caffeine.with.SABstance

The final walk through of the wedding venue was …. underwhelming.

You’ve walked this path before. Same polished floors. Same soft white draping gathered along the beams. Same rows of perfectly aligned chairs, tied with ribbons that fall at identical lengths like someone measured each one down to the millimeter.

Nothing has changed and somehow that’s what feels wrong.

“Everything is exactly as we finalized,” the planner says warmly, gesturing toward the ceremony space as if presenting something brand new.

“It looks even better in person.” Your mother smiles, pleased.

You nod because you have seen it in person.

Twice.

Maybe three times. You don’t even remember anymore. Your heels echo softly as you walk forward, your eyes scanning details you know you’ve already approved.

The arch.

The aisle.

The placement of the quartet.

You know where everything goes before the planner even points it out.

“And then guests will transition to the terrace for cocktail hour. It's the same layout we discussed previously,” she continues.

“Yes, perfect,” your mother says again.

Perfect.

The word doesn’t land right. It doesn’t land at all. You step slightly ahead of them, gaze drifting toward the open terrace doors. A breeze slips through, lifting the curtains just enough to make them sway.

For a second, you try to picture it full.

People.

Music.

Voices.

Instead, it feels empty. Like a staged room no one actually goes in.Your fingers brush lightly against the back of one of the chairs as you pass.

You’ve approved this.

You know you did.

So why does it feel like you’re looking at someone else’s choices?

“Could we change something?” You ask.

The words come out quiet. Both women stop before looking at one another and looking back at you.

“Change something?” The planner blinks, clearly thrown.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Your mother asks, studying you carefully.

You hesitate to answer because you don’t know exactly what you want. You only know that this isn't it.

“I know we’ve already gone through all of this,” you say carefully, glancing around again. “I just… it feels a little…”

You trail off, searching. Your mother watches you as the planner waits nervously drumming her fingers on her tablet.

“Flat,” you finish and there’s a subtle shift in your mother’s posture.

“Flat,” she repeats.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” you say quickly. “It’s just… we’ve seen this so many times and I thought maybe when I came back, it would feel different.”

“It looks exactly how you wanted it,” she replies.

That’s the problem. You don’t remember wanting it. You glance down the aisle again and try to picture yourself standing there.

Walking.

Smiling.

Feeling something.

Anything.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just thought maybe we could add something that feels more… personal.”

“We can absolutely incorporate personal touches.” The planner jumps in gently, sensing the tension.

“We’ve already incorporated personal elements,” your mother cuts in smoothly. “The florals were chosen specifically for you. The color palette complements your complexion. Even the music selection…”

“I know,” you say again, softer this time. “I'm sorry.”

However, the words feel rehearsed. Like you've said them one too many times before. Your mother studies you now, something sharper behind her eyes.

“Where is this coming from?” She asks.

You open your mouth and hesitate. The honest answer sounds ridiculous. The honest answer will open a door that you don't know how to handle right now.

“I just thought,” you try instead. “Since this is the last walkthrough… maybe we could adjust something small. Just to make it feel a little more…” You stop again.

More what?

You don’t even know.

Your mother exhales slowly, folding her hands in front of her.

“You’ve seen this multiple times,” she says, calm but firm. “You approved every detail.”

“I know.” You say a bit more sharply.

“Then what’s changed?” She asks.

You don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense out loud. Honestly, nothing has changed.

Except you.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

That seems to unsettle her more than anything else.

“You don’t know?” Her brows knit slightly.

There’s something in her tone now.

Concern.

Confusion.

A flicker of something else she hasn’t said yet.

“You’ve loved everything up until now,” she adds. “You were excited.”

Were you?

You search your own memory and come up with nothing solid.

Just… agreement.

Just… going along with it.

“I said yes because everyone expected me to,” you reply quietly.

“Are you getting cold feet?” Her expression tightens.

Silence stretches between you. The planner shifts awkwardly, pretending to review something on her tablet. Your mother looks at you like she is trying to figure out who you are.

“Is this about the accident?” She asks finally.

“No.” You lie.

“We are not making last-minute changes based on uncertainty,” she says gently, but decisively. “If you have a specific idea, we can revisit it. Otherwise, everything stays as planned.”

There’s no room to argue in her tone.

It’s not harsh.

It’s final.

You nod slowly.

“Shall we continue?” The planner asks carefully.

“Yes.” Your mother nods.

They move forward and you follow. However, this time when you look at the aisle. It doesn’t feel like something you’re walking toward. The walk through the venue feels like a slow-motion funeral for your own personality. As the planner discusses the placement of the hand-calligraphed place cards, your mother’s phone pings with a work email, and she steps away, her heels clicking as she goes.

​You’re standing by a window, staring at a "Champagne Mist" floral arrangement that looks like it’s made of expensive tissue paper, when your phone vibrates in your palm. You glance down at your phone, still hovering by the window. The screen lights up.

Operation: Find Her Brain Cells

Jungkook: It’s my turn to take you out. Wear comfortable clothing.

You: Where?

Jungkook: Can’t tell. It's a secret.

Yura: Indoor rock climbing.

You: You’re kidding… I’ve never done that.

Jungkook: You have. You just don’t remember.

You: I think I would remember doing something stupid

Jin: Nope, trust us. You’ve done it before.

Hobi: Yeah! There's tons of stupid things that you did that you don't remember.

Namjoon: You were way better than you give yourself credit for.

Jimin: Don’t freak out. You’ll be fine.

Taehyung: We’ll cheer you on the whole way.

You stare at the messages for a long moment. You can feel the thrill and something else stirring in your chest.

Something alive.

A tiny pulse of anticipation you haven’t felt in a long time.

And, reluctantly, you find yourself smiling.

The venue is still clinging to your brain like a fog when you pull into the parking lot of The Summit. It’s a repurposed industrial warehouse one town over, the kind of place with corrugated metal siding and a bass-heavy beat thumping through the walls that you can feel even out in the parking lot.

You kill the engine, but your hands stay gripped on the steering wheel. You look down at your feet. Your old tennis shoes look completely out of place against the pristine floor mats of the car Corbyn insists you keep spotless.

You're dressed like you’re ready to run away from your problems.

You look out your window and the driver side door of a sleek, charcoal-grey sports car parked two spots over swings open. A figure hops out, adjusting a black beanie and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s made of literal springs.

Jungkook.

He doesn't just walk toward your car. He moves with a restless, athletic energy that makes the quiet parking lot feel suddenly electric. He’s wearing an oversized black hoodie and joggers, a chalk bag already clipped to his waist.

He taps on your window, a massive, mischievous grin splitting his face.

“Nice car you have there,” you say, getting out of your car and staring at the less than discreet car.

"I borrowed it from Jin," Jungkook corrects, his eyes sparkling as he scans your outfit. He nods approvingly. "And he doesn't know yet, so let’s keep it between us. Are you ready to defy gravity?"

"Jungkook, I can’t even climb a ladder without getting dizzy," you admit, gesturing toward the towering walls visible through the warehouse's glass front. “I'm going to fall.”

He stops, his expression softening. He reaches out, not to grab your hand, but to give your shoulder a firm squeeze.

"You don't need to remember the technique," he says, his voice dropping to a nice reassuring tone. "Your muscles haven't forgotten. Besides, I'm the one holding the rope. I’m not letting you fall. Not today, not ever."

"The others said I crushed it last time," you say as you walk toward the entrance. "Was I actually good, or are they just being supportive?"

Jungkook snickers, pulling the heavy metal door open for you. The smell of chalk dust and rubber hits you instantly. It's a dry, gritty scent that makes something in the back of your mind itch.

"Supportive? Please," Jungkook laughs. "The last time we were here, you bet Taehyung twenty bucks you could finish a V4 route before he could finish his smoothie. You won. He cried. It was a masterpiece."

You step inside, and the scale of the place hits you. The walls are forty feet high, a kaleidoscope of neon-colors. Jagged pieces of pinks, greens, and oranges stuck to the plywood. Jungkook leads you to the rental counter, already talking to the staff like he owns the place.

"Two harnesses. She needs aggressive shoes in a 5," Jungkook tells the staff.

The girl behind the counter nods, sliding a pair of tight, curved climbing shoes across the wood. You slide your hand over the rubber. It’s tacky and cold.

“I'm not a five,” you whisper to him.

“I know,” he laughs lightly and helps you into your harness. “You need them smaller.”

As you sit on the wooden bench to pull them on, Jungkook kneels on the floor in front of you. He doesn't wait for permission. He just starts checking the buckles on your harness, his fingers moving with a practiced efficiency.

"Double-back the waist loop," he mutters, more to himself than you. "Safety first, or Yoongi really will kill me."

“What?” You question.

"Nothing, you're shaking." He notes softly as he looks up. “I promise you, it's going to be fine. We've done this before.”

"It's high," you whisper, looking up at the ceiling.

"Don't look at the ceiling," Jungkook says, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you to your feet. "Just look at the next hold. One move at a time. I’ve got the rest."

He leads you over to a wall covered in bright blue grips. He clips his belay device in, the metallic clack of the carabiner echoing in the gym.

"Ready?" He asks, his hand on the rope, his eyes locked on yours.

For a second, the image of the wedding aisle flashes in your mind. It was straight, flat, and suffocating. Then you look at the jagged, vertical path in front of you.

"Ready," you breathe as you reach out, your fingers curling around a cold, blue plastic hold.

"Then climb," he grins. "Show me those brain cells are still in there somewhere."

The first few feet are clumsy. Your toes feel pinched in the tight rubber shoes, and your center of gravity feels like it’s swaying on a pendulum. Every time you shift your weight, the harness tugs at your hips, a constant, nagging reminder of the growing distance between you and the padded floor.

"Trust your legs," Jungkook’s voice calls out from below. It’s calm, lacking the frantic energy he had in the parking lot. "Your arms are for balance, your legs are for the heavy lifting. Stand up on that left foot."

You look down at a small, jagged blue ledge. It looks impossible to stand on.

"I can't," you huff, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "There’s nothing to grab."

"There’s a piece to your right. Reach. Don't think, just reach." Jungkook instructs.

You stretch your right arm, fingers searching blindly until they hook into a deep, hollowed-out hold. It’s solid. Cold. Gritty with leftover chalk. You pull yourself up, and suddenly, your left foot finds the ledge.

You’re ten feet up.

"See?" Jungkook shouts, his neck craned back. "Natural. You’re doing the exact same sequence you did years ago. Muscle memory is a real thing, even if your brain is being stubborn."

You don't answer. You can't. Your entire world has shrunk to the plywood directly in front of your face. The smell of the gym. That dry, chalky air that fills your lungs, and for the first time in weeks, the boring wedding plans are nowhere to be found.

You reach for a triangle-shaped piece, your fingers curling around the edge. Your forearms are starting to scream, a dull, burning ache that feels… kind of good. You haven't been allowed any physical activity other than walking or the occasional jog by your parents since the accident.

They deemed it too dangerous.

This was kind of exhilarating.

"Five more moves to the top," Jungkook calls out. "You’ve got a big reach coming up. Trust the rope. I’ve got tension on you."

You look up. The final hold is a massive, bright blue orb near the ceiling. It looks miles away. Your heart is thumping against your ribs, a frantic, rhythmic drumming.

You shift your weight, your right foot slipping slightly on a smear of rubber.

"Jungkook!" You gasp, your fingers cramping.

"I’m here!" he snaps back, his voice instant and sharp. "I’m right here. I’m not letting go. Take a breath. Shake out your left hand. You’re fine. I'm not letting you fall."

You lean back into the harness, feeling the rope go taut. He really does have you. You’re dangling ten feet from the ceiling, suspended by a thin nylon cord and a guy who stole a sports car to be here with you. You take a jagged breath, shaking your hand until the blood flows back into your fingertips.

"Okay," you whisper to the wall. "Okay."

You lunge.

It isn't graceful. It’s a desperate, scrambling reach, your sneakers squeaking against the wood as you propel yourself upward. Your fingers slap against the top colorful piece, curling over the rounded edge.

You did it.

You hang there for a second, forehead pressed against the cool plywood, gasping for air. The adrenaline is rushing through you making your heart beat wildly.

"WHOO!" Jungkook yells, the sound echoing off the high metal rafters. "TOP OUT! I told you! Taehyung owes me twenty bucks now!"

"You bet on me?" You yell back, a wild, breathless laugh bubbling up in your throat.

"Always!" He laughs.

He begins to lower you, the descent smooth and controlled. As your feet touch the padded floor, your legs feel like jelly. You stumble back, and Jungkook is right there, catching you by the elbows to steady you.

He’s grinning, his eyes bright with a pride that feels entirely too personal.

"How was it?" He asks, his hands still firm on your arms.

"Terrifying," you breathe, looking up at the blue path you just conquered. "And... amazing."

"Good," he says, as he starts to unclip your carabiner. "Because I don't think the newer version of you would ever have tried that. I like this version better. She’s scrappier. Hungry? I know a place that serves the best tacos in the city." He tosses the rope aside and looks at you, his head tilted.

“Starving,” you smile.

The taco place is loud in a way that feels authentic.

Not curated.

Not softened.

Not “perfect.”

Just… real.

Grease pops from somewhere behind the counter, music spills out of an old speaker with too much bass, and the air smells like grilled meat, lime, and something fried that definitely isn’t good for you.

Your mom wouldn't like you eating here. She would probably be afraid you wouldn't fit into your wedding dress. You sit across from Jungkook at a small metal table that wobbles every time someone brushes past it. There’s no centerpiece. No reserved seating. No delicate color palette.

Just two trays of tacos wrapped in paper and a pile of napkins already losing the fight.

You take a bite.

It’s messy. Sauce drips onto your fingers immediately.

And you laugh.

Actually laugh.

Jungkook watches you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Told you,” he says, leaning back in his chair, completely at home here. “Life-changing.”

“This is already better than the five-course tasting menu my mother booked for the rehearsal dinner.” You nod, still chewing. “I don't even want to try the duck foam stuff.”

“That’s because this has flavor,” he shoots back. “And personality.”

Your smile lingers, but something in that word sticks.

Personality.

You glance down at your hands, at the smear of sauce across your fingers.

Not polished.

Not controlled.

Yours.

Jungkook nudges a napkin toward you, then suddenly perks up.

“Oh, wait.” He drags his bag onto the table, unzipping it with quiet excitement. “I grabbed some stuff. Figured… you might want it. This was actually stuff I grabbed when …. you know. This isn't stuff Yura grabbed.”

Your stomach tightens, something like anticipation swells inside of you.

He reaches in and pulls out a thick, slightly chaotic stack of concert tickets, bound together with a loose rubber band.

They hit the table with a soft slap, fanning out just enough to show different colors, different venues, different nights.

Your fingers hover before picking them up. You remove the rubber band and start flipping through slowly.

“This is… a lot,” you murmur.

“You kept everything,” Jungkook says.

“All of them?” You question.

“Every single one.” He confirms.

Some are creased. Some have notes scribbled on the back. One has a tiny doodle in the corner.

“A lot of these are festivals,” you say and he nods.

“Yeah,” he laughs, reaching into the bag again. “And we always lost someone. Okay, next.”

He sets a wooden box down on the table in front of you. It was worn and smudged. You flip the two metal clasps and open the top, smiling.

“Your lifeline,” he says.

Pencils. Charcoal. Blending tools that have been softened from use. Your fingers brush over them.

“I used this a lot,” you murmur.

“You used it everywhere. Once you drew on my arm while I was driving.” Jungkook snorts.

“I did what?” You blink up at him.

“I survived,” he shrugs. “Barely.”

Your lips twitch as he reaches in one last time. In his hands is black material. A t-shirt of some sort that had painted lettering on it.

It’s homemade.

Slightly crooked.

The painted lettering across the front in bold, uneven strokes. Jungkook doesn’t hand it over right away. He just holds it up between you.

“Recognize it?” He asks and you tilt your head.

“Did I make …. make that?” You question, as you scrunch your face.

“We made it.” Jungkook shakes his head slightly.

“Why did we make it?” You laugh.

“You came up with the idea, dragged me into it, and then bossed me around for three hours while we painted them on the floor of your dorm while your roommate bitched at us.” He grins.

A faint, almost-there image flickers…..

Paint-stained fingers.

Laughter.

Your grip tightens slightly on the art supplies as it slips away from you.

“We made them for everyone,” he continues. “You said if the guys were going to perform, they needed real support. So we showed up with shirts like we were their official fan club.”

Your eyes drop to word painted across the front.

UGH!

You reach across the table and take the shirt from his hands and flip it over, scrunching your face even more.

Suga

RM

J-Hope

“What's a Suga, RM and J-Hope?” You ask. “And why is there so much glitter on RM?”

Jungkook laughs.

“That's Yoongi, Joon and Hobi,” he explains. “Joon always complained about the glitter so you made sure his name was the one with glitter in it.”

You stare at the shirt for another second and at the uneven paint. The ridiculous glitter, the loud, unapologetic chaos of it…. it was ugly.

Something inside you… hurts.

“This is… horrible,” you tell him.

“Take it back.” Jungkook gasps dramatically.

“It’s ugly,” you continue, already tugging it over your head. “It’s unhinged. The lettering on UGH! is crooked.”

“You painted that part,” he cuts in, grinning.

“And the glitter is a crime,” you finish, smoothing it down over yourself anyway.

It’s soft. It's worn in a way that feels lived-in. Not like the untouched, perfectly steamed dresses hanging in your closet. This shirt has been worn a lot.

Jungkook goes very still for a second. Not in a weird way. Just… taking it in. Then his grin snaps back, twice as wide.

“Oh, this is happening,” he says, already grabbing his phone. “Stand up.”

“No,” you laugh immediately, clutching a taco in one hand. “Absolutely not. I look insane.”

“You look …. right in it,” he counters, standing and backing up a few steps. “C’mon, give me something. Channel your inner chaotic fan girl.”

“I don’t have one of those,” you argue.

“You absolutely do. I’ve seen her.” He raises an eyebrow. “You were the one screaming the loudest for them.”

That tiny flicker again… paint-stained fingers, music too loud, someone shouting your name…..

It vanishes before you can grab it.

“Fine,” you sigh.

You stand anyway. The table wobbles as you push back, and Jungkook adjusts his stance, angling the camera.

“Okay,” he says, squinting at the screen. “Tilt your head a little…..yeah, like that. Perfect. Now…”

You lift the taco like a prop.

“Even better.” He snorts.

You don’t pose. You just stand there in your messy shirt. Grease-stained fingers. Hair slightly out of place from the climb. Wishing he would hurry up.

Jungkook taps the screen before he checks it and immediately bursts out laughing.

“Oh, they’re going to lose their minds.” He laughs.

“Don’t you dare,” you say.

Too late. His thumbs are already moving.

“What did you do?” You drop back into your chair, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says, entirely unconvincing. “Just… sharing important content.”

“Is this what Jin feels like,” you groan.

Your phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

Then …. nonstop.

You stare at it for a second before flipping it over.

Operation: Find Her Brain Cells

Jungkook: [photo attached]

Jungkook: Guess who I found

Hobi: NO WAY

Hobi: NOOOOO WAY

Jimin: ??????

Jimin: IS THAT…

Yura: Our President is back!

Jin: Where is my car?

Taehyung: YOU GAVE HER THE SHIRT

Namjoon: That glitter is alive and well.

“They’re insane.” You choke on a laugh.

Jungkook leans forward, elbows on the table, watching your reaction like it’s the best part.

Hobi: Yoongi IS BLUSHING

Jimin: His ears are red

Taehyung: LOOK AT HIM HE WON’T EVEN TYPE

Jin: Jungkook bring me my car back

You glance up and Jungkook is grinning.

“Ignore Jin,” he tells you. “He's fine.”

Your eyes drop back to the phone. There’s something warm spreading through your chest.

Not confusion, but maybe....connection. Messy, loud, ridiculous connection.

You type before you can overthink it.

You: I don’t even know what this shirt means.

You: but I look better in it than all of you

Jimin: SHE’S BACK

Hobi: SHE’S BACK 😭

Yura: THAT'S MY GIRL!

Yoongi: you always did

You freeze for half a second and Jungkook catches it.

“What?” he asks.

You shake your head quickly, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now. It is softer than before.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just… I think I like this version of me too.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. For the first time today he goes quiet.

Not distracted. Not playful.

It’s subtle at first. The way his grin lingers a second too long before fading. The way his fingers stop tapping against the table. The way his eyes drop. It's not to his phone, not to the food, but somewhere in between, like he’s choosing his next move carefully.

“Hey,” you say lightly, nudging his foot under the table. “You okay?”

He blinks, like you’ve pulled him back.

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

However, he’s not bouncing anymore. Not buzzing.

Just… thinking.

He glances toward the door, then back at you.

“Wanna walk?” He asks.

It’s casual. Too casual like there’s something underneath it. You hesitate for half a second before you nod.

“Yeah. Okay.” You agree.

The noise of the taco place fades behind you as the door swings shut, leaving just the sound of distant traffic and the occasional laugh spilling out when someone goes in or out.

You walk side by side at first. Neither one of you speaks at first. Your sneakers scuff lightly against the pavement. Jungkook shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket, shoulders slightly hunched. You glance at him.

He’s still thinking.

“You got quiet,” you say finally.

“Yeah,” he admits as he lets out a long breath. “I wasn’t always like this with you.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking at him confused and he scratches the back of his neck, eyes fixed ahead.

“Nervous around you,” he admits. “Like I don't know what to say. I'm just …. afraid I'm going to say the wrong thing. I don't want to upset you … or Yura.”

You look down at the ground beneath your feet as the two of you walk.

“She changed a lot after the accident,” he says. “She carries a lot of guilt even though it wasn't her fault. She always thinks about things that could have been different that night. Things that would have kept you here.”

You bite your lip and keep listening.

“Then when we got married…. Jin told me she cried all morning.” He whispers.

“Why?” You ask softly.

“You should have been by her side,” he tells you and you take a deep breath. “She always said as much as she loved our wedding. It just felt … incomplete.”

“Jungkook?” You question.

“Yeah?” He glances over.

You hesitate because this feels… worse than not remembering.

“If… if no one knew I lost my memory yet…” you start slowly, “then…” Your voice tightens slightly. “Did she think I just didn’t care?” You ask.

Jungkook stops walking immediately. You take another step before turning back.

His expression changes fast.

“No.” He answers, shaking his head.

It’s immediate.

Too fast to be a lie, but you don’t let it go.

“But none of you knew,” you press quietly. “You all just knew I was…gone. So from her perspective…”

“She didn’t think that,” he cuts in firm and certain.

“Jungkook…” You search his face.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now, but no less sure. “She didn’t think you ditched her.”

“Then what did she think?” You ask and he exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“She knew something was wrong,” he says. “I think we all knew deep down that something was wrong.”

“How?” Your brows knit slightly.

He gives a small, almost disbelieving huff.

“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “You wouldn’t have missed our wedding. Not for anything. You were so excited when we got engaged. You and Yura would spend hours looking at wedding dresses online. The two of you would gang up on me saying the colors I liked clashed.”

That…

That hits you hard.

Deep.

You can barely stomach your own wedding at the moment. However, you were overly excited for someone else's.

“She kept saying it didn’t make sense,” he continues. “That you wouldn’t just disappear and not try to reach out to her or Yoo...your friends. That something had to have happened,” he says.

“She trusted me that much?” You ask, quieter now.

“Yeah,” he says with a nod of his head. “She did… and she still does.”

You look away, your gaze dropping to the pavement. Relief comes first. It's sharp and immediate. However, right behind it. Guilt was lingering.

“I still wasn’t there,” you say.

“No,” he agrees. “But, it wasn't your fault.”

You nod faintly.

“She was hurt,” he adds gently. “I’m not going to pretend she wasn’t, but she wasn’t angry at you,” he continues. “She was worried. Confused. Trying to figure out what went wrong. She missed her best friend.”

A small breath leaves you.

“I wish I could remember her like that,” you murmur and a faint smile tugs at Jungkook’s mouth. “I wish I could remember having a friendship like that.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

“I think I was more scared she thought I chose not to be there,” you admit.

“Not a chance.” Jungkook shakes his head.

“You were the one person she was waiting for,” he says. “You know, she never trusted a lot of other women. She never really bonded with other girlfriends of the group when the guys dated. She never replaced you. She was holding your spot.”

Your eyes water at his words. These people who were strangers to you not too long ago never erased you.

You let out a slow breath.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Jungkook studies you for a second and nudges your shoulder lightly.

“You’re overthinking it,” he adds, a hint of his usual tone slipping back in. “If you had actually skipped our wedding on purpose, I would’ve hunted you down myself.”

“Good to know.” A small laugh escapes you.

“Yeah,” he nods. “You wouldn’t have survived me.”

“I'm sure I would have been scared.” You smile faintly.

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, the tension easing just a fraction.

“I don’t think I would’ve blamed you,” you say with a shrug.

Jungkook’s smile fades. Not completely, but enough that something more thoughtful settles in. He watches you for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something else, but he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says instead and you shift your weight slightly, arms folding loosely across yourself.

“I don't know if I can be that friend to her again,” you whisper. “How can I when I don't remember being her?”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, glancing away briefly before looking back.

“You don't have to be her,” he says. “We get excited when we see glimpses. We know she's in there, but … we’re just happy our friend is back.”

“I think I would have liked her,” you murmur. “The old me.”

Jungkook blinks, then his expression softens almost instantly.

“You do like her,” he says. “You are her.”

“Feels like I’m borrowing her life.” You admit and so let a long breath leave you.

“Temporary,” he replies. “You’ll catch up.”

“Confident.” You glance at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips.

“Always,” he grins, nudging your shoulder lightly.

You both start walking again, slower now. After a few steps, Jungkook glances over.

“Hey.” He speaks.

“Yeah?” You look at him and he hesitates just a second.

Then shrugs lightly, like he’s brushing it off before it becomes something bigger.

“Just…” he starts, then stops himself. You raise an eyebrow. He shakes his head, smiling instead. “Nothing,” he says. “You just seem more… like yourself today.”

You look down at your shoes, scuffed and dusted from the climb.

“I felt different today,” you admit.

“Good,” he says simply.

And that’s it.

No pushing.

No questions you’re not ready to answer.

Just… letting you admit and leaving you alone.

You walk a little further in comfortable silence before he suddenly bumps your shoulder again, lighter this time.

“Also,” he adds, his grin creeping back. “You still owe me for making me paint those shirts.”

“Are you the one who made the Suga letters look like they’re melting?” You scoff.

“That was intentional.” He argues.

“It looks haunted,” you say.

“It’s art. You should be the one that appreciates it,” he tells you.

You laugh, easy and unguarded. It was starting to feel normal with them. You were getting used to it.

And you didn't want to lose it.

The backyard is bathed in orange, yellow and pink as the sun starts to drop below the horizon. You sit on the edge of the deck, knees pulled close, arms resting over them, staring at the sky. The colors streak and smear, melting together in a way that feels… familiar. Almost like something you’ve seen before….but maybe only in a dream.

A soft breeze rustles through the trees. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it linger on your face.

“Hey,” a voice calls from the sliding door.

You open your eyes. Corbyn steps onto the deck, sleeves rolled up, phone in hand.

“What are you doing out here?” He questions.

“Watching the sunset,” you reply simply and he frowns slightly, taking in the soft glow painting the backyard.

“By yourself?” He asks.

“Want to watch with me?” You ask, tilting your head toward the horizon.

Corbyn glances toward the sky, then shakes his head.

“I’ve got work to finish in my office.” His tone is careful, measured, almost… wary and you hesitate, then shrug, letting your gaze drift back to the sky. “Okay, I just… wanted to watch it.” You focus on the colors.

“You’ve been acting differently lately.” He studies you for a moment, then crosses his arms.

“I’m just… paying attention,” you say softly, refusing to meet his eyes. “The sunset, I mean. I don’t know. I like it.”

Corbyn’s brow furrows, his gaze flicking to the horizon and back to you. “Your mother told me… about the wedding walkthrough. About you wanting to change something.” He informs you.

“I don’t know… I just … want to watch the sunset right now. Can't the wedding talk wait?” You shrug lightly, letting your arms rest on your knees.

Corbyn doesn't say anything for a moment. He doesn't sit. He remains standing, a literal shadow cast over the deck, looking at the sunset not as a moment of beauty, but as a ticking clock on his schedule.

​“The sunset is the same as it was yesterday,” he says, “And it’ll be the same tomorrow. However, what we’re planning. It has moving parts. When things shift this late… it affects more than just us.” ​He takes a step closer. “Your mother is worried you’re having some kind of episode. She thinks the stress of the wedding is triggering something from the accident. She thinks it might be best if we take you to a doctor.”

​You finally look at him. Really look at him. His hair is perfect. His shirt is a crisp white. He looks like a page from the same catalog as the wedding venue. Coordinated, high-end, and entirely…flat.

​“It’s not an episode, Corbyn. I don't need a doctor,” you say, your voice steadier than you expected. “I just realized I’ve spent the entire wedding process nodding. I’m tired of nodding.”

“We agreed on everything months ago. The nodding happened because we were in alignment." ​Corbyn exhales.

“I get that you value alignment,” you say slowly, choosing each word. “I do. I really do. But… alignment isn’t the same as living.”

“Living?” His voice carries that clinical edge, the kind that weighs every syllable before releasing it. “We’ve built a life that’s nice and stable. You’re suggesting… what? That we dismantle months of planning that you and your mother did because you want… spontaneity?”

“Not dismantle. Maybe make room for moments that aren’t dictated by a schedule or a color palette. Moments that are ours, not just approved by a wedding coordinator,” you tell him, making him stiffen.

“And what happens when one of these… moments… goes wrong?” He asks.

“Then we deal with it. Together. That’s life. Not a timeline. Not a walkthrough. Life doesn’t come in perfect preplanned moments, Corbyn. It comes in laughs, mistakes, and chaos. Sometimes… it’s messy.” You explain.

The sun dips lower behind the horizon, painting the sky in darker streaks of orange, yellow and pink. His eyes flick to it briefly before he looks around the backyard like he's trying to comprehend what you are telling him.

“I’m not asking to undo everything. I’m asking for something to feel like me. Even in small ways. Before it’s all done and perfect and… flat." You explain and Corbyn exhales.

“I’m not against that,” he says. “I just don’t know if this is where it fits. Not this close to something we’ve already committed to.”

You open your mouth, searching for the right words, but he continues, calm, unshakable.

“We’ve signed contracts.” He explains. “Everything is pretty much paid for. You can't just make last minute changes.”

You want to shake your head at him. His certainty is like a wall. You can push against it, but it won’t move.

“So… there’s no room for me?” You ask and he shakes his head gently. “There’s room for you. Always, but weddings aren’t spontaneous weekends. This moment… this day… it’s not yours to experiment with. There’s a time for unplanned joy. However, it's not when we are this close. You should have said something months ago,” he says.

The truth settles in your chest like a weight. You can feel the pull of your own desires, your need for something raw, but it hits against his own views. You can’t win. Not today. Not here. Corbyn exhales one last time.

“We’ll pick this back up later,” he says.

Without waiting for a reply, he turns and walks toward the house. You watch him go until the door closes. Turning back, the sun sinks even lower. A sudden breeze slips past, lifting strands of your hair and grazing your shoulder.

The touch is brief, but it lingers, like a whisper across your skin. A tingle blooms there, faint yet unmistakable. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, remembering a warmth you don’t recognize… except in your dream.

The memory of the dream comes flooding back. The brush of lips, the careful, teasing press of someone you couldn't see. Your shoulder tingles again, and the breeze drags a shiver down your spine. You close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could go back to that dream.

When you open them, the sunset stretches on, infinite and unreachable, yet somehow… alive.

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