Work Text:
Jimin used to think happiness had to be loud to count.
Laughter spilling over dinner tables, music played too loudly, hands tugging him into frames for pictures he never asked for but always kept anyway. He said—often—that he didn't care where life took him as long as it was full. Taehyung never believed him. He said someone who documented everything so obsessively clearly cared more than he let on.
Jimin always laughed that off.
The truth was simpler than Taehyung suspected and more complicated than Jimin wanted to admit. He liked the proof. The tangible evidence that he'd been somewhere, with someone, that he'd mattered enough to be remembered. His phone was full of photos he'd never look at again—blurry shots of food, candid moments of friends mid-laugh, sunsets that never quite captured the actual colors. He kept them all anyway.
He liked being easy. Easy to love, easy to please, easy to keep. He adapted himself to people the way water adapted to containers, taking pride in how seamlessly he fit. He learned early that being agreeable made life smoother, that silence avoided conflict, and that waiting was kinder than demanding.
It started young, probably. The youngest in a family that had already established its rhythms before he arrived. His brother had been the loud one, the demanding one, the one who knew what he wanted and said so. Jimin learned to want whatever was left over. Learned to call it preference instead of resignation.
By the time he met his friends in college, the pattern was set. He was the one who chose last, who switched his answer when someone else wanted the same thing, who said "I don't mind" so often it became a joke. Taehyung used to tease him about it, but gently. Yoongi would sometimes give him looks that felt too knowing, too careful. Jimin pretended not to notice.
With Seokjin, it felt less like a sacrifice and more like instinct.
They met at Hoseok's birthday party, three years ago now. Jin had been holding court in the kitchen, making everyone laugh with a story about a disastrous work dinner, and Jimin had watched from the doorway, charmed by how comfortable he seemed in his own skin. How solid. Jin caught him staring and smiled, and Jimin felt something slot into place in his chest.
"You're Jimin, right?" Jin had said, moving through the crowd with the ease of someone used to being welcomed. "Hoseok's talked about you."
"Nothing too embarrassing, I hope."
"Extremely embarrassing," Jin said, grinning. "But I like embarrassing. Means you're human."
They'd talked for two hours, standing in that kitchen while the party moved around them. Jin asked questions and actually listened to the answers. He laughed at Jimin's jokes—the self-deprecating ones Jimin always used to deflect attention and the genuine ones that surprised them both. When the party wound down, Jin had asked for his number with the kind of straightforward confidence Jimin had always envied.
Their first date was dinner at a restaurant Jin chose. Italian, intimate, with candles that made everything look softer. Jin ordered for both of them after asking what Jimin liked, and Jimin found it charming rather than presumptuous. Jin had good taste. Jin knew what he was doing. Jimin relaxed into it.
On the second date, Jin picked the movie. The third, Jin suggested the weekend trip to Busan. Jimin went along happily, easily, the way he always did. It felt like being taken care of. It felt like someone else taking the weight of decisions, of planning, of making sure things went right.
Jin liked certainty. He liked deciding, liked being the one others deferred to. Jimin admired that about him. Where Jin was solid, Jimin was fluid. Where Jin took up space, Jimin filled the gaps around him. It felt balanced. Complementary. Like this was how love was supposed to look.
Jin had strong opinions about restaurants, about movies, about how to spend weekends. Jimin had preferences, but they felt negotiable in a way Jin's never did. And it was fine. It was good, even. Jin's decisiveness meant fewer arguments, less back-and-forth, less of the exhausting work of compromise. Jimin told himself this was efficiency. Partnership. Division of labor.
So Jimin didn't mind when Jin spoke over him sometimes. Or when decisions were made without consulting him. Or when Jin needed time—always time—to think through his feelings before sharing them. Jimin told himself patience was love. He told himself he was chosen, even if he wasn't always prioritized.
There were good moments. Plenty of them. Jin's laugh was infectious, his jokes well-timed. He was generous with friends, thoughtful about birthdays, reliable in the ways that mattered. He showed up. He remembered. When Jimin's grandmother died, Jin had taken two days off work to sit with him in silence, hand steady on Jimin's back, asking nothing.
Jimin collected those moments like evidence. Proof that this was real, that he was loved, that choosing to be easy was the right choice.
He ignored the smaller things. The way Jin sometimes checked his phone mid-conversation, attention sliding away just as Jimin was getting to the point of a story. The way Jin's friends always came first when scheduling conflicts arose. The way Jin would plan trips and activities and simply inform Jimin after decisions were made.
"I booked us a table at that new place for Friday," Jin would say, and Jimin would rearrange his plans without mentioning he'd already made some.
"I think we should skip Taehyung's thing and do the work dinner instead," Jin would say, and Jimin would text his apologies, ignoring Taehyung's disappointed response.
It was fine. Relationships required compromise. Jimin was just better at it than most people.
By the time Jin sent a message to the group chat saying he was bringing someone new to the get-together that evening, Jimin didn't think twice. That was how Jungkook had been introduced, after all—Taehyung had brought him to a casual dinner, nervous and excited, and now Jungkook was as much a part of their group as anyone. That was how everyone had been introduced.
The message had come through while Jimin was at work, phone buzzing against his desk.
Jin: Hey everyone, I'm bringing someone to dinner tonight. Hope that's okay!
Hoseok: ooh mysterious
Taehyung: is this someone we know?
Jin: Nope! You'll meet him tonight
Jungkook: him??? 👀
Yoongi: see you both tonight
Jimin had smiled at his phone, already thinking about what to wear. Jin didn't bring people around casually. This had to be someone important. A new friend, maybe, or someone from work Jin wanted to integrate into their group. Jimin felt a small flutter of pride that Jin wanted to share his life this way, that their circle was the kind of place Jin wanted to bring people into.
He dressed carefully that night. More carefully than usual. He chose the navy sweater Jin had once said brought out his eyes, the jeans that fit well, the cologne Jin had bought him for his birthday. He smiled at his reflection, adjusted his collar, noticed with private amusement how his outfit—if one squinted—matched the burgundy button-down he'd seen Jin wear last week. It felt intimate. Familiar. Like they were becoming one of those couples who coordinated without trying.
He should have known something was wrong when Yoongi pulled him aside in the restaurant's entrance and asked, quietly, whether Jin had spoken to him that day.
"No, why?" Jimin had been wrestling with his coat, distracted by the warmth of the restaurant after the October chill outside.
Yoongi's expression had been difficult to read. "No reason. Just wondering."
But his hand had lingered on Jimin's shoulder for a moment, grip just slightly too firm, before he'd turned away.
Jimin shrugged it off. Jin liked to think before he talked. Jin always came to him eventually. Jimin trusted that.
The restaurant was one of their regulars—a Korean barbecue place in Hongdae that Hoseok had discovered years ago, back when the owner was still building a reputation. Now there was usually a wait, but they had a standing reservation on Friday evenings when they could all make it work. The familiar smell of sizzling meat and sesame oil hit Jimin as he walked in, and he felt himself relax.
Their table was in the back corner, the good one with enough space for everyone to spread out. Taehyung and Jungkook were already there, heads bent together over a menu they both had memorized. Hoseok arrived moments after Jimin, bringing a blast of cold air and his usual bright energy.
"Jimin-ah!" Hoseok wrapped him in a quick hug. "You look nice. Special occasion?"
"Just felt like it," Jimin said, sliding into his usual seat.
Yoongi sat across from him, already pouring water with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times. He caught Jimin's eye and held it for just a second too long before looking away.
Jimin ignored the worried look Yoongi gave him and filled his plate instead, laughing with Taehyung about something ridiculous Jungkook had said at work, eating too much pork belly, letting himself feel warm and full and loved.
"Jin's late," Taehyung observed, glancing at his phone. "That's not like him."
"He said he was bringing someone," Jungkook reminded them. "Maybe they're coming together."
"I wonder who it is," Hoseok said, already reaching for the scissors to cut the meat. "Jin doesn't usually bring people around unless they're pretty serious friend material."
"Maybe it's that guy from his company," Taehyung suggested. "The one he's mentioned a few times? Junho?"
"Junghwan," Jimin corrected automatically. He knew all of Jin's work friends by name, could track the office politics through Jin's dinner conversation. "But I don't think—"
The door opened.
The first sign came when Jin walked in.
Not just with someone, but with intention. Jin's hand hovered at the small of the other man's back—not hiding him, but shielding him. Guiding him. The gesture was practiced, protective. Possessive in a way that made something cold settle in Jimin's stomach.
The man was handsome. Tall, with the kind of easy athleticism that spoke of regular gym sessions, dark hair styled carefully. He was smiling nervously, and Jin was looking at him with an expression Jimin recognized but couldn't immediately place.
Then he did. It was the expression Jin used to give him. Used to.
The second sign was Jin's nervousness. The way his hands fidgeted with his jacket zipper, the way he hesitated before speaking, scanning the table. His eyes landed on Jimin and something flickered there—guilt, maybe, or apprehension—before sliding away.
Jimin smiled at him instinctively, started to raise his hand for a wave, for the casual acknowledgment they always exchanged. But Jin was already looking away, attention fixed on the man beside him.
“Hi everyone,” Jin said, his hand still firm at the small of the man’s back. “This is Dohyun. My boyfriend.”
The silence hit like pressure change.
Someone laughed too late.
“Boyfriend?” Taehyung said. It wasn’t a question.
Jimin felt his mouth curve automatically, muscle memory kicking in before thought. “Oh,” he said, lightly. Too lightly. “That’s—”
Congratulations, he meant to say. That’s great.
Nothing came out.
“Since when?” Jungkook asked.
Dohyun answered before Jin could. “Three months. Yesterday was our anniversary.”
Three months.
Jimin nodded, once, like the information had somewhere reasonable to land. Like his chest wasn’t caving in.
“Congrats,” he said finally. The word tasted wrong. Brittle.
Jin didn’t look at him.
The silence was physical.
It had weight, had texture. Jimin could feel it pressing against his eardrums, filling his lungs, settling into the spaces between his ribs.
The word boyfriend echoed in his head, distorting, stretching, becoming meaningless sounds. Boy. Friend. Boy. Friend. Boyfriend.
He'd always laughed at scenes like this in movies—at characters freezing, going blank, going mute. He always insisted he'd react differently. Loudly. Angrily. He'd throw something. He'd cause a scene. He'd do anything but sit there like an idiot while the world rearranged itself.
Instead, he sat perfectly still. His chopsticks were suspended mid-air, a piece of pork belly cooling on the end. His mouth was probably open. He didn't know. He couldn't feel his face.
Three months.
The number slammed into Jimin like a physical force. Three months. Ninety days. Thirteen weeks. A full season.
His chopsticks fell. He didn't hear them hit the plate.
Three months ago, Jin had started pulling away in bed. Kisses became chaste, quick, apologetic. The casual intimacy they'd built—Jin's hand finding his under covers, morning sex that left them lazy and satisfied, the comfortable nakedness of shared space—had evaporated so gradually Jimin had barely noticed it disappearing.
"I'm tired," Jin would say, rolling over. "Work's been a lot."
And Jimin had rolled over too, staring at the wall while Jin fell asleep behind him, telling himself this was normal. This happened. Relationships had ebbs and flows. The passion would come back.
It's okay, he had thought. This happens.
Three months ago, dinners started getting canceled. Plans postponed. Jin's phone turned face-down on tables, buzzing with notifications he'd check later, in private. When Jimin asked about weekend plans, Jin became vague.
"I might have to work."
"I'm not sure yet."
"Can we decide later?"
Jimin had joked about it, softened every question into something harmless, something undemanding. "You're so busy lately! They're working you too hard."
Jin always looked relieved. "Yeah, it's been crazy. Thanks for understanding."
Three months ago was the last time Jin had said "I love you" without Jimin saying it first.
Someone was gripping his arm. Jimin looked down and saw Yoongi's hand, knuckles white with pressure. When had Yoongi moved? He'd been across the table. Now he was next to Jimin, body angled like a shield.
"Jimin-ah," Yoongi said, very quietly. "Breathe."
Jimin realized he hadn't been.
Air rushed into his lungs, sharp and painful. The restaurant came back into focus. The sizzle of meat on grills. The chatter from other tables. The K-pop playing too loudly on the speakers. His friends' faces, all carefully not looking at him, except Taehyung whose expression was pure fury.
And Jin. Jin was looking at him now, finally. His face was composed but pale, throat working around words he wasn't saying.
"Congratulations," someone said.
It took Jimin a moment to realize the voice was his.
"Thank you," Dohyun said warmly. If he noticed anything wrong, he didn't show it. "Jin's told me so much about you all. I've been wanting to meet everyone."
Jin's told him. Jin's been talking about them, about their friends, about this life, while building another one entirely. While celebrating anniversaries. While being someone's boyfriend.
While still being—what? What had Jimin been?
"Jimin," Yoongi said again, quieter. "Let's—"
"I need to—" Jimin stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. Everyone looked at him. "Bathroom. I need the bathroom."
He walked. One foot in front of the other. The bathroom was at the front of the restaurant, past tables full of people eating and laughing and living normal lives where the ground wasn't falling away beneath them. He made it three steps outside the restaurant before his knees gave out.
He didn't fall. Arms caught him—Jungkook's arms, he realized distantly. When had Jungkook followed him?
"Hyung," Jungkook said. Just that. Just his name.
"I can't—" Jimin's voice cracked. "I can't breathe. I can't—"
"Okay. Okay, it's okay." Jungkook was holding him up, steering him away from the restaurant's windows, into the shadow between buildings. "Breathe with me. In—yeah, like that. Out. Good. Again."
Jimin tried. His lungs felt too small, like they'd shrunk to the size of fists. The October air was cold against his face and he realized, distantly, that he'd left his coat inside. He was shaking.
"I've got you," Jungkook said. "I've got you, hyung."
The taxi ride was a blur. Jungkook must have called it, must have given Jimin's address, must have guided him inside. Jimin existed in fragments, consciousness flickering on and off like a faulty light.
Streetlights streaking past like something fleeing. His face buried in Jungkook's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of detergent and the fabric softener Jungkook's mom sent from Busan. His hands clutching Jungkook's jacket without permission, wrinkling the leather.
Tears leaked out silently. Not sobs. He wasn't crying, not really. Just water escaping from his eyes, like his body was trying to drain something it couldn't contain.
Jungkook didn't comment. Didn't move except to hold him closer. Just made space.
His apartment was dark when they arrived. Had he forgotten to leave the lights on? He always left the lights on. Jin used to tease him about it, about the electricity bill, about Jimin's hatred of coming home to darkness.
Jin.
Jungkook flicked the lights on and guided Jimin to the couch. Voices filtered in from somewhere—the door, Jimin realized. Taehyung and Yoongi, speaking in low tones with Jungkook.
"—just stay here tonight—"
"—texted Hoseok, he's dealing with—"
"—can't believe he fucking—"
Taehyung appeared in his line of vision, face blotchy with anger and unshed tears. He knelt in front of Jimin, hands hovering like he wasn't sure if touch would help or hurt.
"Jiminie," Taehyung said, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"It's not your fault," Jimin heard himself say. His voice sounded normal. How was his voice normal?
"I know, but—" Taehyung bit his lip. "You don't deserve this. You've never deserved this."
Yoongi moved through the apartment with quiet efficiency, familiar enough with the space to find things. He returned with water, with the soft blanket from Jimin's bed, with the understanding that sometimes caring looked like practical action instead of words.
"Drink," Yoongi said, pressing the glass into Jimin's hands.
Jimin drank. The water was cold and tasteless and real. He focused on that. The temperature. The weight of the glass. The way it felt going down his throat.
"We can stay," Jungkook offered. "All of us. We'll stay tonight."
"No," Jimin said. "I'm okay. I'm fine."
"Hyung—"
"I'm fine." He forced himself to look at them, to make his face do something that might pass for a smile. "Really. I just need sleep. It's been—I just need sleep."
They exchanged looks. Some silent conversation he wasn't part of, some decision being made about him, around him, without him. The story of his life.
But they left eventually, one by one, after extracting promises that Jimin would call if he needed anything, would reach out, would not do anything stupid. Taehyung hugged him hard enough to hurt. Yoongi squeezed his shoulder. Jungkook was the last to go, lingering in the doorway.
"He's a fucking coward," Jungkook said quietly.
Jimin didn't ask who he meant.
When the door closed behind them, the apartment went wrong.
Too quiet. Too arranged.
Jin’s wine glass was still on the counter, rinsed but not put away. The bottle—half-empty, his favorite—sat where Jin had left it last week. A book lay open on the arm of the couch, spine cracked in a way Jimin would never have done himself.
Evidence.
Jimin sank onto the couch, surrounded by proof of someone who had already left.
Three months.
His phone was buzzing. He looked down at it like a foreign object.
Jin: Jimin, can we talk?
Jin: I know you're upset. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out like that.
Jin: Please. Just let me explain.
Jimin read the messages twice. Three times. The words rearranged themselves, meaning dissolving and reforming.
I didn't mean for you to find out like that.
Not: I'm sorry I did this.
Not: I'm sorry I hurt you.
Not: I'm sorry I've been lying to you for three months.
Just: I'm sorry you found out wrong.
Jimin turned the phone face-down on the couch.
Memory flooded in, merciless and thorough.
Jin in the kitchen two months ago, smiling at a tilted phone screen while something bubbled on the stove. Jimin had walked in and Jin had locked the phone quickly, expression flickering with something like panic before smoothing into a smile.
"Hey, you're home early."
"Meeting got canceled," Jimin had said, moving in for a kiss. Jin had turned his head so Jimin caught his cheek instead of his mouth. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, fine. Just work stuff."
Work stuff. Jimin had accepted that so easily, had ignored the guilt in Jin's expression, had told himself he was being paranoid, clingy, the kind of boyfriend who needed constant reassurance. He'd made himself smaller, quieter, less demanding.
Jin suggesting they stop posting together on social media. "It's just nicer, you know? Keeping things private. For us."
And Jimin had agreed, had even felt sophisticated about it, like they were above the need for public validation. He'd untagged himself from photos, had stopped posting the casual couple shots he used to love. Had watched Jin's social media presence continue without him, just edited out of the frame.
Jin talking about the future in maybes and somedays, never concrete, never now.
"Maybe we'll travel next year."
"Someday I want to live somewhere with a better view."
"We should think about getting a pet eventually."
Always someday. Always eventually. Never: Let's book the tickets. Let's look at apartments. Let's go to the shelter this weekend.
Jimin had filled in the blanks with hope, had told himself Jin was just cautious, just wanted to be sure, just needed time.
Time to what? To figure out how to end things? To build a replacement relationship so the transition would be seamless?
Three months.
For three months, Jin had been someone else's boyfriend. Someone else's priority. Someone else's.
And Jimin had been—what? A backup? A habit? The safe option while Jin figured out if Dohyun was worth keeping?
The anger arrived late, but when it did, it was sharp.
Not explosive. Not loud. Not the kind of anger he could throw or scream or break things to release.
Just devastatingly clear.
Jin had been careful with everyone except him. Jin had protected Dohyun's feelings, had made sure to introduce him properly, had held his hand in public and called him "boyfriend" without hesitation. Jin had given Dohyun certainty.
Because Dohyun was worth protecting. Dohyun was worth careful handling.
And Jimin was safe. Jimin would wait. Jimin always had.
The apartment felt too small suddenly. The walls were too close, the air too thick. Jimin stood and walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. Seoul sprawled below him, lights twinkling like everything was normal, like the world hadn't fundamentally rearranged itself.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark window. He looked the same. How was that possible? How could he look exactly the same when everything inside had been hollowed out?
The navy sweater Jin had complimented. The cologne Jin had bought. The careful styling, the matching colors, the effort to be someone Jin would want to look at.
Jimin laughed. It sounded wrong in the silence, bitter and sharp.
He'd dressed up for his own humiliation.
His phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
He didn't look.
By morning, Jimin still hadn't slept.
He'd moved from the window to the bed somewhere around 3 AM, had lain there watching the ceiling and cataloging every moment of the last three months. Every missed dinner. Every canceled plan. Every time Jin had said "I'm tired" and Jimin had rolled over without complaint.
Every time he'd made himself smaller.
The sun rose with its usual indifference. Light crept across the bedroom floor, golden and warm and completely wrong. Jimin watched it and felt nothing.
His phone said he had forty-three unread messages.
He got up. Showered. The water was too hot but he stayed under it anyway, letting it turn his skin pink. He dressed in clothes that didn't match anything Jin had ever complimented. He made coffee he didn't drink.
He existed.
Taehyung showed up around noon with food Jimin didn't want and a fury that filled the apartment.
"I'm going to kill him," Taehyung announced, setting bags of takeout on the counter with more force than necessary. "I'm serious. I've thought about it. I have a plan."
"You don't need a plan."
"I do, because Yoongi said I'm not allowed to act on impulse." Taehyung started unpacking containers. "But I have a very detailed plan that involves public humiliation and possibly tar and feathers. Do people still do tar and feathers? We should bring that back."
"Taehyung—"
"He's been texting the group chat." Taehyung's hands stilled. "Asking about you. Asking if you're okay. Like he's concerned. Like he has any right to be concerned."
"What are you saying?"
"Nothing. We're all saying nothing. Yoongi told him to fuck off, which you know means Yoongi is actually furious because he never says fuck." Taehyung turned to face him. "Jimin, we had no idea. I swear to god, we had no idea. If we'd known—"
"I know."
"Hoseok is devastated. He introduced you two. He feels responsible."
"It's not his fault."
"I know it's not his fault. It's Jin's fault. It's entirely, completely, one hundred percent Jin's fault." Taehyung's voice cracked. "You loved him. You loved him so much, and he just—how could he do this to you?"
Jimin didn't have an answer.
They ate in silence, or rather, Taehyung ate and bullied Jimin into eating a few bites. The food tasted like nothing. Everything tasted like nothing.
"Jungkook wants to know if he should hack Jin's email," Taehyung offered eventually.
"He can't hack."
"He says he can learn. YouTube University, he called it." Taehyung managed a weak smile. "I think he was joking. Mostly joking."
"Tell him no hacking."
"You're no fun." Taehyung poked at his japchae. "What do you need? Tell me what you need and I'll make it happen."
"I don't know," Jimin admitted. It was the most honest thing he'd said in hours.
The weekend passed in a blur of friends appearing and disappearing, of food he didn't eat and conversations he barely tracked. They were trying to help. He knew they were trying to help. But their care felt smothering, like he was drowning in concern.
Sunday night stretched thin, all edges.
Jimin lay awake knowing Monday was coming the way storms do—inevitable, impersonal, unconcerned with readiness. He imagined fluorescent lights, small talk, spreadsheets, his life pretending nothing had fractured.
By Monday, he made himself go to work. The routine felt absurd—commute, elevator, desk, spreadsheets, meetings—when everything inside him was screaming. But the absurdity was grounding too. The world kept turning. People kept doing their jobs. Life continued.
His coworkers noticed something was wrong. Of course they noticed. Jimin, who usually chatted through lunch breaks and volunteered for group projects, sat silent at his desk and declined every invitation.
"You okay?" his desk neighbor asked on Wednesday.
"Fine," Jimin said. "Just tired."
It became his stock answer. Just tired. Always tired. The exhaustion was real enough that the lie felt true.
Jin showed up on Thursday evening, unannounced, standing in the doorway of Jimin's apartment like a ghost. Like he had any right to be there.
Jimin opened the door and felt nothing. No anger, no sadness, no relief. Just a distant curiosity about what Jin would say, like he was watching a play about someone else's life.
"I didn't mean for you to find out like that," Jin said first. The same words from his text messages, delivered in person like that would make them more sincere.
Jimin laughed. It surprised them both.
"Was there a better way?" Jimin asked. His voice was steady. That surprised him too. "Should I have found out when I ran into you two at the movies? Or maybe when I saw it on social media? Or—wait, when were you planning to tell me? Give me a timeline."
Jin flinched. "That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair."
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did." Jimin leaned against the doorframe, making no move to let Jin inside. "You did hurt me. Badly. And the worst part is that you did it while pretending everything was normal. While still sleeping in my bed. While still saying—" His voice caught. He swallowed hard. "While still saying you loved me."
"I do love you," Jin said quietly.
"No." The word came out sharp, final. "You don't get to say that anymore. You don't get to redefine love to include lying and cheating and making me feel crazy for noticing something was wrong."
"I wasn't trying to make you feel crazy."
"You were just trying to make things easier for yourself." Jimin felt something cold and clear settle in his chest. "You wanted to keep me comfortable while you figured out if he was worth leaving me for. Well, congratulations. Looks like he was."
Jin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I was going to tell you."
"When?" Jimin asked again. "When, Jin? Before or after your six-month anniversary? Before or after you moved in with him? When?"
Silence.
"You don't have an answer," Jimin said softly. "Because you were never going to tell me. You were going to wait for me to figure it out or get tired of asking why you'd changed. You were going to make me do the hard part because that's what I always did. I always made things easier for you."
"Jimin—"
"I waited for you," Jimin continued. The words were spilling out now, three days of silence breaking like a dam. "I waited while you figured things out. I waited while you pulled away. I waited while you built an entire relationship with someone else. I waited because I thought that was what love was supposed to look like. Patient. Understanding. Undemanding."
"I never asked you to—"
"You didn't have to ask." Jimin's laugh was bitter. "I did it automatically. I made myself smaller so you'd have more space. I made myself quieter so you could be heard. I convinced myself that's what good partners did."
Jin's eyes were red. "I never wanted you to feel small."
"But I did. I do. I have for months, and I didn't even realize it because I was so good at pretending everything was fine."
"What do you want me to say?" Jin's voice cracked. "Tell me what to say and I'll say it."
"There's nothing to say." Jimin felt exhausted suddenly, bone-deep and soul-tired. "You made your choice. You chose him. You chose three months of lying over one difficult conversation. You chose your comfort over my dignity."
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" Jimin demanded. "Explain it to me. Make me understand how you kissed me goodbye in the morning and said 'I love you' and then went to celebrate an anniversary with him."
Jin was crying now, silent tears tracking down his face. Jimin watched with detachment. He'd cried for three days straight. He had no sympathy left.
"I don't know," Jin whispered. "I don't know how it happened. It just—he was there, and things were easy, and I didn't mean for it to become serious."
"But it did."
"But it did," Jin agreed miserably.
"And you chose not to tell me."
"I didn't want to hurt you."
"So you decided hurting me later was better than hurting me sooner?" Jimin shook his head. "That's not protection, Jin. That's cowardice."
The word hung between them.
"I'm sorry," Jin said again, but it sounded hollow now. Automatic. The thing you said when you didn't know what else to say.
"I don't need your apologies," Jimin said quietly. "I needed your honesty. I needed to be chosen out loud, not kept as a backup plan while you test-drove something new. I needed to matter enough for a difficult conversation."
"You did matter. You do matter."
"Not enough." The truth of it settled into Jimin's bones. "I didn't matter enough for the truth. And that tells me everything I need to know."
Jin reached out like he might touch Jimin's arm, then thought better of it. His hand fell. "Can we—is there any way to fix this?"
"Fix it?" Jimin stared at him. "You want to fix this? You have a boyfriend, Jin. You stood in front of our friends and called him your boyfriend. You celebrated an anniversary with him yesterday. What exactly are you trying to fix?"
"I don't know. I just—I can't lose you like this."
"You already did." Jimin stepped back, hand on the door. "You lost me three months ago. You just didn't bother to tell me."
"Jimin, please—"
"I need you to leave," Jimin said. Not angry. Not sad. Just factual. "I need you to leave and not come back."
"Can we at least—can we talk about this later? When you've had time—"
"There's nothing left to talk about." Jimin's grip on the door tightened. "You made your choices. I'm making mine. And I'm choosing not to be the person who waits around while you figure out what you want."
"I don't want to lose your friendship," Jin said desperately. "We can still—"
"No." The word was final. "We can't. Maybe someday, but not now. Not for a long time. Right now, I need you gone."
Jin looked like he wanted to argue. But something in Jimin's expression must have convinced him. He nodded once, turned, and walked away down the hallway. Jimin watched until he turned the corner, until he disappeared.
Then he closed the door and locked it.
After Jin left, Jimin didn't collapse. He stood there for a long moment, hand still on the doorknob, waiting for the tears or the anger or the devastation.
Nothing came.
He was just tired. So deeply, profoundly tired.
He sat on the couch and let himself shake. Not from crying. Just from the adrenaline draining away, leaving him hollow. His phone buzzed—Taehyung, probably, or Yoongi checking in—but he ignored it.
For the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe.
The anger would come later, in waves. In the middle of grocery shopping when he'd reach for the tea Jin liked before remembering. In the shower when he'd use the expensive shampoo Jin had bought him and feel fury at the presumption of it, at being molded into someone else's preferences. In quiet moments when memories surfaced uninvited.
But right now, there was just exhaustion and a strange, fragile clarity.
He had spent three years making himself easy to love. And it hadn't mattered. Jin had left anyway. Had been leaving for months without Jimin even noticing.
What did that say about easy?
The weeks after were quieter.
Not peaceful—peace felt impossible—but less chaotic. The initial shock faded into something duller. Grief, maybe. Loss. The phantom ache of a future that had dissolved.
Jimin started therapy on Yoongi's suggestion. Found a therapist who didn't push, who let him sit in silence for the first two sessions while he tried to figure out where to start. When he finally did talk, the words came slowly.
"I think I've been doing this my whole life," he told her in week three. "Making myself smaller. I thought it was being kind. Being considerate. But I think it was just—fear."
"Fear of what?" she asked.
"Of being too much." He picked at the edge of a throw pillow. "Of asking for things and being told no. Of being difficult and having people leave."
"So you left first," she said. "Preemptively. You removed the parts of yourself that might be rejected."
Jimin had cried then. Not the silent tears of shock but deep, wrenching sobs. Mourning not just Jin but every version of himself he'd filed away to make room for others.
The therapist had given him homework. Small things. Notice when you're about to change your answer to match someone else's. Notice when you apologize for taking up space. Notice when you choose silence over honesty.
Jimin noticed constantly. It was exhausting, this new awareness. Like learning he'd been walking with a limp his entire life and suddenly feeling every uneven step.
He started saying no.
Small nos at first. No to lunch invitations when he wanted to eat alone. No to helping a coworker with their project when his own work was piling up. No to his mother when she asked him to come home for the weekend and he needed the time to himself.
Each no felt like speaking a foreign language. His tongue wanted to form "yes" automatically, to smooth things over, to be easy. He forced the word out anyway and then sat with the discomfort of it.
The first time Taehyung suggested a movie and Jimin said "Actually, I'd rather see something else," Taehyung had stared at him.
"Okay," Taehyung said slowly. "Which one?"
"The new Park Chan-wook film."
"I was thinking something lighter, but—yeah, okay. Let's do that."
It was that simple. Taehyung hadn't gotten angry. Hadn't withdrawn. Had just adjusted. Like Jimin's preference mattered. Like it was normal to state it.
The second time was harder. Hoseok had invited everyone to a club for his birthday—loud music, crowds, the kind of environment Jimin had always endured rather than enjoyed. The old Jimin would have gone without question, would have smiled through the overstimulation and called it fun.
"I don't think I can do the club," Jimin texted the group chat. "But I'd love to take you to dinner before? My treat?"
The response was immediate.
Hoseok: omg yes please I'm so sick of club birthdays anyway
Yoongi: thank god someone said it
Jungkook: FINALLY
Taehyung: jimin just freed us all
They went to dinner instead. All of them. Hoseok looked happier than Jimin had seen him at any club. Apparently, Hoseok had only suggested the club because he thought that's what everyone else wanted.
They'd all been performing for each other. All trying to be easy.
"This is better," Hoseok said, grinning over his japchae. "This is so much better. Why didn't we do this years ago?"
"Because none of us said what we actually wanted," Yoongi said drily.
Jimin caught his eye. Yoongi raised his glass in a small, knowing toast.
Work became more complicated.
Jimin had always been the volunteer. The person who stayed late, who took on extra projects, who covered shifts without complaint. His manager loved him. His coworkers relied on him.
And Jimin resented all of it suddenly. The expectation that he'd say yes. The assumption that his time was available. The way people came to him first because they knew he wouldn't refuse.
When his manager asked him to lead another project—the third this month—Jimin felt the yes forming. Swallowed it.
"I don't have capacity for that right now," he said instead.
His manager blinked. "Oh. Okay. I just thought—you're usually so willing to help."
"I am helping. With the two projects I'm already leading." Jimin kept his voice even. Professional. "I need to focus on those."
"Right. Of course." His manager looked uncomfortable. "I'll ask someone else."
"Thank you," Jimin said, and meant it.
Later, his desk neighbor leaned over. "Did you just turn down Manager Kim?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know you could do that."
"Neither did I," Jimin admitted.
It got easier. Not easy—he still felt the guilt, the worry that he was being difficult, that people would like him less—but easier. He practiced in small moments. Ordered what he actually wanted at restaurants instead of deferring. Spoke up in meetings when he had ideas. Stopped apologizing for things that weren't his fault.
"Sorry, I—" he started one day, after interrupting Taehyung.
"What are you sorry for?" Taehyung interrupted back.
"For interrupting."
"You didn't interrupt. We were both talking. That's called a conversation." Taehyung studied him. "You apologize a lot. Have you noticed that?"
Jimin had. He was noticing everything now.
"Working on it," he said.
"Good." Taehyung bumped his shoulder. "Because you don't need to apologize for existing, Jiminie. You never did."
The anger came in month two.
Not at Jin specifically—though there was plenty of that—but at himself. At every time he'd silenced his own wants. At every moment he'd chosen peace over honesty. At three years of diminishing himself and calling it love.
He went to the gym and hit the punching bag until his knuckles were raw. Went home and cried angry tears into his pillow. Wrote unsent emails to Jin that detailed every moment of hurt, every lie by omission, every time Jin had chosen his own comfort over Jimin's dignity.
He didn't send them. But writing them helped.
His therapist called it healthy anger. "You're allowed to be furious," she said. "At him and at yourself. That's part of grieving—not just the relationship, but the version of yourself you were in it."
"I don't like being angry," Jimin admitted.
"Why not?"
"Because angry people are difficult. They're too much. They make things uncomfortable."
"And being comfortable is more important than being honest?"
Jimin didn't have an answer to that.
But he thought about it. Thought about all the times he'd swallowed anger to keep situations smooth. How many times had Jin done something thoughtless or hurtful, and Jimin had said "it's okay" instead of "that hurt me"?
How many times had he betrayed himself to maintain someone else's comfort?
The gym became his sanctuary. He started going every morning before work, finding peace in the physical exhaustion, in the simple clarity of body over mind. He took boxing classes. Learned to throw punches properly, to channel the anger into movement.
"You're getting good at this," his instructor commented one day.
"I have a lot of anger," Jimin said flatly.
The instructor laughed. "Best reason to learn boxing. Better than therapy, sometimes."
"I'm doing both."
"Smart man."
Jimin drove himself harder. Faster. Until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned and there was no room left for thoughts. Until he was just body, just movement, just alive.
He was learning something about anger. It wasn't the enemy he'd always believed it to be. It was just information. Data about boundaries crossed, needs unmet, self-respect compromised.
The anger was telling him: you matter. What happened to you was wrong. You deserved better.
He started listening.
He ran into Jin three months after the dinner.
Not on purpose. Just bad luck and a small city. Jimin was leaving a coffee shop in Itaewon, iced americano in hand, when he saw Jin across the street. With Dohyun.
They were laughing about something, Jin's hand in Dohyun's back pocket. The casual intimacy of it stole Jimin's breath.
He could have left. Should have left. But he was rooted there, watching Jin be happy with someone else. Watching Jin touch Dohyun the way he'd once touched Jimin. Watching the life he'd thought was his play out with a different actor in his role.
Jin looked up. Their eyes met.
The laughter died on Jin's face. He said something to Dohyun, who looked over and saw Jimin. Dohyun's expression shifted—recognition, discomfort, something that might have been pity.
Jimin turned and walked away.
He made it two blocks before he had to stop, hand pressed against a building, breathing hard. The coffee was bitter in his mouth. Wrong. Everything was wrong.
His phone rang. Jin.
Jimin stared at the screen until it stopped ringing.
It rang again.
He answered. He didn't know why.
"Jimin," Jin said. "Wait. Please. Can we talk?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"I just—I wanted to see how you are."
Jimin laughed. It sounded broken even to his own ears. "How am I? I'm furious, Jin. I'm devastated. I'm working every day to rebuild a sense of self that I didn't even realize I'd lost. How do you think I am?"
Silence.
"I saw you," Jimin continued. "Just now. You looked happy."
"Jimin—"
"Are you? Happy?"
More silence. Then, quietly: "I don't think I'm allowed to answer that."
"You're allowed to do whatever you want. You proved that already." Jimin closed his eyes. "I'm glad you're happy. I mean that. I'm glad one of us got what they wanted."
"I never wanted to hurt you."
"But you did. And I'm learning to live with that. I'm learning to live with a lot of things." He paused. "I need to go."
"Jimin, wait—"
"Goodbye, Jin."
He hung up. Blocked the number. Stood there shaking while people walked past, while the city moved around him, while life continued its relentless forward motion.
Then he called his therapist and asked for an emergency session.
"I saw him," Jimin told her that afternoon. "With his boyfriend. They looked happy."
"How did that feel?"
"Like someone was scooping out my insides with a dull spoon." He tried to smile. Failed. "Dramatic, I know."
"Sounds accurate, actually." She leaned forward. "What came up for you? Besides the pain?"
Jimin thought about it. "Jealousy. Obviously. But also—anger. That he gets to just move on like nothing happened. Like he didn't destroy me."
"Did he destroy you?"
"It feels like it."
"But you're here. Doing the work. Learning to set boundaries. Speaking up." She tilted her head. "Does that sound destroyed to you?"
"It sounds exhausting."
"Growth usually is." She smiled. "You're rebuilding, Jimin. That's not destruction. That's construction. It's just loud and messy and uncomfortable."
"I want it to be over."
"I know. But there's no shortcut through grief. You have to walk the whole path."
Jimin slumped in his chair. "I hate that you're right."
"Hazard of the profession."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Jimin said, quietly, "I don't think I knew who I was. Before. I was just whoever people needed me to be."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know who I am, but at least I know who I'm not." He looked up. "Is that progress?"
"That's significant progress." She made a note. "Who are you not?"
"I'm not someone who waits to be chosen. I'm not someone who makes myself small. I'm not someone who apologizes for taking up space." He paused. "I'm not someone who lets fear make my decisions."
"And who do you want to be?"
That was harder. Jimin sat with the question, turning it over.
"Someone who knows what I want and asks for it," he said finally. "Someone who can be alone without being lonely. Someone who chooses myself first, not as a backup plan."
"That sounds like a person worth becoming."
"Yeah," Jimin agreed softly. "It does."
Month four brought an unexpected gift: Jimin started painting again.
He'd taken art classes in college, had loved them, had been good at it according to his professors. But somewhere along the way—probably around the time he started dating Jin—he'd stopped. Too messy. Too time-consuming. Too self-indulgent.
Jin had never said that explicitly. But he'd made comments. About the smell of turpentine. About paint-stained clothes. About how Jimin's small apartment was too cramped for a proper studio setup.
Jimin had put the canvases away. Had told himself it was practical. Reasonable. No big deal.
Now, walking past an art supply store, he stopped. Stared at the window display. Walked in before he could talk himself out of it.
He bought paints. Brushes. Canvas. Spent more money than was probably wise. Carried it all home feeling reckless and alive.
His apartment was too small for a studio. He painted in the kitchen anyway, plastic sheeting protecting the floor, windows open to let out the turpentine smell. He painted abstract shapes at first, colors bleeding into each other without plan or purpose. It was terrible. He didn't care.
He painted late into the night, losing track of time, hands covered in cadmium red and ultramarine blue. He painted anger—sharp slashes of black across white canvas. Painted grief—blues and grays swirling into themselves. Painted hope—small touches of gold he didn't quite believe in yet but wanted to.
"You've been painting," Taehyung observed when he visited, eyeing the canvases propped against the walls.
"Yeah."
"They're good."
"They're not," Jimin said honestly. "But they're mine."
Taehyung studied him for a long moment. "You look different."
"Bad different?"
"No. Just—different. More here." Taehyung tapped his chest. "More solid."
Jimin thought about that. "I feel different. Like I'm taking up the right amount of space for the first time."
"Good," Taehyung said fiercely. "Be bigger. Be louder. Take up so much space that no one can ignore you."
Jimin laughed. "I don't want to be loud."
"Then be quiet in a way that's yours. Not in a way that makes you disappear."
That distinction mattered. Jimin was learning that he didn't need to be someone he wasn't—didn't need to force himself into extroversion or aggression. But he could be quiet and still take up space. Could be gentle and still have boundaries. Could be kind and still say no.
He painted that too. Soft colors with hard edges. Gentle shapes that refused to be pushed aside.
Month five was when he started dating again.
Not seriously. Just testing the waters. Seeing what it felt like to meet new people as this newer version of himself.
The first date was a disaster. The guy—Minho, a friend of a friend—spent the entire dinner talking about his ex. Jimin listened politely for twenty minutes before interrupting.
"I'm going to stop you there," Jimin said. "I don't think this is going to work."
Minho blinked. "What?"
"This. Us. I'm not interested in being your therapist." Jimin stood, pulling out his wallet. "I'll pay for my half. Good luck with everything."
He left. Walked out of the restaurant with his heart pounding, half-expecting Minho to chase him down, to be angry, to make a scene.
Nothing happened. The world didn't end. Jimin just went home, painted for two hours, and felt proud of himself.
The second date was better. Junho was funny, attentive, asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers. They had coffee, walked along the Han River, talked about movies and music and nothing important.
At the end of the date, Junho asked if he could see him again.
"I don't think so," Jimin said gently. "You're great, but I'm not feeling a connection."
"Oh." Junho looked disappointed but not devastated. "Okay. Thanks for being honest."
They parted ways. Jimin walked home alone and realized, with some surprise, that he'd enjoyed the honesty more than he would have enjoyed a second date he didn't want.
This was new. This directness. This willingness to disappoint someone rather than perform interest he didn't feel.
The old Jimin would have said yes to a second date. Would have gone, would have tried to make it work, would have convinced himself he just needed more time to develop feelings. Would have wasted weeks or months on something he knew from the beginning wasn't right.
This Jimin said no. Said it clearly. Said it without apologizing.
It felt powerful.
By month six, the friends had started commenting on the change.
"You're different," Jungkook said one night over dinner. Not accusatory. Just observant.
"Good different or bad different?"
"Just different." Jungkook tilted his head. "You argue with us now."
"I always argued with you."
"No, you'd disagree quietly and then go along with whatever we decided." Yoongi spoke up from across the table. "Now you actually argue. You advocate for what you want."
Jimin considered that. "Is it annoying?"
"No," Taehyung said immediately. "It's refreshing. I was getting tired of trying to read your mind."
"Same," Hoseok agreed. "Remember that time we spent twenty minutes trying to figure out where you wanted to eat and you kept saying 'anywhere is fine' and we eventually just picked randomly and you clearly hated it?"
Jimin winced. "The Thai place."
"You hate Thai food," Hoseok said. "We know this now. We didn't know it then because you wouldn't tell us."
"I didn't want to be difficult."
"You weren't difficult. You were invisible." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "There's a difference."
The words hit harder than Jimin expected. Invisible. That's exactly what he'd been. A ghost accommodating the living.
"I'm trying to be less invisible," Jimin said quietly.
"We know." Jungkook reached over and squeezed his hand. "We like you visible, hyung. We like knowing what you actually think."
"Even when I disagree with you?"
"Especially when you disagree with us," Taehyung said. "It makes us better. Challenges us. Plus, you're usually right, which is annoying but helpful."
They laughed. The conversation moved on. But Jimin sat with the realization that his friends didn't want his accommodation. They wanted his presence. His realness. His opinions and preferences and boundaries.
They wanted him, not the performance of him.
Month seven brought closure in an unexpected form.
Jimin's phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. He almost deleted it. Almost. But something made him open it.
Unknown: Hi Jimin, this is Dohyun. I know this is unexpected. I got your number from Jin's phone (he doesn't know I'm messaging you). I wanted to reach out because I need to say something.
Jimin stared at the message for a full minute before responding.
Jimin: Okay.
Dohyun: I didn't know about you. When Jin and I started seeing each other, he told me he was single. I found out the truth two weeks ago when I was looking through his old photos and found pictures of you two together. When I confronted him, he admitted everything.
Something cold settled in Jimin's chest.
Jimin: I don't understand. He introduced you as his boyfriend. Three-month anniversary.
Dohyun: I know. That's what he told me too. That we'd been together three months. But we'd been seeing each other for five months at that point. He lied to me about when we started dating. I think because the truth would have made it obvious he was cheating.
Five months. Jin had been with Dohyun for five months while still with Jimin. Five months of elaborate lies. Five months of double-timing them both.
Dohyun: I broke up with him. Last week. I can't be with someone who would do that. To you or to me. I'm sorry I didn't know. I'm sorry I was part of hurting you. You deserved so much better than what he did.
Jimin read the messages three times. Then:
Jimin: Thank you for telling me. And for what it's worth, you deserved better too. We both did.
Dohyun: Yeah. We did. Take care of yourself, Jimin.
Jimin: You too.
Jimin sat with his phone for a long time after that, processing. Five months. Jin had been living a double life for five months. The lies had been even more extensive than Jimin had known.
He waited for the anger, the hurt, the devastation.
What came instead was relief.
Relief that Dohyun had found out. That Jin's pattern had caught up with him. That Jimin wasn't crazy for feeling like something was wrong—something had been very, very wrong.
And beneath the relief: validation. Confirmation that leaving had been the right choice. That the relationship Jimin had mourned was even less real than he'd thought.
He called his therapist.
"How are you feeling?" she asked after he told her.
"Honestly? Okay." Jimin surprised himself. "I thought I'd be devastated. But mostly I just feel—free. Like I was carrying around this doubt, wondering if I'd overreacted or been too harsh or not tried hard enough. And now I know for certain that it was worse than I even thought. That my instincts were right."
"That's significant."
"Yeah." Jimin leaned back on his couch. "I think I'm finally ready to close this chapter."
"What does that look like for you?"
Jimin thought about it. "Letting go of the anger. Not forgetting what happened, but not letting it define me anymore. Moving forward as someone who learned from this instead of someone who was destroyed by it."
"You've done remarkable work, Jimin."
"I had a lot of help."
"You did the work. We just held the space."
After he hung up, Jimin opened his photo albums. Found the folder labeled "Jin"—hundreds of photos from three years together. Dinners and trips and lazy mornings. Smiles that had felt real at the time.
He looked at them for a long moment. Then he archived the folder. Not deleted. He wasn't ready for that. But out of sight. Not the first thing he saw when he wanted to remember the past.
He opened a new folder. Labeled it "After."
Started filling it with photos from the last seven months. His paintings. His friends. Himself at the gym, boxing gloves on, grinning at the camera. Himself at coffee shops, reading alone without feeling lonely. Himself taking up space without apologizing for it.
This was his life now. This person he was becoming.
And for the first time in a long time, he liked what he saw.
Month eight was quiet.
Not in a bad way. Just in a peaceful way. The storm had passed. Jimin had cried his tears, felt his anger, done his work. Now there was just the steady business of living.
He painted. He boxed. He went to therapy once a week instead of twice. He saw his friends and spoke his mind and said no without guilt. He went on dates sometimes—casual, fun, with no pressure for them to become anything more.
He learned to cook properly. Not just ramen and rice but actual dishes. Tried recipes that failed spectacularly and laughed instead of crying. Invited friends over for dinner parties where he served imperfect food and enjoyed himself anyway.
"This is burned," Taehyung observed cheerfully, poking at his chicken.
"I know. Eat it anyway."
"Yes, chef."
They laughed. The chicken was terrible. The evening was perfect.
Jimin started running in the mornings, watching the sunrise over Han River, earbuds in, mind quiet. Started reading again—books he chose, not books recommended by others. Started traveling alone sometimes, taking weekend trips to the coast or the mountains, learning to enjoy his own company.
He was learning that alone didn't mean lonely. That solitude could be chosen rather than endured. That he could be complete without another person filling his gaps.
The gaps were filling themselves. With hobbies and friendships and self-knowledge. With paintings and runs and quiet mornings. With saying no and meaning it. With saying yes and meaning that too.
Late one night, nine months after the dinner, Jimin's phone buzzed.
Jin.
The number was blocked, but the message came through anyway, from a different number. Jimin should have deleted it. Should have blocked this number too. He opened it instead, one last time.
Jin: I know I have no right to message you. I know you probably won't even read this. But I need you to know that I'm sorry. Really sorry. Not sorry I got caught or sorry things ended badly, but sorry for every lie, every omission, every time I chose my comfort over your dignity. You deserved so much better than what I gave you. You deserved honesty and respect and to be chosen loudly. I see that now. Too late, but I see it. I hope you're okay. I hope you're happy. I hope you've found someone who knows your worth. You deserve everything good.
Jimin read it once. Twice. Three times.
He waited for something to stir. Some remaining affection or anger or hurt.
Nothing came.
The message was nice. Probably sincere. Definitely too late.
He read it one more time. Then he put the phone down without responding.
He went out onto his balcony instead. Breathed in the night air, cool and clean against his skin. Let the city hum around him—cars and voices and life moving forward the way it always did. For the first time in a long while, there was no one else he needed to accommodate. No one else's feelings to manage. No one else's comfort to prioritize.
Just him. Just this moment. Just the quiet satisfaction of being exactly where he was.
He thought of all the moments he'd given away. All the space he'd surrendered. All the times he'd silenced himself to smooth things over for someone else. All the versions of himself he'd filed away to fit into someone else's vision.
And then, finally, he thought of himself—not as an afterthought, not as a background presence, not as someone who existed in relation to others, but as someone deserving of volume. Of space. Of honesty. Of showing up fully and taking up exactly as much room as he needed.
Jimin smiled softly, just for himself.
Above him, the sky was full of stars. Below him, the city gleamed. And here, on this balcony, in this moment, he was exactly who he wanted to be: someone who knew his worth, who spoke his truth, who chose himself first not out of selfishness but out of self-respect.
It didn't feel like an ending.
It felt like a beginning.
He went back inside, blocked Jin's new number, and opened his calendar. Tomorrow, he had plans. Next week, more plans. Plans he'd made, things he wanted to do, places he wanted to go.
His life was full. Not with performance or accommodation or fear.
With presence. With purpose. With himself.
And that, Jimin thought as he climbed into bed, that was more than enough.