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The train from Daegu to Seoul always vibrated differently when it gained speed.
Yoongi liked that part. He pressed his palm flat against the window and felt the low hum through the glass, the world outside blurred into streaks of green and gray, mountains folding into distance.
Across from him, his older brother watched.
“Excited?” his brother signed, movements quick but relaxed.
Yoongi shrugged, pretending indifference.
It’s just a convention, he signed back.
It wasn’t just a convention, it was the National Youth Deaf Gathering—three days in Seoul where deaf children from all over Korea would meet with workshops, games, storytelling, sign language competitions, hundreds of hands moving at once.
Yoongi had never seen that many deaf people in one place before, back in Daegu, he was usually the only one.
Yoongi had been born deaf, just silent from the beginning. His mother liked to say he was a calm baby: never startled by thunder, never crying at barking dogs, they only realized something was different when he didn’t turn his head at his name.
“Profound bilateral hearing loss.” He didn’t remember that part, only his brother learning sign language faster than anyone else and his father practicing late at night, fingers clumsy but determined. He remembered frustration at school, teachers who talked while facing the board, classmates who forgot he couldn’t hear them calling his name.
But he didn’t remember sadness, silence wasn’t empty to him, it was just normal. He felt things others didn’t notice, the vibration of buses before they arrived, rhythm of footsteps through floors and how the air shifted when someone ran past him.
And he watched, constantly: faces, eyebrows, shoulders, hands. Especially hands.
His brother leaned forward slightly.
“Nervous?” he signed this time.
Yoongi hesitated. A small nod. He didn’t like being the only deaf kid in a room but he also didn’t know what it would feel like to not be the only one.
His brother reached across the table between the seats and flicked his forehead lightly.
“You’ll like it. Kids like you.”
Yoongi frowned.
“There’s no one like me.”
His brother smiled softly.
“You’ll see.”
The KTX from Busan to Seoul was fast and Jimin decided he liked fast things.
He couldn’t hear the train rushing forward, but he could feel the floor trembling beneath his sneakers, he pressed both palms against the seat and grinned as the vibration tickled his arms.
Across from him, his father raised an eyebrow.
“Seatbelt,” he signed gently.
Jimin dramatically clipped it in place.
“I am secure,” he replied with exaggerated seriousness.
His mother laughed—not a sound he could hear, but one he could see in the crinkle of her eyes and the way her shoulders lifted.
Jimin had been born deaf, the doctors had told them when he was barely months old, his mother had cried, his father had gone quiet for a week.
Then they both did something very simple: they learned.
They learned signs before Jimin did, they labeled the house with sticky notes and handshapes, practiced facial expressions in mirrors and attended deaf community meetings in Busan. They drove hours for workshops and corrected relatives who refused to try.
They never treated silence like something broken, so Jimin didn’t either.
To him, silence was warm. It was hands brushing his hair back, his father tapping the table twice before dinner to get his attention, his mother flicking the lights on and off to call him from another room.
It was home.
The station in Seoul was too big, that was Yoongi’s first thought. He stayed close to his older brother, fingers hooked lightly into his sleeve, the ground vibrated faintly beneath his sneakers as trains came and went, a steady pulse through concrete.
And then he saw it: hands everywhere, children signing while walking, teenagers laughing in wide gestures, parents crouching to explain directions in careful movements.
Yoongi’s chest felt strange—not tight but fast. He didn’t realize he had slowed down until someone bumped into him, he stumbled half a step back and the other boy did too.
They both looked up at the same time and the world narrowed. The boy in front of him had soft cheeks and bright eyes that curved like moons when they widened, his hair was slightly messy, like he had run ahead without thinking.
He was staring at Yoongi like he had just discovered something important.
His hands moved first.
“Sorry! I didn’t see you!”
The signs were quick, expressive, full of energy.
Yoongi stared. Not because he didn’t understand, he did, perfectly.
The boy was his age—maybe younger—but his movements were confident.
Yoongi’s heart thumped hard in his chest.
He swallowed and signed back.
“It 's fine.”
The boy blinked once then smiled, and Yoongi felt something flip inside his stomach.
He had never seen someone like this before, most kids in Daegu signed small, this boy signed like he was dancing.
“Where are you from?” the boy asked.
“Daegu.”
The boy’s face lit up dramatically.
“Busan!”
He thumped his chest proudly.
Yoongi’s lips twitched before he could stop them.
“That 's loud.”
The boy gasped, scandalized.
“Busan is passionate.”
“It 's loud.”
“It’s passionate.”
His eyebrows were so expressive it was almost ridiculous but Yoongi couldn’t look away, he had never seen someone so bright.
“I’m Park Jimin,” the boy signed, straightening proudly.
Yoongi noticed his hands then, smaller than his own, warm-toned skin with quick fingers.
“Min Yoongi,” he replied.
Jimin repeated his name silently, testing the shape of it with his lips.
Yoongi. Like it mattered, and Yoongi’s heart ran faster again.
Jimin tilted his head, studying him openly.
Yoongi stiffened.
“What?” he signed defensively.
Jimin’s expression softened.
“You’re handsome.”
It was said the way children say something honest without thinking, like noticing the sky is blue.
Yoongi’s brain stopped working as his ears burned.
“That’s weird,” he signed quickly.
Jimin grinned.
“You look like a cat.”
“That’s not better.”
“It is,” Jimin insisted. “Cats are pretty.”
Yoongi didn’t know what to do with this boy. But when Jimin laughed—shoulders bouncing, eyes disappearing into crescents—Yoongi felt something settle in his chest. He had never seen someone like Jimin before: who wasn’t embarrassed, wasn’t cautious, wasn’t trying to be smaller.
Jimin took a small step closer.
“You sign carefully,” he said. “Like you’re drawing.”
Yoongi blinked because no one had ever described him like that.
Jimin leaned in slightly.
“Can we walk together?”
His hand hovered uncertainly between them. Yoongi looked at it then at Jimin’s face, then back at the hand. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, he didn’t understand why, he just knew he didn’t want this moment to end. So he reached out, fingers touched.
And for the first time in his nine years of quiet, Yoongi felt something louder than sound.
Beside him, Jimin’s heart was racing just as fast: he thought Yoongi was the prettiest boy he had ever seen. Not in a grown-up way, in a storybook hero way with serious eyes, calm hands, a face that looked like it was hiding secrets.
Jimin decided something instantly, the way children do.
I’m going to stay next to him.
Around them, hundreds of people moved through the station but the world had already shifted.
Busan. Daegu. Seven. Nine. Two boys who had never felt seen like this before.
And neither of them knew it yet—but this was the moment their hearts learned each other’s rhythm.
The convention center in Seoul was louder than any place Yoongi or Jimin had ever been, not loud in sound but loud in movement: hands everywhere, faces alive with expression, children running between activity rooms, volunteers waving directions in big, exaggerated signs, bright posters hanging from the ceilings.
By the end of the first hour, Yoongi and Jimin were inseparable.
They didn’t even decide it. It just… happened.
Jimin dragged Yoongi everywhere as Yoongi pretended to be annoyed the entire time, he lost every race and Jimin celebrated dramatically each time, spinning in circles and raising his arms like he had won an Olympic medal.
Yoongi tried not to smile, he failed. They joined a storytelling workshop where older deaf teenagers signed folktales with huge, theatrical movements. Jimin gasped and reacted to every dramatic twist and Yoongi watched more quietly but every time something funny happened, he glanced at Jimin first, to see his reaction, he didn’t know why he kept doing that, he just did.
At lunch, they sat cross-legged on the floor with dozens of other children and no one struggled to communicate, no one asked someone else to “repeat slowly” or looked frustrated.
Yoongi felt something in his chest loosen and Jimin leaned closer while chewing and signed:
“Is this what school should feel like?”
Yoongi nodded once.
“Yes.”
Across the room, Yoongi’s older brother was talking with Jimin’s parents. At first it had been polite introductions, but as the hours passed, the conversation deepened. Jimin’s mother talked with warmth and precision, his father was expressive, cheerful and animated. Yoongi’s brother listened carefully, thoughtful as always. They shared stories about early diagnoses, learning sign language late at night, correcting teachers, fighting for accessibility.
They laughed at the same frustrations and understood the same fears. And slowly, naturally, they grew comfortable.
At one point, Jimin’s father glanced toward the boys and smiled.
“They found each other quickly.”
Yoongi’s brother followed his gaze: the two boys were sitting too close, shoulders touching as they tried to solve a puzzle together, Jimin was dramatically accusing Yoongi of cheating, Yoongi was signing back that Jimin simply couldn’t count.
His brother smiled softly.
“Yes,” he said. “They did.”
By the second morning, they didn’t hesitate anymore. Jimin ran straight to Yoongi the moment he spotted him and Yoongi pretended he hadn’t been scanning the entrance looking for that exact head of messy hair. They entered a team competition—a sign language speed game, quick prompts flashed on a screen, and participants had to sign definitions or stories as fast as possible.
Jimin was fearless. Yoongi was strategic. Together, they were unbeatable.
When they won their round, Jimin grabbed Yoongi’s shoulders and shook him in excitement.
“We’re the best!”
Yoongi rolled his eyes.
“You’re loud.”
Jimin grinned.
“You like it.”
Yoongi didn’t answer—because he did. That afternoon, they sat outside on the steps of the convention hall, the sun was warm, concrete buzzed faintly with the distant movement of traffic.
Jimin lay back dramatically, staring at the sky.
“I don’t want to go back yet,” he signed.
Yoongi sat beside him, knees pulled up.
“Me neither.”
It was the first time Yoongi had admitted that out loud.
In Daegu, he was careful. Here, he felt—seen. Not special because he was different, just normal.
Jimin turned his head to look at him.
“It’s different here.”
Yoongi frowned slightly.
“How?”
“We smile more.”
Yoongi immediately stopped smiling, Jimin burst into silent laughter, shoulders shaking.
“You just did it again!”
Yoongi nudged him lightly.
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me.”
Yoongi didn’t deny it.
By the third day, something had settled between them, comfort. They walked automatically side by side, when crowds got thick, Jimin reached for Yoongi’s sleeve without looking, Yoongi adjusted his pace without being asked..
Their families had fallen into rhythm too: ate meals together, shared snacks, sat in long conversations while the boys ran between activities.
Yoongi’s brother and Jimin’s father debated which city had better food—Busan or Daegu—with exaggerated regional pride.
Jimin’s mother gently teased Yoongi about how serious he looked for a nine-year-old.
“You protect him already,” she signed playfully.
Yoongi flushed and Jimin beamed at that.
On the final afternoon, the energy shifted, suitcases appeared near the entrance, parents checked schedules, children clung to new friends.
Jimin felt it first, the ending, he stood beside Yoongi near the steps outside, the same place they had sat the day before.
“Will you come next year?” Jimin asked.
“I don’t know,” Yoongi answered honestly.
“My parents will,” Jimin said quickly. “We can meet again.”
Yoongi nodded.
“Yes.”
But both of them knew something children always know, even if they don’t say it: sometimes things don’t repeat the same way.
Jimin stepped closer.
“We’re really good at being friends,” he signed carefully.
Yoongi swallowed.
“Yes.”
Jimin hesitated then held out his hand.
“Then don’t forget me.”
Yoongi stared at his hand for a long second, as if forgetting had ever been an option, he took it firmly.
“I won’t.”
Behind them, their families watched quietly: three days, just three, but something lasting had formed.
Two boys who felt completely happy at the same time and two families who felt understood. And a promise, small and fragile, resting in the space between their hands.
“You’re leaving now?” he signed, breathing a little unevenly.
“Yes,” Yoongi replied.
Jimin nodded, he already knew. His parents were standing a few meters away with their own bags, Yoongi’s brother was speaking with them, exchanging numbers, promising to send pictures from Daegu. Jimin’s father insisted they visit Busan sometime. The adults were handling things properly, the boys weren’t.
For a moment, neither of them signed, they just stood there. Three days ago, they had been strangers and now the thought of walking away felt wrong.
Jimin looked down at his sneakers then backed up.
His movements were slower now. “When I go back to Busan,” he signed, “it’ll be normal again.”
Yoongi understood exactly what he meant: meant being the only deaf kid in class, explaining yourself and adjusting.
“Daegu too,” Yoongi admitted.
Jimin took a small step closer.
“You’re different,” he said softly.
Yoongi frowned slightly.
“You said that already.”
“No,” Jimin insisted. “I mean… different from everyone.”
Yoongi didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t feel different, he felt seen because of Jimin.
Jimin hesitated, then lifted his hands again.
“When I met you,” he signed, “my heart felt strange.”
Yoongi’s breath caught.
“Strange how?”
Jimin pressed his palm lightly against his own chest.
“Fast.”
Yoongi swallowed.
“Mine too.”
They both blinked, neither of them knew what that meant. They were seven and nine, they only knew it felt important.
Jimin’s eyes softened.
“My mom says,” he signed carefully, “sometimes you meet someone and they are… your person.”
He struggled to shape the idea correctly.
“Like… the one who fits next to you.”
Yoongi’s heart started racing again, fast and loud in his chest, even in silence.
Jimin stepped even closer now, until their sleeves brushed.
Then he signed it.
“You are my person in this world.”
The air between them was still, Yoongi had never been chosen like that before, so he didn’t fully understand what it meant either, he just knew it felt true.
He reached out—not hesitating this time—and grabbed Jimin’s hand tightly.
“You’re mine too,” he replied.
The words felt too small for what he meant. Jimin’s eyes shone, but he smiled anyway. Behind them, Yoongi’s brother gestured gently, it was time.
Yoongi didn’t let go immediately nor did Jimin.
Finally, Jimin squeezed once.
“Next time,” he signed quickly, as if making it a rule, “we meet again in Seoul.”
Yoongi nodded.
“When we’re adults.”
“Yes.”
“As adults,” Yoongi agreed.
They had no idea how far away that was.
Jimin let go first, he took three steps backward, still facing Yoongi, then five. Then he turned, running back toward his parents, but he kept looking over his shoulder, waving both hands high in the air.
Yoongi stood still until Jimin disappeared into the moving crowd, his brother touched his shoulder gently.
“Ready?”
Yoongi nodded.
But as they walked toward the train platform, he pressed his palm against his chest, it was still beating fast. He didn’t know the word for it yet, love was too big a word for children. But he knew this: somewhere in Busan, there was a boy who had chosen him. And one day, they would meet again in Seoul.
After Seoul, everything felt brighter. Back in Daegu, the streets were the same, the classroom was the same, teachers still forgot to face him when they spoke.
But Yoongi wasn’t the same, he carried something now: three days of laughter, fast hands, crescent-shaped eyes, a boy from Busan who had called him my person without hesitation.
He replayed it constantly in his head. Sometimes, when class felt long, Yoongi would press his palm to his chest and remember how fast his heart had beaten that day in Seoul. He didn’t know why he missed someone he had only known for three days, he just did.
His older brother noticed.
“You’re thinking about Busan boy again,” he signed one evening, amused.
Yoongi scowled.
“No.”
His brother smirked.
“Yes.”
He bumped Yoongi’s shoulder lightly.
“You’ll see him again.”
Yoongi wanted to believe that, he really did.
The accident happened on an ordinary afternoon: no storm, warning, no dramatic last words, just a phone call. Yoongi didn’t even hear it ring, he only saw his mother’s face change, he watched her hands begin to shake. Watched his father go very still and the world shift in a way that didn’t make sense.
Later, someone explained, there had been an accident, his brother wasn’t coming home. The house became quieter than silence, his brother had been the first one to sign with him fluently, to defend him at school, to tell him the world was bigger than Daegu. The first one to take him to Seoul, who watched him meet Jimin.
At the funeral, people cried but Yoongi didn’t, he stood still. Because how could someone who filled so much space just—be gone? That didn’t make sense.
Weeks passed, then months. Yoongi stopped smiling as easily, he signed smaller again. The world feels fragile now, temporary. He stopped asking about going back to the convention and stopped asking about visiting Seoul.
But he didn’t forget, he couldn’t. At night, when the house felt too big, he would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and he would think about a boy with bright eyes who had said:
You are my person in this world.
Yoongi would press his hand against his own chest, it didn’t beat as fast anymore, but the memory was steady, solid.
Jimin from Busan. His first deaf friend. His first chosen person.
Sometimes he worried Jimin might forget him, as seven-year-olds made new friends easily. But Yoongi didn’t, he didn’t make friends like that again, no one here signed like Jimin, looked at him like that or grabbed his hand without hesitation.
Years went by. Middle school. High school. The grief softened at the edges but never disappeared. It became part of him—like silence always had been.
And through all of it, one memory stayed bright: Seoul. Concrete steps in the sun, a small hand squeezing his.
Next time, we will meet again in Seoul.
Yoongi grew older, taller and quieter. But somewhere in Busan, there was a boy who had once chosen him. And even in his darkest year, even after losing his brother, Yoongi never forgot.
Jimin from Busan, his person in this world.
Back in Busan, everything felt slightly smaller. The ocean was still wide and steady, the air still smelled like salt near the harbor and his parents still signed to him across rooms with the same warmth but something was missing.
Jimin didn’t realize how much space three days could take up in a heart until they were over. For weeks after the convention in Seoul, he talked about only one thing.
“Daegu boy did this, he signs like this, he beat me at puzzles but I let him”
His father would laugh.
“His name is Yoongi.”
Jimin would pretend to think very hard.
“Right. Min Yoongi.”
He never forgot the name.
His parents tried to keep in touch. They exchanged numbers with Yoongi’s older brother, sent a few messages and a photo of Jimin holding a drawing he had made—two stick figures holding hands in front of a big building labeled Seoul.
A reply came once, then another, then silence. His mother frowned at her phone more often.
“Maybe they’re busy,” she signed gently.
“Maybe,” Jimin agreed.
But something about the silence felt different, they didn’t know about the accident, they didn’t know that the brother who had answered messages wasn’t there anymore, they only knew that one day, the replies stopped.
Jimin tried not to think about it. He was getting better at making friends, at school, now with other deaf kids who liked him, teachers smiled at his expressive storytelling, he joined activities, he laughed easily. But sometimes, in the middle of a game, he would pause, because no one signed quite like that: no one rolled their eyes with the same quiet sarcasm, pretended to be annoyed but stayed anyway or looked at him like he was both ridiculous and important at the same time.
At night, he would lie in bed and replay the last afternoon.
You are my person in this world.
He had meant it, even if he hadn’t fully understood it.
When he was ten, he asked his mother directly.
“Do you think he remembers me?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she asked, “Do you remember him?”
“Yes,” Jimin said immediately.
“Then maybe he does too.”
It wasn’t a guarantee but it was enough for a child.
As Jimin grew older, the memory changed shape, at seven, it had been bright and overwhelming. At twelve, it became something softer, private, something he didn’t talk about as much. By fifteen, it turned into a quiet ache he carried without showing: he wondered if Yoongi had made better friends, if Daegu had been kind to him, if he still signed carefully, like he was drawing invisible lines in the air.
Sometimes Jimin would imagine running into him again by accident: in a train station, in a bookstore, in Seoul. He would picture Yoongi taller, maybe even more serious.
Would he still call Busan loud? Would he still look at him like that?
One afternoon in high school, during a lesson about future careers, the teacher asked everyone to share where they wanted to work someday.
Seoul.
The answer came to Jimin before he even thought about it.
“Seoul,” he signed confidently.
His classmates nodded, it wasn’t unusual, but for him, it meant something else. It wasn’t about money or fame or ambition, it was a promise made on concrete steps under a summer sky:
Next time, we will meet again in Seoul.
He didn’t know if Yoongi would be there or if he remembered, didn’t know that Daegu had taken something precious from him.
He only knew this: somewhere out there was a boy who had once held his hand tightly like letting go would hurt.
And even if years passed, even if messages stopped, even if silence stretched longer than expected.
Jimin never stopped wondering.
Did Daegu boy remember?
And if he did—would he still be his person in this world?
The morning air in Seoul was sharper than he remembered. Min Yoongi stood in front of the gates of the deaf school, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The building wasn’t grand—brick walls, wide windows, a courtyard with faded painted lines from old playground games. He had left Daegu two weeks ago with two suitcases, a sketchbook, and a decision that had taken years to solidify.
If he couldn’t change what had happened, he could change something else, he could be the adult he had needed, an art teacher for deaf children.
He exhaled slowly and stepped inside.
The hallway buzzed—not with sound, but with movement. Students signed to each other in clusters, a teacher crouched to explain something to a small boy who was frowning at his backpack zipper, two teenagers argued animatedly near the lockers.
Yoongi paused for half a second.
It still hit him. That feeling. The same one from the convention years ago.
Belonging.
He straightened his shoulders and walked toward the art room.
The classroom smelled faintly of paper and paint: large windows lined one wall, sunlight spilling across wooden tables, jars of brushes stood neatly organized by size, canvases were stacked in one corner.
Yoongi ran his fingers lightly over a clean tabletop. Art had always made sense to him, color didn’t require sound, emotion didn’t require explanation, lines and shading felt like another form of sign language, just slower.
He set his bag down and began arranging supplies with careful precision, he always worked like that, like he was drawing invisible lines in the air.
For a brief second, a memory flickered.
You sign carefully. Like you’re drawing.
He froze. The memory came without permission now, not sharp like it had been in his teenage years but softer.
Bright eyes, messy hair. Busan.
Yoongi shook the thought away gently: focus. Today wasn’t about the past.
The first group of students arrived twenty minutes later: middle schoolers. Some shy, some bold, some already curious about the new teacher.
One girl signed immediately:
“You’re from here?”
“Originally Daegu,” Yoongi replied.
A boy raised his eyebrows.
“Daegu? Isn’t that quiet?”
Yoongi’s lips twitched.
“Yes.”
A student in the back grinned.
“Busan is louder.”
The word hit him unexpectedly. His chest tightened—not painfully, just suddenly.
“I’ve heard that,” he signed dryly.
The students laughed silently, he relaxed slightly, maybe this would be okay.
He began the lesson simply.
“Art,” he signed to them, “is another way to speak.”
He picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a quick line across the board.
“You don’t need perfect technique. You need honesty.”
Some of them watched with wide eyes, others nodded thoughtfully. Yoongi walked between the tables as they began sketching, observing quietly, adjusting a wrist here, suggesting a softer stroke there.
One boy was pressing too hard, frustration visible in his tight shoulders and Yoongi crouched beside him.
“Breathe,” he signed gently.
The boy glanced up, surprised at the softness. Yoongi demonstrated slower strokes, gentler.
“Let your hand feel it.”
The boy nodded and tried again, better this time.
Yoongi felt something settle inside him. This. This was right.
During lunch break, he stepped outside into the courtyard. Students were scattered in groups, animated hands cutting through sunlight, he leaned lightly against the wall, watching.
Years ago, he had stood in a similar courtyard in Seoul. He hadn’t kept many things from childhood, grief had taken up too much space.
But that memory—had survived. He wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to the boy from Busan.
Did he ever come back to Seoul?
Yoongi pushed off the wall, it didn’t matter, life had moved forward. People didn’t magically reappear because of childhood promises, he adjusted his sleeves and headed back inside for the afternoon classes.
He didn’t know that somewhere in the same building, in another classroom, another teacher was signing brightly to a group of younger students. And sometimes, when he introduced himself, he still thought about a serious boy from Daegu.
It happened on a Tuesday, the bell lights flickered softly at the end of fourth period, signaling class changes. The hallway of the deaf school in Seoul filled with motion—students weaving past each other, hands mid-conversation, teachers guiding traffic with practiced ease.
Yoongi stepped out of the art room carrying a stack of sketchbooks, he was focused on not dropping them, which is why he didn’t see the person turning the corner at the same time.
They collided. Not hard, but enough. Sketchbooks slipped, papers fanned across the floor.
Yoongi bent down immediately and so did the other teacher. Their hands reached for the same page, they both paused, looked up and the world tilted slightly.
The man in front of him was—beautiful. In a soft, devastating way.
Honey-blond hair falling perfectly across his forehead, warm skin, lips slightly parted in surprise. Eyes wide—expressive, bright, almost familiar in their intensity.
Yoongi’s heart gave one heavy thud, then another, faster.
The other teacher blinked once, clearly just as stunned.
He signed first.
“I’m so sorry—”
His hands were quick. Yoongi’s breath caught, there was something about the way he moved.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the man continued, kneeling to gather the fallen papers. “Are these yours?”
Yoongi forced his brain back online.
“Yes. It’s fine.”
Their fingers brushed again while picking up a sketchbook, it shouldn’t have meant anything but it did, the other man looked up again and this time his gaze lingered.
Yoongi felt heat creep up his neck, he was not easily flustered, especially not easily flustered by strangers.
But this—this felt different.
The man straightened, handing over the final notebook.
“You’re new,” he signed.
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
A small smile curved his lips and Yoongi had the sudden, irrational urge to memorize it.
“You teach?”
“Art.”
Jimin’s eyebrows lifted in interest and the sight hit Yoongi square in the chest.
Oh. Oh no. He was in trouble.
Jimin shifted his weight slightly, still holding eye contact longer than socially necessary.
“I teach elementary,” he explained. “Language and social development.”
Yoongi nodded slowly.
Jimin’s heartbeat was doing something ridiculous now, he had met attractive people before, he was an adult. So why did this quiet, sharp-featured art teacher make his pulse feel like it was back in elementary school?
Yoongi adjusted the stack of sketchbooks in his arms.
“I should get these back before the next class.”
“Right,” Jimin replied quickly.
Neither of them moved, a beat too long. Finally, Yoongi stepped back as Jimin watched him go.
Behind him, a student tapped his arm to get his attention.
“Teacher?”
Jimin blinked, snapping out of it.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
Jimin smiled automatically.
“Yes.”
Across the hallway, Yoongi paused briefly before turning the corner, he pressed his hand lightly against his chest.
Yoongi was in the staff room after classes, flipping through a printed faculty directory the administration had handed him that morning: names, positions, departments that he hadn’t paid attention to earlier. Now he scanned absently.
Kim — Math.
Jeon — Physical Education.
Jung — Science.
Then—
Park Jimin — Elementary Language & Social Development.
His fingers stopped moving. The air shifted, he stared at the letters like they might rearrange themselves.
Park Jimin. Not uncommon, it could be someone else, it probably was someone else. Except—Busan, he flipped back to the small profile section attached to each teacher.
Hometown: Busan.
Yoongi’s heart slammed so hard he felt it in his throat. No. No way.
His brain raced backward thirteen years in an instant.
You are my person in this world.
His hand tightened around the paper, it couldn’t be. The man in the hallway was—adult, beautiful in a way that made Yoongi forget how to breathe, not a seven-year-old with grass stains on his knees.
But the name, the hometown, the way he signed.
Yoongi’s stomach dropped.
“What.”
He didn’t realize he had signed it aloud until the teacher beside him glanced over.
“You okay?” she asked.
Yoongi blinked rapidly.
“Yes.”
He looked back at the paper, the age matched. The employment date matched a recent hire, two years before him.
His pulse was racing now, fast, like it had on a train platform years ago.
Down the hall, in the elementary wing, Jimin was doing the exact same thing. He had stayed late to organize worksheets, the faculty binder lay open beside him. He wasn’t even looking for anything in particular, just skimming.
Then—
Min Yoongi — Art Department.
His hand froze mid-page turn, the room felt too small suddenly.
No. There were so many Min Yoongis in Korea. Right?Right???
He leaned closer.
Hometown: Daegu.
His vision actually blurred for a second, chest tightened painfully.
Art teacher, new hire. The man in the hallway, the collision. The way his heart had reacted before his brain did. Jimin stood up so abruptly his chair scraped loudly against the floor—though he didn’t hear it.
“Oh my god,” he signed to absolutely no one.
His hands were shaking.
Yoongi reached the elementary hallway at the same time Jimin stepped out of his classroom, they almost collided again, both stopped short, breathing slightly unevenly and holding identical sheets of paper.
They stared at each other.
Then slowly—simultaneously—they lifted the papers. Turn them so the other could see the name printed at the top.
Min Yoongi.
Park Jimin.
Their eyes snapped back up.
WHAT.
It wasn’t even signed fully. Just an explosive, half-formed gesture between them.
Yoongi signed first, hands sharp with disbelief:
“Busan?”
Jimin shot back immediately:
“Daegu?!”
Yoongi took one step closer.
“You’re—”
“Seven,” Jimin finished automatically, eyes wide. “You were nine.”
The numbers hung between them like fragile glass, Yoongi’s breath left him slowly.
Next time, we will meet again in Seoul.
Jimin’s hands trembled slightly before he lifted them again.
“You remember?”
“Yes.”
Jimin’s eyes filled instantly—not with dramatic tears, just overwhelmed brightness.
“You’re my person in this world,” he signed quietly. The exact same shape, exact same deliberate slowness.
Yoongi’s heart felt like it might burst.
“You said that,” he replied, voice in his hands almost unsteady now. “I never forgot.”
Jimin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“All these years I wondered if you remembered.”
Yoongi swallowed.
“I wondered if you forgot.”
They stared at each other: thirteen years, grief, distance, growth.
And yet—the same pull. But now layered with something undeniably adult.
Jimin noticed it first, the way Yoongi’s shoulders had broadened, the quiet confidence in his posture, the sharp line of his jaw. Very, very pretty. His heart started racing again but not in a childish way.
Yoongi noticed too, the warmth in Jimin’s smile, his eyes still curved when he laughed softly in disbelief, how he seemed to glow under fluorescent hallway lights.
Beautiful. Dangerously so.
Neither of them said it but it was written all over their faces.
Jimin let out a shaky laugh.
“We kept our promise.”
Yoongi nodded once.
“We met again in Seoul.”
And suddenly, thirteen years didn’t feel like distance, they felt like a pause, between the first heartbeat and this one.
They were still standing in the hallway, still holding papers they had completely forgotten about. Neither of them had moved.
Jimin was the first to laugh—small, breathless, overwhelmed.
“I can’t believe it’s you.”
Yoongi’s lips curved faintly.
“It’s you.”
Students passed by them without noticing the earthquake happening between two grown men frozen under fluorescent lights.
Jimin looked at him carefully now.
“You look different.”
“Obviously,” Yoongi deadpanned.
Jimin rolled his eyes.
“I mean… you’re still you.”
Yoongi’s heart skipped.
“You’re still loud.”
Jimin gasped dramatically.
“Busan is passionate.”
The familiarity of it hit them both at the same time.
And then—the weight of thirteen years settled in.
Jimin hesitated.
“There was a time,” he admitted slowly, “when my parents tried to contact your brother.”
Yoongi’s expression shifted, subtle, but Jimin saw it.
“They stopped answering,” Jimin continued. “I thought maybe you forgot. Or… maybe you didn’t want to talk anymore.”
Yoongi inhaled carefully, he hadn’t spoken about this easily.
“My brother…” He paused. His hands steadied themselves. “He passed away. That year.”
The hallway felt suddenly quieter.
Jimin’s smile disappeared instantly.
“What?”
“It was an accident.”
Jimin’s hands trembled slightly.
“He was the one who took me to the convention,” Yoongi continued. “He was the one who replied to your parents.”
The pieces clicked together in Jimin’s mind: the silence, the unanswered messages. Oh. Without thinking, Jimin stepped forward and pulled Yoongi into a hug.
Yoongi froze for half a second then his arms came up slowly. He hadn’t been held like that in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin signed against his shoulder.
Yoongi nodded once.
“He would’ve liked this,” he admitted quietly. “He said I’d see you again.”
Jimin pulled back just enough to look at him.
“He was right.”
They stood close even after the hug ended, neither stepping away fully.
Jimin’s eyes flicked over Yoongi’s face.
“You know,” he said carefully, “I had the biggest crush on you.”
Yoongi blinked.
“What?”
Jimin’s cheeks flushed.
“As a kid. Obviously. I thought you were the prettiest person I’d ever seen.”
Yoongi stared at him.
“You called me a cat.”
“That was a compliment!”
“It was confusing.”
Jimin laughed, shoulders shaking.
“You were so serious. I liked that.”
Yoongi looked almost offended.
“You liked that I was serious?”
“Yes.”
Yoongi’s voice softened.
“I thought you were adorable.”
Jimin froze.
“Adorable?”
“You were bright,” Yoongi clarified. “I’d never met anyone like you.”
Jimin’s heart did something dangerous.
“Oh,” he signed quietly.
Oh.
They were definitely not talking like seven-and nine-year-olds anymore.
Jimin shifted awkwardly.
“So… this is embarrassing timing.”
“What is?”
“My heart is doing the same thing it did back then.”
Yoongi’s breath caught.
“Fast?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Yoongi hesitated for only a second.
“Mine too.”
Jimin swallowed.
“So… I should probably ask something important.”
Yoongi raised an eyebrow.
“Are you single?”
Direct, unapologetic and very Jimin.
Yoongi blinked once.
“Yes.”
Jimin’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Okay. Good.”
Yoongi crossed his arms slightly.
“Good?”
“Yes. Because I’m also single. And it would’ve been very tragic if we kept a thirteen-year slow burn for nothing.”
Yoongi actually laughed, openly.
Jimin stared.
“You still smile more when you’re with me,” he observed softly.
Yoongi looked at him carefully now.
“You still say things without fear.”
“Not without fear,” Jimin corrected. “With fear, but I'll just do it anyway.”
Yoongi stepped closer, enough that the space between them felt intentional.
“We kept our promise,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“We met again in Seoul.”
Jimin’s eyes softened.
“And this time,” he signed slowly, deliberately—just like he had as a child, “you are still my person in this world.”
Yoongi’s chest tightened.
“I never stopped being yours,” he replied.
Neither of them rushed the moment, they didn’t need to. Thirteen years had already proven something important: some connections don’t disappear.
They wait. And this time—they weren’t children anymore.
They did not label it as a date at first. Jimin had simply signed, very casually, “There’s a night market near the river, you should see it.”
And Yoongi, equally casual, had replied, “I like food.” Which was how they ended up walking side by side along the Han River in Seoul, pretending this wasn’t their first time being alone together outside of school.
It was early evening, the sky was lavender-blue, lights reflected softly on the water.
They walked close and were too aware of the space between their hands.
Jimin broke first.
“So,” he signed, trying and failing to look relaxed, “as adults… do we still argue about Busan being better?”
Yoongi glanced at him.
“Busan is loud.”
Jimin gasped.
“You moved to Seoul and still insult my city?”
“Yes.”
“That 's rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
Jimin laughed, shoulders shaking—and without thinking, he grabbed Yoongi’s sleeve like he used to, the contact lasted half a second longer than necessary.
They both noticed but neither pulled away immediately.
Yoongi’s heart was doing that fast thing again. He was a grown man, he had handled grief, moved cities, built a career and yet holding Park Jimin’s hand felt more overwhelming than all of it.
Jimin noticed the hesitation.
And, because he was still Jimin—he intertwined their fingers, just like that.
Yoongi stopped walking.
Jimin looked at him, suddenly unsure.
“Is that okay?”
Yoongi looked down at their hands then back up.
“Yes.”
They kept walking, slower now, quieter.
They bought street food as Jimin insisted Yoongi try something too spicy. Yoongi pretended not to react when it burned and Jimin called him a liar immediately.
At one point, they stood by the railing overlooking the water. Jimin leaned on it, facing him.
“I’m glad you didn’t forget,” he said softly.
Yoongi didn’t need clarification.
“I couldn’t.”
A pause.
“You were the first person who chose me,” Yoongi admitted.
Jimin’s breath caught.
“You were the first person who fit,” Jimin replied.
They stood there like that—hands still linked, shoulders brushing lightly.
And then—
“Teacher?”
One of Jimin’s elementary students stood a few steps away with his mother, eyes wide and absolutely delighted. The boy pointed at their hands, then at their faces, then back at their hands.
His expression shifted into exaggerated shock.
“WAIT,” he signed dramatically. “ARE YOU TWO MARRIED?”
Jimin choked on absolutely nothing.
Yoongi blinked.
The mother covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Jimin’s hands flailed slightly before regaining composure.
“No! We’re not— I mean—”
He glanced at Yoongi, whose face was completely calm.
“We are not married,” Yoongi signed evenly.
The student narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“But you’re holding hands.”
“That is allowed,” Yoongi replied dryly.
The boy leaned closer.
“Are you dating?”
Jimin’s brain short-circuited.
Yoongi answered before he could spiral.
“Yes.”
Jimin whipped his head toward him. Yes?!
The student gasped in delight.
“I knew it!”
His mother laughed silently now, bowing politely.
“Sorry,” she signed to them. “He loves romance.”
Jimin’s face was red enough to match the street lanterns.
“It’s fine,” he signed weakly.
The boy grinned.
“You look good together.”
And then he skipped off proudly, mission accomplished as Jimin slowly turned to Yoongi.
“You just said yes.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
Yoongi tilted his head slightly.
“Should I have?”
Jimin’s heart did that stupid fast thing again.
“No,” he admitted quietly.
Yoongi squeezed his hand gently.
“I’m not interested in going slowly for thirteen more years.”
Jimin stared at him.
“You’re unfair.”
“Why?”
“You say things like that.”
Yoongi shrugged.
“He asked if we’re dating.”
“And you said yes.”
“Yes.”
Jimin laughed helplessly.
“Okay. Then… we’re dating.”
Yoongi nodded once.
“Okay.”
They stood there for another second, then Jimin leaned closer slightly.
“Just so you know,” he signed softly, “if a student asks if we’re married again, I might panic.”
Yoongi’s lips curved faintly.
“Then I’ll answer.”
“And what will you say?”
Yoongi looked at him carefully.
“Not yet.”
Jimin’s heart nearly stopped.
“You’re unbelievable.”
But he didn’t let go of his hand. And neither of them noticed—they were both smiling wider than they had in years.
The first thing Yoongi notices is the air: it’s different from Seoul. Saltier, wetter and alive at the same time. They step out of the station in Busan, and Jimin is already glowing in a way Yoongi hasn’t seen before.
“This is home,” Jimin signs, almost shy about how proud he feels.
Yoongi watches him instead of the city.
“I can tell.”
They don’t go to the ocean first, they go to Jimin’s parents.
Jimin barely knocks before the door swings open, his mother gasps, her hands fly to her mouth before immediately reaching for her son. She pulls Jimin into a tight embrace, rocking him slightly the way she did when he was small.
His father appears behind her, smiling wide and bright.
Then they see Yoongi, for half a second, there is recognition and then something softer.
“Oh,” his mother signs gently. “Daegu boy.”
Yoongi bows automatically, politely.
“It’s been a long time.”
His father steps forward and grips Yoongi’s shoulders firmly.
“You grew up.”
Yoongi nods once.
“Yes.”
There’s a brief, quiet pause, the kind that holds all the years in between. Jimin’s mother looks at him closely, at the way he stands a little stiff, at the guardedness he never quite learned to hide. Then she does something unexpected, she pulls him into a hug, a full, warm, crushing hug.
Yoongi freezes. His arms hover awkwardly for half a second before slowly wrapping around her, and something inside him cracks open.
“You’re thin,” she scolds gently. “Do you eat?”
Jimin laughs.
“He does.”
His father pulls Yoongi into a second hug—strong and brief but steady.
“You’re family,” he signs simply.
Yoongi blinks fast once. He nods again because if he tries to say anything, he might not manage it.
They go at sunset as the sky spills orange and pink across the horizon. The water stretches endlessly in front of them, Yoongi stops walking. He has seen pictures, he has seen rivers.
But this—feels infinite.
Jimin steps closer to him.
“You’ve never seen it properly, right?”
Yoongi shakes his head slowly.
“No.”
They take off their shoes, the sand is cool under their feets, the waves roll in gently, foam curling at their feet. Yoongi flinches at the first touch of cold water, then laughs silently at himself.
Jimin watches him like he’s witnessing something sacred.
“Beautiful?” Jimin asks.
Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately.
He looks at the horizon, then at Jimin, then back at the water.
“Yes.”
But he’s not looking at the ocean anymore.
Jimin nudges him lightly with his shoulder.
“Don’t romanticize me in my own city.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe.”
Jimin smiles, softer now.
They stand there as another wave rushes in, this time Yoongi doesn’t pull back, he lets the water soak his pants slightly, wind pushes his hair into his eyes as he lets himself feel it.
After a while, he signs quietly—
“I thought I lost everything from that time.”
Jimin’s smile fades gently.
“You didn’t.”
“I lost my brother.”
The words sit heavy even in sign, Jimin reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers like he did that first night in Seoul.
“You didn’t lose me.”
Yoongi swallows.
“No.”
A long pause.
“I used to remember you as ‘Jimin from Busan.’”
Jimin laughs softly at that.
“I used to call you ‘Daegu boy’ in my head.”
Yoongi glances at him.
“I moved to Seoul.”
“You’ll always be Daegu boy.”
Another wave, another quiet moment, then Jimin leans closer.
“My parents never stopped hoping we’d see you again,” he admits.
Yoongi looks back toward the city lights behind them.
“They held me like I was theirs.”
“They do that.”
Yoongi squeezes his hand once.
“I didn’t know I needed that.”
Jimin’s expression softens completely.
“You can have it.”
“Have what?”
“Family.”
The word settles between them like something solid and real, the wind grows stronger. Jimin shivers slightly and Yoongi steps closer automatically, shoulder brushing his.
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Yoongi pulls him gently toward him. They stand there, pressed lightly together, the ocean roaring in front of them.
Jimin rests his head briefly against Yoongi’s shoulder.
“You look good here,” he signs lazily.
“In Busan?”
“Yes.”
Yoongi considers that.
“Maybe I look good wherever you are.”
Jimin lifts his head immediately.
“That was smooth.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Liar.”
Yoongi’s mouth curves slightly, the sky darkens fully now, city lights reflect off the water. And for the first time in years, Yoongi feels something that isn’t sharp with grief, it is something like waves that keep returning no matter how far they pull back.
Jimin squeezes his hand again.
“Stay a few days.”
Yoongi nods.
“I will.”
And this time—there is no goodbye waiting at the end of it.
They will take the train from Busan to Daegu in two days. Jimin doesn’t ask many questions and Yoongi doesn’t offer many explanations. He just says, the night before, while they’re still in Busan:
“I want to stop somewhere on the way back.”
Jimin nods.
“Okay.”
The cemetery sits on a hill outside the city, it’s quiet. The winter grass is pale and flattened by cold wind, Yoongi walks ahead at first, his hands are in his coat pockets, shoulders are straight.
Jimin follows half a step behind, giving him space without letting him be alone.
They stop in front of a simple stone marker.
Min Geum-jae.
Beloved son. Beloved brother.
Yoongi stares at the name for a long time. Jimin has never seen him like this still but he doesn’t interrupt.
Yoongi kneels slowly and brushes away a few dried leaves from the base of the stone.
He signs softly, words meant for someone who can no longer see them.
“Hi.”
The wind moves his hair across his forehead.
“I came late this time.”
A pause.
“I brought someone.”
Jimin 's chest tightens.
Yoongi glances back briefly, meeting his eyes, then looks at the stone again.
“Do you remember the boy from Busan?”
His hands hesitate slightly.
“The one from the convention.”
He swallows.
“I found him again.”
The air feels heavier. Jimin steps forward now and kneels beside him.
Yoongi’s hands move slower.
“You were right.”
A faint, almost invisible smile touches his mouth.
“You said I’d see him again.”
Jimin looks at him sharply.
“You told him about me?” he signs quietly.
Yoongi nods once.
“After we came back from Seoul… you were all I talked about.”
Jimin 's eyes sting but Yoongi keeps going.
“I thought I imagined you. After…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, he doesn’t need to, the space where his brother should have been is loud enough.
Jimin finally reaches for his hand and Yoongi squeezes back immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission.
“I was scared,” Yoongi admits to the grave. “If I let myself be happy again, something would take it.”
The confession sits fragile between them. Jimin’s grip tightens, nothing takes him away as he signs it firmly:
I am here.
Yoongi turns to look at him fully now, the vulnerability in his eyes is younger than nine years old.
You don’t have to be afraid alone anymore, Jimin signs.
Yoongi’s breath shakes once, and he looks back at the stone.
“You don’t have to worry,” he tells his brother. “He’s stubborn. He won’t disappear.”
Jimin almost laughs through the emotion.
“I won’t,” he signs in agreement.
They sit there quietly for several minutes, after a while, Jimin shifts closer so their shoulders touch.
Yoongi leans into it slightly without thinking.
“I wish he could’ve met you as an adult,” Jimin signs softly.
Yoongi’s gaze stays forward.
“He would’ve liked you.”
“How do you know?”
“You argue a lot.”
Jimin huffs silently.
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It is for him.”
A softer pause follows then Yoongi signs something slower.
“I used to think losing him was the moment my life split in two.”
Jimin waits.
“It still is.”
Another breath.
“But finding you again…” Yoongi’s eyes flicker toward him. “It feels like something stitched the edges back together.”
Jimin’s composure almost breaks and he shifts so they’re fully facing each other now, knees brushing.
“You don’t have to choose between remembering him and being happy,” Jimin signs gently.
“I know.”
“Then let both exist.”
Yoongi nods. They both turn back to the grave one last time, together, they bow their heads, out of respect and gratitude.
When they stand, Yoongi doesn’t let go of Jimin’s hand, they walk down the hill side by side.
Halfway down, Yoongi stops and Jimin looks at him questioningly.
Yoongi signs slowly.
“Thank you. For coming.”
Jimin steps closer until there’s no space between them.
“Always.”
Yoongi studies his face like he’s memorizing it, then he leans forward and presses his forehead lightly against Jimin’s.
When they pull back, Yoongi’s expression is steadier than it has been all day.
“Let’s go home,” he signs.
Because home means Seoul now.
Jimin smiles.
“Okay.”
And this time—Daegu doesn’t feel like only a loss, it feels like something honored, something carried forward.
The train from Daegu pulls into Seoul just after sunset. The platform hums with movement—rolling suitcases, rushing commuters, neon reflections against polished floors.
Yoongi steps off first, not because he’s in a hurry but because he needs a second to breathe.
Daegu had been heavy. Healing but still heavy. Jimin steps off right after him, their shoulders brushing automatically, their hands don’t link this time—not yet—but they walk close enough that their coats touch with each step.
As they move through the station, something in Jimin’s expression shifts and he slows down.
Yoongi notices.
“What?” he signs.
Jimin looks around carefully: the large glass walls, the echoing ceiling, the information boards overhead.
And then he points. Over there.
Yoongi follows his gaze to a corner near the wide staircase, near the entrance to the convention hall that had once hosted a deaf community gathering thirteen years ago.
They both stop walking. For a second, neither moves. The memory hits without warning—three days that felt like the entire world.
You’re my person.
Jimin exhales slowly.
“This is where we said goodbye.”
Yoongi nods.
“I remember.”
“You cried,” Jimin teases softly.
“You cried more.”
Jimin gasps in fake offense.
“I was seven.”
“You were dramatic.”
They’re smiling now but it’s fragile, because that goodbye had hurt and they didn’t know it would last over a decade. People pass around them, unaware of the quiet gravity settling in that corner of the station as Jimin steps closer.
“Do you think,” he signs slowly, “if we hadn’t come back here… it would still feel unfinished?”
Yoongi considers that then shakes his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we found each other anyway.”
Jimin’s heart does that familiar fast rhythm, the one when they were children, the same one from the hallway collision. And now the same one from the ocean.
He takes a breath then signs something softer.
“When we were kids… I said you were my person.”
Yoongi’s eyes flicker.
“You did.”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
“And now?”
Jimin steps into his space fully, close enough that there’s barely air between them.
“Now I do.”
Yoongi’s composure—the steady, guarded teacher, the older brother who learned to survive loss—softens completely.
He lifts his hands slowly.
“You still are.”
Jimin’s throat tightens.
“Good,” he signs. “Because you’re mine too.”
There’s no audience in their world anymore, just the station lights reflecting in Yoongi’s dark eyes, just Jimin’s fingers still curled slightly from signing.
Yoongi moves first as he lifts one hand to Jimin’s cheek.
Jimin inhales sharply then he leans in.
The kiss is soft at first, almost hesitant—like they’re testing the reality of it, but when neither pulls away, it deepens slightly. Years of distance collapsing into something simple and present, Jimin’s hands slide into Yoongi’s coat, gripping lightly as Yoongi’s other hand settles at Jimin’s waist.
The world continues moving around them, announcements flash across screens, strangers hurry past but in that small corner of Seoul, time folds.
When they finally pull back, their foreheads rest together, just like at the grave but lighter now.
Jimin smiles first.
“We didn’t get to do that thirteen years ago.”
Yoongi’s lips curve faintly.
“We were too short.”
Jimin laughs breathlessly.
“I would’ve tried.”
“I know.”
Then Yoongi signs, slower than usual.
“No more goodbyes like that.”
Jimin nods immediately.
“Never.”
Yoongi presses one last soft kiss to his lips then he takes Jimin’s hand and intertwines their fingers. And this time—when they walk out of the station together—it isn’t the end of something.
It’s the beginning.