Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Jimin learned early that there were two kinds of silence.
There was the kind that came after laughter, when the room still held warmth, when the air felt soft with the memory of people. That silence didn’t scare him. It was restful. Like the last note of a song that kept ringing even after the instruments stopped.
And then there was the other kind—the one that had teeth. He met it the morning the teaser photos dropped. He didn’t open social media right away. He told himself he’d wait until after practice. He told himself he’d eat first, because he’d been trying to be “better,” trying to be the kind of person who didn’t punish his body for existing. But curiosity was a small animal that lived in his hands. It made his thumb move before his brain caught up.
The first few comments were normal: excitement, hearts, “KING,” “ANGEL,” nonsense in languages he couldn’t read but could feel.
Then the other ones slid in—sharp, casual, confident.
He looks puffy.
Why is he getting bigger?
He used to be perfect.
You can tell he hasn’t been watching himself.
They weren’t even the worst. They were the ones that pretended to be objective, like they were just stating weather. Like his face and body were public property, like his hunger and bones were community projects. Jimin’s stomach tightened in a way that wasn’t hunger.
He stared at his reflection in the black glass of his phone screen: an outline of his cheek, the curve of his mouth. For a second he couldn’t tell which version was real—the one in the photo, the one in the mirror, or the one in the comments. He locked his phone and set it down gently, as if it might explode.
In the kitchen, someone had left the rice cooker on warm. The smell should’ve been comforting. It should’ve been a home smell. But it curled into him like smoke. He poured a glass of water instead. He drank it too fast and felt it slosh coldly in his stomach, heavy and hollow at the same time.
“Jimin-ah,” Namjoon’s voice drifted in from the living room, soft with sleep. “You up?”
Jimin straightened his posture by instinct, like being awake was something to perform correctly. “Yeah,” he called back, tone light. “Just getting ready.”
“Eat something,” Namjoon added, not as an order but like a habit. Like breathing. “We have a long day.”
“I will,” Jimin lied automatically, the lie sliding out with almost no friction. He surprised himself with how easy it was—how his voice didn’t catch, how his face didn’t change.
He stared at the rice cooker again, then at the cabinet where they kept the bowls. His hand hovered. A thought rose up, calm and cold as a glass table. Not now. Later. You can be good later.
He walked past the kitchen and went to the bathroom instead, telling himself he’d brush his teeth first, because then it would be easier to eat. But as soon as the mint taste hit his mouth, his appetite retreated like an animal that sensed a trap. He looked at himself in the mirror and tilted his head left, then right, studying the line under his jaw.
Under the bright light, his skin looked too clear, like paper stretched over something fragile. He blinked, and for a moment his reflection didn’t feel like him. It felt like a doll he was responsible for keeping pretty.
His phone buzzed again. A notification. Another tag. Another mention. He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to. He already knew what it would say.
Practice started the way it always did: bodies warming, sweat gathering, music loud enough to drown the brain. Movement had always been Jimin’s language. When he danced, the noise inside him sorted itself out. The world became understandable. Measurable. If he hit the beat, if he sharpened the angle, if he controlled the lines, then everything else could be forgiven.
Today, though, his body felt… slightly off. Not weak, exactly. Just delayed, like there was a small gap between what he told himself to do and what his muscles answered back with. He ignored it and pushed harder. When you pushed, you didn’t have to think.
He nailed the sequence they’d been struggling with—clean footwork, clean turns—and the choreographer clapped and laughed, praising him, calling him a genius. The word made something twist inside Jimin. Genius. Idol. Perfect. Perfect was a cliff. You could only stand there until someone noticed you were trembling.
During a break, Taehyung threw an arm around his shoulders, damp and warm from sweat. “You’re on fire,” he said, smiling, eyes crinkled. “Seriously.”
Jimin smiled back automatically. “You too.”
“You didn’t eat, did you?” Taehyung asked, casual, but his gaze flicked quick—one check, like he was taking inventory.
Jimin’s smile didn’t change. “I did,” he said, and hated how easily it came out again. “this morning.”
Taehyung hummed like he believed him, but didn’t look convinced. He squeezed Jimin’s shoulder once before letting go. When Taehyung walked away, Jimin’s skin felt cold where the hand had been. Like affection could leave a bruise.
He drank more water. He chewed gum. He watched the others joke and stretch and exist without counting themselves the way he counted.
They don’t understand, a voice whispered in him. But another voice answered, quieter and sadder: They would, if you let them.
He didn’t.
—------------------
The first time Jimin decided on a number, it happened almost accidentally.
They were weighing luggage for a trip—someone had pulled out the scale because the airline was strict. The scale ended up on the floor in the hallway, the digital display bright.
Hoseok stepped on it first, laughing at the beep and the number, then stepping off. “Ah, it’s not bad,” he said, like it was a joke that still mattered.
“Let me see,” Jungkook said immediately, competitive as breathing.
They were messing around, all of them taking turns, mocking each other, comparing like it meant nothing. It was playful, the way boys were playful with anything that could be turned into a game. Jimin stayed back, leaning on the doorframe, laughing at the right places. He made his voice bright. But his eyes stayed on the scale like it was a magnet.
Eventually, after everyone had moved on—after the scale was left behind like a forgotten prop—Jimin found himself alone in the hallway. He stared at it. It was just plastic and numbers. It was just a tool. His heart beat faster anyway. He stepped on. The beep sounded louder than it should’ve. A number flashed. It was in the same range as Yoongi’s. Normal. Healthy. Fine. But Jimin’s brain translated it into something else. It translated it into too much.
He stepped off, and the number disappeared. Like it had never existed. Like it could be erased. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the blank display, feeling the urge to do it again. To make sure. To make sure it wasn’t lying. He didn’t do it again. Not then. But the number stayed with him for the rest of the day, sitting in the back of his mind like a stone.
That night, he lay in bed scrolling through comments again, telling himself he was just checking the mood. Someone had zoomed in on his cheeks in a screenshot and circled them. Someone had compared him to an old version of himself like it was a separate person who had died.
Someone wrote: He used to have that delicate look. Now he’s… normal.
Normal. The word hit him harder than “fat” ever had. Normal meant replaceable. Normal meant the stage didn’t need you. Normal meant you’d wake up one day and realize you’d been carried by something fragile and temporary, and now it was gone.
He sat up in bed and looked at the ceiling, breathing carefully like breathing itself might take up space. A thought came, crisp and clean, pretending to be helpful: Just a little less. Not starving. Not sick. Not dramatic. Just… disciplined. Just enough to look like “effortless” again. Just enough to be safe. He opened his notes app and typed a number he thought sounded reasonable. Not a confession. Not a plan. Just a goal. A quiet piece of math.
When he finished typing it, his shoulders relaxed in relief, as if the world had finally been put back in order. He set the phone down. Then he couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, he tried to be subtle about it.
He told himself he’d eat normally—he just wouldn’t overeat. But the definition of “overeat” changed every hour. Breakfast was easy to skip. They were always busy in the morning. Always running. Always tired. If he drank coffee and ate something small later, no one would question it. He took the coffee, black. His stomach protested. He ignored it.
At lunch, the managers had ordered food. The smell filled the room, and everyone’s energy lifted like they’d been waiting for the permission to be human again. Jungkook opened containers like gifts. Hoseok narrated what he’d grabbed. Taehyung stole fries from someone’s plate, laughing.
Jimin set a small portion on his own plate and made himself chew slowly. Slowly was good. Slowly looked responsible. Slowly looked like he was enjoying. No one could accuse him of anything if he was eating, right? He smiled, nodded, contributed to conversation. He kept his eyes from lingering too long on the food. He kept his hands from shaking.
When he finished, his plate looked emptier than he wanted. Panic flared. Before anyone could notice, he shifted the napkin, moved a container, rearranged the space so it looked like he’d eaten more. Like the meal had been bigger. Like he’d participated fully. The behavior was so quick, so smooth, it scared him. This is stupid, he told himself. Then he felt relief. Relief was addictive.
That evening, during vocal practice, his head felt slightly light. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to make the edges of the room soft. He sat down between takes and pressed his palm to his knee, grounding himself. The skin there felt cold, even through his pants.
“Are you okay?” Seokjin asked, voice gentle but watchful.
“I’m fine,” Jimin said at once, smiling, because smiling made people stop looking.
Seokjin didn’t smile back. He held Jimin’s gaze for a moment, and Jimin felt like he was being seen through glass. Then Seokjin nodded and let it go. But Jimin’s throat tightened anyway. They’re noticing. The thought should have scared him into stopping. Instead, it made his resolve feel sharper.
If they were noticing now, it meant he’d been right. It meant he’d been slipping. It meant he’d had to fix it before anyone else fixed it for him.
-------
At night, the hunger arrived like a wave he couldn’t predict.
Sometimes it didn’t come at all, and he felt oddly proud, like he’d passed a test. Other times it hit hard, his stomach aching, his mouth watering, his brain suddenly loud with images of food like it was trying to torture him. When it happened, he paced his room quietly, hands fisting and unfisting. He drank more water. He scrolled. He watched videos. He tried to distract himself with anything that wasn’t his own body.
He told himself: You can do this. It’s simple. Just don’t. But his body wasn’t simple. His body was a living thing that didn’t understand shame. He stared at the mini-fridge, at the snacks they kept for emergencies. His breath sped up. A memory surfaced—something Namjoon had said once, in a completely different context, during a conversation about art. “You can’t hate yourself into becoming someone you love,” Namjoon had said. Jimin had laughed at the time, like it was a nice quote. Now it landed like a stone.
He sat on the floor with his back against the bed, the carpet rough against his palms. He pressed his forehead to his knees and breathed through the urge, counting silently until the numbers blurred. Eventually, the hunger dulled into something quieter. Not gone. Just… quieter. He felt triumphant in a way that made him sick.
He went to sleep with his stomach hollow and his mind buzzing.
-------
A few days later, in the dance studio, he caught sight of himself in the mirror mid-move.
For a fraction of a second, he looked good—sharp lines, clean neck, the delicate look that people loved. His body in motion was still beautiful. Then the angle shifted and he saw his own face in the bright light, sweat making his skin shine. And he thought: Still not enough. The thought was not dramatic. It wasn’t a scream. It was calm, like a teacher pointing to a mistake on a test.
He corrected himself by pushing harder. By staying later. By choosing the “clean” option when food was offered and feeling superior for it. By saying “I ate already” without realizing he was lying until after the words left his mouth. By checking his reflection in elevators, in windows, in phone screens. By pinching at places that had never bothered him before, searching for proof that he was right to be afraid. He told himself it was temporary. Just until the comeback. Just until he felt like he reached the number he wanted.
But the thing about “until” was that it moved. It always moved.
-------
Yoongi was the first to say something that wasn’t a question. They were in the kitchen late, both of them awake in the quiet hours when the world felt far away. Yoongi had his coffee. Jimin had… water again, because it was easier.
Yoongi didn’t look up from his mug when he spoke. “Stop reading comments.”
Jimin’s chest tightened instantly. “I’m not.”
Yoongi finally lifted his eyes. They were tired, flat, honest. “You are.”
Jimin tried to laugh. It came out wrong. “Everyone does.”
“Not like you,” Yoongi said. There was no accusation in it. Just fact.
Jimin’s mouth went dry. “I’m fine.”
Yoongi stared at him for a long moment, and Jimin had the strange urge to beg him to stop looking—like if Yoongi kept staring, he would find the truth written under Jimin’s skin.
“You don’t have to become smaller to be loved,” Yoongi said quietly.
Jimin flinched like he’d been slapped. He hated the way his eyes burned, hated the immediate, humiliating weakness in his throat.
He forced a smile. “Hyung, what are you talking about?”
Yoongi’s gaze didn’t move. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Jimin’s fingers curled around his cup until the plastic creaked. “I’m just… trying to be healthy.”
Yoongi exhaled, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. “Healthy doesn’t look like disappearing.”
The word disappearing hit something deep in Jimin—an old fear dressed up as discipline. He stood up too fast, dizziness flickering at the edge of his vision like a warning.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, voice too bright, and Yoongi didn’t stop him.
But as Jimin walked away, he heard Yoongi speak again, soft but sharp enough to follow him. “Don’t make me watch you get sick.”
Jimin froze for half a second, his hand on the doorway. His pulse thundered. Then he forced himself to keep walking, because stopping would mean answering, and answering would mean admitting there was something to answer. In his room, he locked the door and leaned his forehead against it, breathing like he’d run a mile.
His phone buzzed again. Another comment. Another mention. He didn’t open it. He opened his notes app instead and stared at the number he’d written. It suddenly felt too big. His brain offered him a smaller one. Just a little smaller. Just until he felt safe. He typed. When he finished, his hands were shaking. He told himself it was exciting. He told himself it meant he was in control. But control didn’t feel like this.
Control didn’t feel like fear wearing a crown.
That night, Jimin dreamed he was onstage and the lights were so bright he couldn’t see the audience—only the feeling of them, a pressure like the ocean.
He danced perfectly. He smiled perfectly. And then, without warning, his body turned to paper. The movement tore him. He kept dancing anyway, because stopping wasn’t allowed. When he woke up, his heart was racing, and his mouth tasted like metal. He sat up slowly, hand pressed to his chest, listening to the quiet.
The kind of silence with teeth. And somewhere in the dark, the quiet math waited for him again.