was gonna crack."
I huff a small laugh, the memory bittersweet, Jimin's eyes lighting up as he argued for streaming over vinyls, his laugh filling the room.
"Yeah. He was going on about how streaming is better than vinyls. Can you believe that?"
Namjoon chuckles, leaning back.
"You were so offended. But you kept talking about it for days, like you were proud of him for standing his ground."
"And that time you mentioned his Busan stories," Hoseok adds, his eyes warm with encouragement. "You were practically glowing, talking about how he described the ocean. You don't do that, Yoongi. Not with anyone."
I swallow hard, the truth of their words hitting me like a wave.
I have been falling for Jimin, piece by piece, and I didn't even realize it until he kissed me, until I pushed him away and saw the consequences of my fear.
"I fucked up," I say again, my voice thick with emotion, tears welling up. "I really fucked up bad."
"Yeah, you did," Jin says, but there is no judgment in his tone, just honesty, his eyes softening. "But you can still fix it. You just have to be brave enough to try."
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of conversation, my friends trying to lighten the mood with stories and teasing, but my mind is elsewhere. They stay for a couple of hours, cracking open more beers and eating the snacks, but I'm only half-present, my thoughts circling back to Jimin.
When they finally leave, Jin claps me on the shoulder, his voice firm.
"Call him, Yoongi. Soon. Don't let this fester."
I nod, but as the door closes behind them, the apartment feels too quiet, too empty. I sit on the couch, staring at the spot where Jimin stood, where he kissed me, where I broke his heart.
My phone is still in my hand, Jimin's contact open, but I can't bring myself to call him.
I lean back, closing my eyes, and let the jazz wash over me.
For the first time, I let myself really think about what I feel for him. Not the panic, not the confusion, but the truth. The way his smile makes my day better, the way his laugh feels like home, the way his presence makes everything else fade away.
I'm not sure what it means, but I know one thing for certain. Jimin isn't just my masseuse, or even just my friend. He is something more, something I'm terrified of losing.
And as the evening settles around me, the weight of my mistake heavy in my chest, I realize I have to find a way to make this right, before it is too late.
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JIMIN
The subway sways beneath me, the hum of the train a dull roar in my ears as I stare at the floor, my vision blurred by tears. I'm clutching my bag like a lifeline, my knuckles white, trying to hold myself together in this crowded car full of strangers who have no idea my world just imploded.
Every moment with Yoongi flashes through my mind, the way he laughed when I flicked soap bubbles at him, the way his eyes softened when he handed me a plate of japchae, the way his lips felt against mine for that brief, beautiful moment before it all fell apart.
I was so sure there was something there, something real. The way he lingered after our sessions, the way he teased me about my music taste, the way he cooked for me today, it all felt like more than friendship, more than professional courtesy.
But I was wrong, and the realization is a knife twisting in my chest.
I have never had my heart broken like this. There were flings in college, fleeting crushes that fizzled out, but none of them ever felt like this, like losing a part of myself.
Yoongi isn't just a crush, he is someone I could see myself building a life with, someone who makes me feel seen, understood, alive. And now, I have lost him, not just as a potential lover but maybe as a friend, too.
────
The moment I reach my apartment door, my vision blurs with fresh tears, the world around me dissolving into a watery haze. My keys slip from my trembling fingers, clattering to the floor, but I barely notice, my body shaking with sobs I can no longer hold back.
Taehyung and Jungkook are already there, leaning against the wall outside my door, their faces etched with concern. The second they see me, their expressions soften into something achingly tender, and it is like a dam breaks inside me. The sobs I have been holding back spill out, raw and unstoppable, my chest heaving as I fumble blindly for my keys again.
"Jimin," Taehyung says, his voice thick with worry, and before I can even get the door open, he pulls me into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around me like a lifeline, strong and unyielding.
Jungkook is right behind him, his strong arms encircling me from the back, squishing me between them in a cocoon of warmth and safety. The familiar scent of Taehyung's cologne, mixed with Jungkook's faint trace of fresh laundry, should be comforting, but it only makes me cry harder, the weight of Yoongi's rejection crashing over me like a wave, pulling me under.
"I'm so stupid," I choke out, my face buried in Taehyung's shoulder, my tears soaking into his jacket. "I knew this would happen. I knew he didn't feel the same, and I still... I still fell for him."
Taehyung pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands gripping my shoulders, his eyes fierce and protective.
"You are not stupid, Jimin. Don't you dare say that."
Jungkook's hand rubs soothing circles on my back, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet strength he always has.
"He is right, Jimin. You are not stupid for feeling something real. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know."
I shake my head, the tears streaming down my face, hot and unrelenting.
"But I am, Tae. I am stupid. I read too much into everything. The way he looked at me, the way he cooked for me today... I thought it meant something. I thought maybe he felt it too. And I... I kissed him. I kissed him, and he... he pushed me away. Like I was a mistake."
The words pour out, laced with anger, not at Yoongi, but at myself.
How could I have been so blind?
So desperate for something that wasn't there?
The embarrassment burns in my chest, a humiliating fire that makes me want to curl up and disappear. I feel like a fool, like a lovesick kid who misread every signal, every glance, every shared laugh.
Taehyung's jaw tightens, his anger flaring, but it is directed outward, not at me.
"Jimin, listen to me. Falling for Yoongi doesn't make you stupid. It makes you human. You have a heart the size of Seoul, and anyone who can't see that is the idiot here, not you."
I pull away slightly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming.
"But why does it always happen to me? Why do I always fall for the ones who don't love me back? First Minho, then Jaehyun, and now... now Yoongi. It feels like I'm cursed or something. Am I... am I unlovable?"
The question hangs in the air, my voice cracking on the last word, and Taehyung's face twists, his eyes flashing with a mix of pain and fury.
"Don't you ever say that again, Park Jimin," he says, his voice fierce, grabbing my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him. "You are the easiest person to love. You are kind, you are talented, you are beautiful inside and out. Anyone who doesn't see that, who doesn't fall for you the way you deserve, is a fucking fool. Yoongi included."
Jungkook nods, his hand still on my back, his touch steady and reassuring.
"Tae is right. You are not unlovable, Jimin. You are like... sunshine. You light up everyone around you. Yoongi is just... he is confused, maybe. But that is on him, not you."
I want to believe them, I do, but the pain in my chest is too raw, too consuming, a gaping wound that no words can heal.
"I have never felt like this before," I whisper, my voice breaking as I sink onto the couch, Taehyung and Jungkook settling on either side of me. "Not with anyone. Yoongi... he is different. He makes me feel seen, like I matter. And I thought... I thought maybe he felt it too. All those moments, the way he looked at me, the way he cooked for me today... I thought it meant something."
Taehyung wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, his chin resting on my head.
"I know, Jimin. I know it hurts. But this isn't the end of the world, okay? You are gonna get through this."
"It feels like it is," I say, my voice muffled against his chest, the sobs starting again. "It feels like my heart has been ripped out. I'm so embarrassed, Tae. I misread everything. The laughs, the talks, the way he would have me linger after sessions... I thought it was mutual. I feel like such an idiot for kissing him."
Jungkook's hand finds mine, squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over my knuckles.
"You are not an idiot, Jimin. You took a risk because you felt something real. That takes courage. And if Yoongi can't see that, can't appreciate that, then he doesn't deserve you."
I nod, but the embarrassment burns hot in my veins, a humiliating flush that makes me want to hide from the world.
How could I have been so blind?
So desperate for connection that I saw signs where there were none?
The anger at myself simmers beneath the hurt, a bitter undercurrent that makes the tears fall faster.
At some point, Taehyung gets up and rummages through my kitchen, returning with a bottle of soju and three glasses.
"Okay, emergency protocol," he says, pouring us each a shot, his eyes determined. "We drink, we talk, we cry if we need to. No judgment."
I manage a weak smile, taking the glass he hands me.
"You are gonna get me drunk?"
"Only if you want to," he says, his grin soft but mischievous. "Sometimes you gotta feel like shit to feel better."
Jungkook raises his glass, his eyes warm and steady.
"To Jimin. The best person we know."
I choke out a laugh, the sound half-sob, and we clink glasses, the soju burning down my throat like liquid fire. It is not enough to dull the pain, but it is a start, a way to blur the edges of the hurt.
The evening stretches on, the soju flowing as freely as my tears. I drink more than I should, the alcohol loosening my tongue, my emotions spilling out in a messy, unfiltered stream.
"I just wanted him to love me back," I say at one point, my words slurring slightly as I lean against Taehyung's shoulder. "Is that so much to ask?"
"No," Taehyung says, his voice fierce, his arm tightening around me. "It is not. And you deserve someone who will, Jimin. Someone who sees you the way we do, who loves you so hard you won't know what to do with it."
Jungkook nods, his own eyes a little glassy from the soju, his hand still holding mine.
"You will find him. Or he will find you. But until then, you have us. Always."
I nod, the tears still falling, but their words are a small comfort, a reminder that I'm not alone, even if it feels like my world has shattered.
"I'm so angry at myself," I whisper, my voice breaking again. "For letting it get this far. For thinking those moments meant more than they did. The way he cooked for me, the way we would talk for hours... I feel like such a fool."
"You are not a fool," Jungkook says softly, his thumb still rubbing circles on my hand. "You are brave for opening your heart. That is something to be proud of, Jimin."
Taehyung nods, pouring another round.
"And if Yoongi can't see that, then fuck him. You deserve better."
I laugh through my tears, the sound bitter but real.
"I don't want better. I want him."
"I know," Taehyung says, his voice gentle now. "But sometimes, we don't get what we want. And that sucks, but it doesn't mean you stop hoping for something good."
We drink more, the soju blurring the edges of my pain, but it doesn't erase it. The embarrassment lingers, a hot flush under my skin, the memory of Yoongi's wide eyes, his hesitant pull-back, playing on loop in my mind.
I misread it all, saw what I wanted to see, and now I'm paying the price.
Taehyung, ever the vigilant friend, must sense the dangerous turn my thoughts are taking, because he slips my phone out of my pocket when I'm not looking, tucking it into his own.
"No drunk-dialing Yoongi," he says, catching my eye with a stern look. "Not tonight."
I groan, flopping back against the couch.
"I wasn't gonna call him."
"Liar," Taehyung says, but his tone is gentle, teasing without bite. "You are a mess, Jimin. Let's not make it worse."
I know he is right, but the urge to hear Yoongi's voice, to beg him to explain, to take it all back, is overwhelming.
Instead, I drink another shot, the burn barely registering now, and let the soju pull me under, drowning out the pain for a little while.
────
The days that follow are a haze of pain and self-loathing.
I wake up Sunday morning with a pounding headache and a heart that feels like it has been run over by a truck. My apartment is a mess, empty soju bottles scattered on the coffee table, a stark reminder of last night's breakdown. Taehyung and Jungkook stayed until the early hours, making sure I was okay before crashing on my couch. They are gone now, leaving a note on the fridge.
"Call us if you need us. Love you, Jimin."
I try to go through the motions, coffee, a shower, studying for my exams, but everything feels hollow, like the color has been drained from the world. Yoongi hasn't reached out, not a call, not a text, not even a single word to soften the blow of his rejection.
His silence is deafening, a confirmation of everything I feared. He doesn't want me, doesn't feel what I feel, and I was a fool to think otherwise.
────
By Wednesday, I know I can't face him again. The thought of our next session, of standing in his apartment, touching him, pretending everything is fine, is unbearable.
I can't do it.
I'm not strong enough to look into his eyes and not see the rejection, not feel the weight of my own broken heart.
I sit at my desk, my laptop open, and start searching for a substitute masseuse. I know a few people from my physical therapy program, talented students who could take over Yoongi's sessions without missing a beat.
It takes a few calls, but I find someone, a classmate named Hana, who is skilled and professional, and more importantly, willing to take on a new client.
"Hey, Hana," I say when she picks up, my voice steadier than I feel. "I have got a client I need to pass off. He is a good guy, just needs regular sessions for back pain. You free to take him on?"
"Sure," she says, her voice bright and eager. "What is his schedule like?"
"Saturdays, usually," I say, my throat tightening at the thought of Yoongi's apartment, the jazz, the coffee. "I will send you his details. Just... take good care of him, okay?"
"Of course," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Thanks for the referral."
I hang up, my hands trembling as I type out Yoongi's contact information and send it to her.
I don't tell him, though.
I can't.
His silence these past few days has been answer enough, a clear signal that he wants nothing to do with me. Not as a masseuse, not as a friend, and definitely not as anything more.
────
By Friday, the pain hasn't lessened, but I'm trying to accept it, trying to tell myself I will move on eventually.
I sit on my bed, my phone in my hands, Yoongi's contact open on the screen. My thumb hovers over the block button, my heart screaming at me to stop, to hold on to the hope that he might reach out, that he might change his mind.
But my head knows better.
I can't keep waiting for something that will never happen.
"Do it, Jimin," I whisper to myself, my voice shaking. "Just do it."
I press the button, and his number disappears from my contacts, a small but final act of self-preservation.
I stare at the screen, my chest tight, and for a moment, I consider deleting it entirely, erasing every trace of him from my life. But I can't bring myself to do it, not yet. The thought of losing even that small piece of him feels like too much.
I set the phone down, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
The pain in my heart is a constant now, a dull ache that flares every time I think of him, which is all the time.
I know it will take time to heal, probably a long time, maybe longer than I can imagine. But I have to try, have to find a way to move forward, even if it feels impossible right now.
────
The weekend arrives like a storm I can't escape, each moment heavy with the weight of what I have lost. Saturday morning dawns, gray and unrelenting, and when the hour I would normally be heading to Yoongi's apartment arrives, it feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind painting vivid pictures of Hana arriving at his place, setting up the massage table in that familiar corner of his living room, the soft jazz playing, Yoongi's quiet smile as she chats with him the way I used to.
Does he expect me to show up?
Does he even care that I'm gone?
The thought makes my stomach churn, a nauseating mix of heartbreak and embarrassment that claws at my insides. I pull the covers over my head, trying to block out the world, but the ache in my chest is relentless, a constant reminder of Yoongi's rejection, of my own stupidity for thinking he could ever want me.
I force myself out of bed, splashing cold water on my face, but it does nothing to wash away the sting of tears that threaten to spill again.
My apartment feels too small, too quiet, the absence of Yoongi's presence a gaping void. I bury myself in my studies, textbooks spread across my desk, but the words blur together, meaningless against the backdrop of my pain. Every page I turn, every note I scribble, feels like a futile attempt to drown out the memory of his lips, his voice, the way his eyes had widened with fear when I kissed him.
Taehyung and Jungkook are my lifelines, their texts a steady stream of memes and silly videos, their calls filled with gentle encouragement. They drag me out of my apartment on Sunday, insisting on coffee at a small café near the university, a cozy place with exposed brick walls and the warm scent of espresso and freshly baked pastries. The chatter of other patrons and the clink of cups should be comforting, but it only underscores the emptiness I feel without Yoongi.
"You doing okay?" Jungkook asks, his eyes soft with concern as he pushes a plate of croissants toward me, his tattooed fingers brushing the edge of the table.
I force a smile, picking at the flaky pastry, my appetite nonexistent.
"Getting there. Just... taking it one day at a time."
Taehyung reaches across the table, his hand finding mine, squeezing gently. His touch is warm, grounding, but it can't fill the hole in my heart.
"You are stronger than you think, Jimin. And we are here, okay? Every step of the way."
"I know," I say, my voice thick with emotion, the threat of tears burning behind my eyes. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know what I would do without you."
Taehyung's grin is soft, but there is a fierceness in his eyes.
"You would be a mess, but you would figure it out. You always do. But you don't have to do it alone."
Jungkook nods, leaning forward, his voice low and earnest.
"You are gonna get through this, Jimin. It hurts now, but it won't always. You are too bright to stay in the dark forever."
I want to believe him, but the pain is a living thing, coiled tight in my chest, flaring every time I think of Yoongi, which is every moment of every day. I miss him with an intensity that steals my breath, miss his dry humor, his quiet strength, the way he made me feel like I could be myself without pretense. I miss the way he looked at me, those fleeting moments where I swore I saw something more, something that made my heart dare to hope.
But I was wrong, and the embarrassment of that mistake burns as fiercely as the heartbreak. I read too much into every glance, every shared laugh, every lingering moment over coffee. I let myself believe he felt the same, and now I'm paying the price, my heart shattered and my pride bruised.
We talk about everything and nothing, their banter a small light in the darkness of my heart. Taehyung launches into a ridiculous story about a classmate's failed attempt at a TikTok dance, his animated gestures and dramatic reenactment pulling a weak laugh from me.
But even as I laugh, Yoongi is there, a shadow in the back of my mind, his absence a weight I can't shake.
"I just keep replaying it," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper as I stare at the crumbs on my plate. "The kiss. His face. The way he pulled away. I still feel so stupid for thinking he wanted me."
Taehyung's expression hardens, his hand tightening around mine.
"Jimin, stop it. You are not stupid. You took a chance on something real. That is not weakness, that is bravery."
Jungkook leans closer, his eyes gentle but resolute.
"You can't control how he feels, but you can control how you move forward. And you are not alone in this, okay? We have got you."
I nod, my throat tight, the warmth of their words a small balm against the raw ache inside me.
"I just... I miss him so much. It feels like there is this hole in my chest, and I don't know how to fill it."
"You don't have to fill it right now," Taehyung says softly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Just let yourself feel it. And let us help you carry it."
As we leave the café, the sun setting over Seoul in a blaze of orange and pink, I take a deep breath, trying to let the city's energy seep into the empty spaces inside me.
The streets hum with life, the chatter of passersby and the distant honk of cars a reminder that the world keeps turning, even if my heart feels stuck.
It will take time, a long time, maybe forever, but I have to find a way to move on.
I have to.
Because loving Yoongi was the best and worst thing I have ever done, and I don't know how to stop.
I don't know if I ever will.
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YOONGI
The weekend arrives, and I'm unraveling. Each day without Jimin feels like a thread being pulled from the fabric of my existence, leaving me frayed and exposed.
Saturday, the hour when Jimin would normally arrive for our session, dawns cold and gray, mirroring the ache in my chest. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind a storm of regret and longing, replaying the moment I pushed him away, the hurt in his eyes cutting deeper each time.
I want to call him, to text him, to beg for a chance to explain, but my thumb freezes over his contact, a wall I can't climb.
I'm sorry, I'm scared, I think I'm falling for you.
The words I need to say feel too big, too raw, like they might shatter me if I let them out. I have spent my life building walls, defining myself by clear lines, but Jimin has blurred them all, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion and want.
I miss him. His smile, warm and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through clouds. His laugh, bright and infectious, filling my apartment with life. The way he made me feel seen, like I could be more than just the work-obsessed architect I have become.
The kiss haunts me, a memory that both warms and wounds. I enjoyed it, more than I can admit, and that truth terrifies me. It is not just that I have never been into men, it is that Jimin feels like an exception to every rule I have ever known.
The intercom buzzes, and my heart leaps, a fleeting hope that it is him, that he has changed his mind. I scramble to the door, my pulse racing, and press the button, my voice unsteady.
"Jimin?"
"Hi, it is Hana," comes a cheerful voice, and my heart plummets. "Jimin sent me. I'm your new masseuse."
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath.
Jimin isn't coming.
He has replaced himself, cut me out entirely. The realization is a knife to the gut, twisting with every second.
I force myself to open the door, and there she is, a young woman with short, dark hair and a kind smile, her massage table tucked under her arm.
"Hi," she says, her tone professional but warm. "I'm Hana, from Jimin's physical therapy program. He asked me to take over your sessions."
"Oh," I manage, my voice hollow, barely masking the shock. "I... didn't know."
Her smile falters slightly, sensing my unease.
"No worries. Jimin said you have been dealing with chronic back pain. I will make sure to take care of you."
I nod, stepping aside to let her in, my movements mechanical.
"Come in. Sorry, I just... wasn't expecting you."
"It's all good," she says, setting up her table with practiced ease. "I promise I'm qualified. Jimin wouldn't have sent me otherwise."
I nod again, my throat tight, and retreat to my bedroom to change, the jazz playlist I chose for Jimin still playing softly, each note a cruel reminder of his absence.
The session with Hana is fine, her hands are skilled, her technique solid, but she is not Jimin. There is no warmth, no intuitive connection, no spark that makes my muscles unwind like they did under his touch. I lie face-down, staring at the floor, my mind a thousand miles away.
"You are really tense today," Hana says gently, her fingers working a knot in my shoulder. "Rough week?"
"Yeah," I mumble, my voice muffled. "Something like that."
She doesn't push, and I'm grateful, but the session feels endless, each minute a reminder that Jimin is gone.
When it is over, I thank her, my voice flat, and she packs up, her smile polite but distant.
"Same time next week?" she asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"I will... let you know," I say, avoiding her eyes. "Thanks, Hana."
She nods and leaves, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me in a silence so heavy it feels like it might crush me. I stand in the middle of my living room, my own massage table still set up, the faint scent of lavender oil lingering like a ghost.
Jimin is everywhere and nowhere, his presence haunting this space we shared.
I grab my phone, my hands shaking as I pull up his contact. I need to hear his voice, need to tell him I'm sorry, that I'm terrified but I care, that I miss him more than I can bear.
I press call, my heart pounding, but the line doesn't ring. Instead, a robotic voice cuts through.
"The number you have dialed is not in service."
My breath catches, my chest tightening as the truth sinks in.
He blocked me.
Jimin doesn't just want distance, he wants me gone from his life entirely.
The phone slips from my hand, landing on the couch with a soft thud, and I sink down beside it, my head in my hands.
I'm losing him, and it is my fault.
────
The days that follow are a haze of guilt and longing.
I try to throw myself into work, sketching designs, meeting with clients, but my focus is shot. Every quiet moment is filled with Jimin, his laugh as we argued about vinyls, his stories about Busan, the way his eyes softened when he talked about his dreams.
I miss him so fiercely it is a physical ache, a hollow space in my chest that nothing can fill.
Monday evening, Jin calls, his voice sharp with frustration.
"Yoongi, what the hell is going on? Taehyung says Jimin is a wreck. What happened after we talked?"
I wince, the guilt clawing at me.
"I didn't reach out," I admit, my voice low. "I tried calling Saturday, after... after he sent a new masseuse. He blocked my number, Jin."
There is a pause, then a heavy sigh.
"Yoongi, I told you to fix it. And now he has cut you off completely? You are letting him slip away."
"I know," I say, my voice breaking. "I care about him, Jin. I can't stop thinking about him. But I don't know how to do this. I have never... I don't know what I am anymore."
"You are Yoongi," he says, softer now. "And you are someone who cares about Jimin. That is enough to start with. You don't need all the answers, but you need to talk to him. Find a way."
"How?" I ask, desperation seeping into my voice. "He has blocked me. I don't know where he lives. I can't just show up at his school like a creep."
"Then get creative," Jin says, his tone firm but encouraging. "You built a firm from nothing. You can figure this out. Maybe ask Hoseok, he is good at this stuff."
I nod, though he can't see me, the idea sparking a faint hope.
"Okay. I will try."
"Don't try," Jin says. "Do it. Jimin is worth it, Yoongi."
We hang up, and I sit in the silence of my apartment, the weight of my feelings settling over me.
I'm scared, terrified of what it means to want Jimin the way I do, but I'm starting to accept it. He is not just a friend, not just a masseuse, he is someone who has carved a space in my heart, and I can't let him go without a fight.
I don't have a plan yet, but I know I have to try, have to find a way to make this right before it is too late.
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