Chapter Text
Before he was someone the world knew, Min Yoongi was just... yours.
Not in the way people think.
Not romantic. Not labeled.
Just—yours.
And you were his.
It started small.
Shared walks home from school because you lived a few streets apart. Sitting side by side on the curb, kicking at loose gravel while talking about nothing and everything all at once.
"Y/n, you walk too slow."
"You walk too fast," you shot back, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. "Not everyone's in a rush to get nowhere."
He huffed, slowing his pace anyway.
Yoongi wasn't easy with people.
You figured that out quickly.
He didn't talk unless he had something worth saying. He didn't smile unless he meant it. He didn't let people in.
But somehow-
He let you.
"Listen to this."
That's how it always started.
One earbud pressed into your hand, the other already in his ear as he leaned closer than necessary, waiting.
You rolled your eyes. "You could at least warn me first."
"I just did."
"That doesn't count."
But you took it anyway.
Always.
Music was his thing. His language. The way he said things he couldn't put into words.
And you learned to understand it.
You learned that when he handed you a song, he was telling you something.
When the bass was heavy, he was frustrated.
When the lyrics were soft, he was thinking too much.
When he didn't say anything after it ended... that was when it mattered most.
"You're going to do something with this someday," you told him once, pulling the earbud out as the song faded.
He scoffed. "Yeah, sure."
"I'm serious, Yoongi."
"So am I. It's not that easy."
"Doesn't mean you won't do it."
He glanced at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple," you said with a shrug. "You love it. You're good at it. That's kind of the whole point."
He huffed out a quiet laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"Admit it. I'm right."
"...You're annoying."
You grinned. "That's not a no."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't disagree either.
—
It became routine after that.
Late nights. Shared playlists. Conversations that stretched longer than they were supposed to.
Sometimes you'd find him waiting for you without saying a word, just nodding his head toward your usual spot.
"Late again, y/n."
"You're early."
"Barely."
"You've been here ten minutes."
"Five."
"Ten."
"...Five."
You bumped your shoulder into his, smiling.
Sometimes he'd show up with new lyrics scribbled in a notebook, pretending like it wasn't a big deal when he let you read them.
It was never a big deal.
But it meant everything.
"You're the only one who gets it," he muttered once, not looking at you as you handed his notebook back.
You blinked. "Gets what?"
"This," he said vaguely, gesturing between himself, the music, everything he never quite explained. "All of it."
Your chest tightened.
"Well," you said lightly, "good thing you have me then."
He glanced at you, something softer settling in his expression.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Good thing I do."
—
But things started changing.
Slowly at first.
So slowly you almost didn't notice.
He'd cancel plans more often.
Show up late.
Leave early.
"Yoongi, you said you'd be here an hour ago."
"I got busy."
"You always get busy now."
He sighed. "I said I'm here, didn't I?"
More phone calls—quiet ones he'd step away to take.
More nights where he seemed distracted.
"Are you okay?" you asked one evening, watching him stare down at his phone.
"Yeah."
"You don't look okay."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that when you're not fine."
He dragged a hand over his face. "It's just... stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Just stuff," he repeated.
A wall.
"...You know you can tell me things, right?"
"I know, y/n."
But he didn't.
—
The night before he left felt different.
At the time, you couldn't explain why.
Now you know.
He was quieter than usual. Not distant—just... there. Like he was trying to memorize something.
Or someone.
"Play something," you said, nudging his shoulder.
He didn't move.
Instead, he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
It made your stomach twist. "What?"
"...Nothing."
"That didn't sound like nothing."
He hesitated.
Then—
"If I left... would you be okay?"
You blinked. "What kind of question is that?"
"Just answer it."
You laughed softly, trying to brush it off. "I mean... I'd miss you. Obviously."
His expression flickered.
"But you wouldn't just leave without telling me," you added with a small smile. "So I don't really have to worry about that."
Silence.
You frowned slightly. "Yoongi?"
"...Right," he said quietly.
"You're stuck with me, remember?"
A faint smile appeared.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
—
The next day, he's gone.
No message.
No call.
Nothing.
At first, you think it's temporary.
"Maybe he's just busy," you mumble to yourself, staring at your phone.
You text him anyway.
No response.
A day passes.
Then two.
Then a week.
"Come on, Yoongi..." you whisper, calling again, only to hear the empty tone of a disconnected number.
Your chest tightens.
Then the rumors start.
"He went to Seoul."
"I heard he's training to be an idol."
"He left fast."
Left.
The word echoes in your head.
And suddenly—
Everything makes sense.
The distance.
The late nights.
The question he asked you.
"If I left...would you be okay?"
Your grip tightens around your phone.
He knew.
He knew he was leaving.
And he still didn't tell you.
"...Seriously?" your voice breaks slightly, disbelief and hurt mixing together. "You couldn't even say goodbye?"
The silence feels suffocating.
You sit there for a long time, staring at nothing, your thoughts spinning.
Because no matter how you try to understand it...
It always comes back to the same thing.
He chose to leave.
And he chose not to take you with him.
Your throat tightens as you whisper—
"Why wasn't I enough for you to stay, Yoongi?"
No answer comes.
And somehow...
That hurts the most.