sick n tired.

From the outside, it’s an old fashioned, grey building with a large door and ugly, yellow patterns around it. An abominable idea by whichever architect affirmed the original draft.

The street is rather quiet, accordingly, surrounded by the two buildings you’re standing between; above the doctor’s office, there are apartments. Open windows let a scented breeze into the open, spreading in all directions — towards you, too.

It must be some garlicky recipe, you assume. You like garlic. He liked garlic even more, didn’t he?

You shake your head, well aware that you’re only procrastinating; that at some point, you’ll need to enter, so that the hour-long trip and all the mental preparation don’t end up redundant.

You look around. How legit is this really? Perhaps not at all. Then again, you’ve seen it work on somebody before — either that, or they put on an act you didn’t know they were capable of.

Your eyes wander to the bag you’re holding, then back to the door. And eventually, you move forwards, reaching for the handle, and enter an even quieter hallway. It’s shabbier than the outside, like some place that hasn’t been renovated since the 80s.

If this was a regular doctor’s office, you reckon their patients would bolt, seeking help elsewhere. But considering that this is the only erasure company to exist in this country, you have no other choice.

Yet, once you actually ring the bell to the medical practice and are permitted inside, you realise that one should truly never judge a book by its cover — at least the one that jumps into the eyes at first.

Because the waiting room really isn’t that bad. Still a bit outdated, sure, but nowhere you couldn’t stay for a while. And the girl behind the counter smiles at you as soon as she detects you, making up for the rest of the building that she’s forced to see every day.

Or maybe you’re just perceiving it all worse, judging it because you’re not in a good mood. No, you know you aren’t. And the people waiting around don’t help either.

You glimpse around. Some of them are staring into a near nothing, watching particles hover in the air; they’re holding onto plushies or toys, shirts or boxes filled with belongings. You dare not imagine who they might have lost to bring all that with them…

You have half a mind to turn around again, to count your blessings and recall that some people are surviving grief that you can barely fathom. That yours won’t compare to theirs.

But backing away won’t stop the hurt. If you coward your way out of this, you’ll only return to a dead silent apartment, broken by nothing but your sobs. Not laughter, not jests, not his voice.

And you can’t soak the pillow again.

No. You gulp, close in to the counter, watching the girl lay down her pen. She leans in and welcomes you with a gentle, empathetic, “Welcome to Better Tomorrow. How can I help?”

She knows exactly how. There is only one good intention for anybody to come in here, but you reckon she needs a proper reason or an analysis of your situation to actually register you in their system.

You tell her, “I uh— I want to use your selective memory erasure services. I heard about them from a… a friend.” It’s a lie; but you can’t really get into how you stumbled upon this place. You feel that you sound ridiculous as is. “I brought a few things.”

Her kind eyes dart to the bag around your shoulder, and you remove a strap from it, cramming through the contents that you can’t use yet anyway. You continue, “This should all do. I read that core memories are key.”

“Indeed! You did your research,” she responds, rolling back with her chair, a hand under her desk. She fishes a paper out of some compartment and adds, “If you could just fill out this form, please, so the doctors can get an overview of your situation.”

You thought so.

Her hands fold together after she has slided the paper towards you, and if possible at all, her eyes pour further pity onto you. You realise that it might be a job requirement: Kindness and care, aiding an upset person to feel encouraged rather than only more upset.

You heard of a couple complaints about Better Tomorrow that caused quite a ruckus and nearly had the company close a few years back. When you were still actively and happily wading through life and experiences, you learned about it for the first time, but…

It wasn’t relevant at all back then. You didn’t think it’d ever become important to you in any way, either.

She — her name tag reads Inna — then says, “So basically — you will hear about this in further detail from the doctor — but, basically, the erasure happens at your home or any private place that you can rely on to not cause absolute confusion. You need to be unsuspicious once you’re done.”

You nod along, a knot in your throat; you’re hearing her clear as day, but you don’t think you‘ll believe it until you see it. This sounds like wishful thinking for now. But you have seen it affect others before.

Maybe you’re also here to convince yourself that they are indeed lying, that even in advanced times like these, there cannot be a device that can alter your brain at such a level. Like… come on—

Clinically, artificially triggered amnesia? No, not even that. Memories still exist underneath a fog when it comes to amnesia; these people here delete them as if they never existed.

This company will mean the ruin for every, “I will never forget about you,” line ever used in movies and books and poetry.

“And how do I—” you start, just at the moment she taps the paper on your side of the counter again; still staring at you in case you utter a question she didn’t expect. But when you skim the explanation and the terms on the paper, you only voice, “Ah.”

“Yes. This form explains most of it,” Inna says, repeating, “and Dr. Choi will run you through it, too. But in case you‘re worried, the procedure is fully safe and reversible within twenty-four hours.”

You wonder how something can be reversible if you can’t remember what you need reversed.

Then, you see it on the paper, again. She says it, too, “Because some people experience some lags or because they find something that triggers a core memory. It takes the brain a day or so to adjust, like it is with waiting for medicine to kick in. After that, it’s all done.”

“Thank you,” is all you manage. The bag seems heavy all of a sudden, the straps digging into your shoulder. “May I…”

You reach for a pen attached to a chain, shackled to the table. The Inna girl nods, gesturing towards a different writing instrument. “Of course. Take this one if you want — it’s not attached to the table. Take a seat and take your time. If you have any questions, let me know.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

You turn around, look for an empty seat. There are plenty; of course, the place isn’t filled. You don’t think a lot of people decide on having part of their memory changed on a random Tuesday morning.

You sit down in a corner with a sigh, brushing back your hair, and start reading through the paper. It doesn’t include too many conditions or strict rules. Most of it is straightforward. Describes the procedure in general; and while you’re certain you’ll hear about it a couple more times, you memorise the words carefully.

Apparently, Better Tomorrow relies on working with synapses and the amygdala. Memories, being patterns of neural connections, are dissolved as one works through them one by one; ultimately, this leads to disruption of the links around specific memory traces.

The activity in the amygdala is suppressed in the process in order to assure smooth success and only selective memory erasure. Which, according to this complicated little form, is particularly important to not bring remaining, unrelated memories into disorder.

Some of them are only altered, some entirely removed. The procedure is safe throughout and does not affect any other memory gathered throughout life.

Etcetera, etcetera. A lot of mind-boggling stuff that requires several rereads. Not that the scientific part is too important to you; you just need to trust that all this works.

At the end, you glance at another disclaimer; one that, admittedly, scares you the most.

“Please understand, however, that certain memories are rooted deep in the brain and might not be erased as efficiently without disturbing the overall life experiences. In such cases, your doctor may reject your case for your benefit and suggest methods and solutions unrelated to Better Tomorrow.”

Ah. What a great way to hint at therapy. You assume that some traumas aren’t easy to remove without damaging one’s entire life.

This is mostly the complex part, the theoretical part. The rest only mentions how to behave the day before, to eat and drink enough but not heavily, to get sufficient sleep and to settle on a proper and relaxed location of your choosing for the operation.

Finally, it asks you to fill out some data. Your name, your reason, the objects you’ll bring and need, the subject slash object of erasure — which you leave blank for a second because you know that once it’s written, you might feel panic emerge.

And, last but not least, a tiny box demanding to be ticked. Terms and conditions; to be aware that in the case of issues — since it’s still a fairly new and at times experimental thing — you’ll be liable for it because you very much knew of the risks that come with memory removal.

It can’t get any worse, though. So you draw a cross into the box. Sign and bring the paper back to Inna. 

She reads through the stuff you filled out, making sure you didn’t miss anything — but of course you did. “Subject or object of erasure is still blank.”

She points at it, and you sigh.

Gripping the pen again, you numb yourself, putting down two words in the box before you turn the paper again. She nods, thanking you, and says, “Memory erasure and home visits take time, so I will submit the form and the doctor will give you a call as soon as possible.”

You nod, too, thoughts and heart racing. There’s a monumental question mark in your mind; unsure whether you should let your chest hurt like this until the doctor calls — or maybe you should screw this all, go far away and learn to deal with the pain.

But that’s it, you guess. When Inna claims the form and mutters something about how she won’t need the objects in your bag just yet — since you put them down on the paper —, you catch a last glimpse of your writing.

It disappears in the compartment again, just like the name you wrote on it; and before it does, you see it one last time.

Subject/object of erasure: Jeon Jungkook.

You have learned that there are limited ways of dealing with pain.

Everybody says that aches like these fade with time and that the world and the passing of years heal you, yada yada yada. But you haven’t experienced any of the relief yet. This still feels like death; even after months of isolation and methods of coping.

Looking at the stuff you took out from your bag feels like being stabbed by a poisonous syringe over and over again. You have transferred most of it to a box, mixing it with things you don’t need. As the doctor and her assistant — Kim Byul, she introduced — wait wait outside, you sort through your belongings.

All that you’ll need on the right side, all that is irrelevant to the left. Your hands work faster than your brain; pictures, clothes, a bracelet to the right. Recent bills on the left. Small things like a butterfly necklace or bluetooth headphones to the side, so you don’t lose them.

And finally, you’re all done. This should do. You’ll tidy up once it’s all done. To your future self, it’ll just be your random mess, and you’ll deal with it without too many questions, you’re sure — you clean up regularly anyway.

When you return to the living room, Dr. Choi is munching on a cookie that you served with a floral printed cup of tea, and when she hears and sees you return, she brushes the crumbles off her hands. Smiles. 

“Ready?” she wonders, standing; Byul follows her to the machine when you hum.

“As ready as I can be,” you say, “it just sounds a bit scary.”

“It might feel like it, too, at times. It’s not always easy; most of the time it hurts.” She clicks through some tabs that you don’t understand. So you stop peeking over her shoulder and sit down on the dark blue polyester sofa instead. “But once you manage your way through, you’ll feel lighter.”

You don’t answer. You let her work. She mumbles things to Byul, fumbling with some wires and takes out a funny-looking hat, similar to the one you once saw when you had an EEG done at the neurologist’s.

Then, she turns to you, stares at the box in your hands. She takes a seat next to you calmly, lifting her trousers to her ankles before she crosses her legs. Then, she starts explaining — your body reacts. It’s time soon.

“So, as you know, what we do here isn’t just forgetting,” she says, “it’s unbinding. We use targeted neuro-disruption to remove the synaptic links around a specific memory, especially its emotional anchors.”

“I read about that in the form, too. So, if I understood correctly, it’s like deleting a file?”

Dr. Choi snickers a bit.

“Hmm, pretty much. Like removing it from your mind’s search engine. The memory sometimes exists in fragments, somewhere so extremely deep you can’t reach. This is very rare, though. But even if it does happen, it won’t hurt, won’t surface and won’t feel real.”

She tilts her head, recalls, “Some clients who served as test objects in the early days and who still had some fragments left, they… reported a sense of distance after the first memory was erased. Like remembering a story they were told, not something they lived.”

It’s almost doubtful.

Could he ever just become a story you were told? Will you ever feel like you didn’t live and breathe every moment, indulged in every touch, savoured the tingling skin when his fingertips moved along your arm?

If you were alone, you might whimper in agony.

Rare, though. She said that was rare. You hold onto that hope, that promise; trust in the fact that everything will most likely be gone in a few hours’ time.

Still, you say, “This sounds… bittersweet.”

“Sometimes it is. But it doesn’t torment you anymore. In such cases, it’s like remembering an embarrassing or regretful moment for a bit that’s barely yours, like something you’ve seen in a movie, and then moving on soon after. But don’t worry about that. Worst case scenario.”

You get glassy eyed, zoning out, only realising now that you haven’t been looking at her. That you’re, just like the people in the waiting room, watching the dust float by. But it’s not numbness, rather…

“I’m terrified,” you tell her.

You feel a hand press down on yours. There must be special training in how to deliver empathy, because these professionals do it so well. Not even people close to you are capable of such gentle gazes.

“We will be here throughout,” Dr. Choi promises, “please tell us if you feel any physical discomfort or need a break. Once a memory is erased, it’s truly gone, and that thought is not easy to digest.”

You gulp again before she adds, “Some people need multiple sessions, some are done after an hour. It really depends on what your brain decides on. We will do our best, but you’ll need to cooperate. Need to want this.”

They won’t force you, of course. She told you even when she came in that it’s important to think it through, to be absolutely certain. Better Tomorrow exists to make your life easier, not to wish evil on you.

But you’ve done all the thinking. Weeks and weeks of it. You might regret it if you send her home again.

So you nod, grabbing the first oddly shaped object from the box for comfort; you saw Byul scanning them as you talked.

And then, you tell her, “I will cooperate. I promise.”

Reaching for the first memory doesn’t feel like floating through a dystopian system or rushing through a tunnel of neurons.

You thought it’d resemble a costly science fiction scene that captures every electric activity, every picture of every nerve. Rather, it resembles waking up from a dream — or into a dream. Like opening your eyes to a room you already know.

You perceive a sense of an echo, a bit like a movie filter indeed, rosy and slightly blurred face all over — as though each inch is drenched in a dim, invisible light. The way you’d imagine time travelling, or, a memory dive.

It’s somewhat of a bird’s perspective, but also not. You don’t exactly have a body to look down at; you’re not a second presence standing beside the one in the memory. In truth, it is exactly like a dream, where you can somehow see yourself, but at the same time, are yourself.

You guess that it’d be easier if you were a beetle, sticking to some wall and letting it all play out instead of actually feeling it all. But you’re not a beetle.

You’re you, living through what was, as if it is happening right now, happening again. This feels real.

Yet you can’t seem to do much except watch… see the memory unfold, and at some point soon, vanish.

It was — is? — a college seminar room. You’re in the third row, scribbling, an arm on the table and the head subtly angled. You look innocent, unbothered, calm. Somewhere here, you know that you’ll find him as well, but the room is much bigger than usual seminar rooms and the students are abundant.

Of course, you can also only see what you remember. You don’t recall where he sat; only the faces that your unconscious mind grasped onto that day. Very faint, very blurred, like dolls or as if censored.

Most of this place consists of mere pieces, really. You certainly wouldn’t know where he was or how he looked at you or anyone, for that matter. What he was doing when the professor called your name, unfairly so as he often did.

Your past self — no, you gaze up. This was that one class you couldn’t stand. The professor had a dirty habit of zeroing in on certain people while ignoring others. You were one of the former.

A second ago, you were minding your own business, bullet point notes filling your notebook. You were quiet, yes, but did he expect everyone to keep a hand raised at all times? Generally, you guess he wasn’t a particularly nice person.

Your own eyebrows lift as your name echoes, and you, while well aware of his question and the answer, unreasonably utter, “Sorry?”

The professor sighs. He puts a hand in the pocket of his dark blue trousers, legs crossed and the right palm on his table as he repeats, “I said: How would Marx interpret the rise of influencer culture?”

You repress a smirk. It’s one of the topics that your college tried to incorporate in your studies’ syllabus, to resonate with young students, modernise lectures. Quite honestly, no boring class could be saved with this method, really.

You start with a hesitant, “Ah, yes. Uhm.”

Your fingers are playing with your pen, tip of it in and out, and you hold the professor’s expectant stare. You know he’s creating his own assumptions, certain that you won’t deliver at all. He always glances over his glasses, condescending as his reputation, but then you lift your head and, as far as your brain can recall, say something in the lines of—

“Well, Marx would probably regard influencer culture as a new form of capitalism — where even people’s personalities and lifestyles become commodities. Influencers sell their image and followers consume it, which keeps the system of profit going. It’s like…”

You shrug, calm as still waters. “Like turning identity itself into a product.”

Silence. A cough somewhere that you remember vividly. You could hear a needle drop. Then, he says, “Mmh, that’s a solid take. Most people just say, Marx hated capitalism and stop there. Good.”

He wiggles a finger and then turns back to find his place behind the large desk. You tangibly feel the rush of pride and satisfaction as he nods, his stance defeated by your already thriving interest in whatever he is trying to teach you.

If you remember correctly, he won’t pick on you again after this; at least not for a couple of weeks. Perhaps he does and stops afterwards; your memories are a tad jumbled. Either way, you prove him wrong each time, the same content feeling lighting up your brain.

But you will still swear off any of his classes and choose other, more laid back professors for the rest of the subjects.

Your smile widens, lowered to your notes again. In a way, albeit the frequent recurrence of nostalgic colours even today, you are relieved that you’re done with your studies.

But you miss other aspects of it. Like the people, the busy mensas and the court you used to soak in the sun in between or after classes. Like that day.

Perhaps it is a conscious decision your brain makes, but the scene changes. You don’t reckon that more than an hour has passed; you’re still tranquil, with a steady heartbeat as you bask in the late summer breeze. 

Autumn will settle in properly, with only a couple rainy days in between, but the warmth of the summer will linger.

Because he’s right here. A man so close you feel his presence, see the Air Jordans on the grass, and a moment later, you hear a velvety and joyous voice sounding over you.

“It’s you,” he’s saying.

You look up; his face is more a silhouette than anything, but you think you recognise the silky mane and the usual oversize style. You wonder, “Is it me?”

“Isn’t it?”

You put your laptop down. “I mean, it is, but you let the you sound so important.”

“I’d hope you don’t consider yourself unimportant.”

He looks ahead, squints an eye, though the sun is right over his head, breathes in the air. Then, he asks, “May I?”, pointing at the ground. You nod, and as soon as you see him properly, he smiles, says, “What I mean is… fuck that guy.”

There is no way to interpret what he said as what he claims it means, but you understand immediately. You know that Jeon Jungkook is in your class, too, and that he must be one of the people who sat absolutely still only an hour ago, recognising just how much of an ass the full adult teaching a college class is.

“Indeed, huh?” you agree.

“If it helps, don’t think he has actual bad blood with anybody. I’ve heard he’s sworn off women and now he lets it out on all the girls on campus, too.”

“How fitting for a sociology professor.” You sigh. “That’s so great, though. As if there’s not enough rage women carry already.”

You lean back, trying to process his face without ogling for too long or too obviously. This guy is inhumanly handsome; his moles sit just right in his face, the curve of his lips artistic. You don’t know what he does with his hair, but it’s full and shiny, probably soft as feathers.

And when he smiles, you see dimples emerge, unique ones, too. He’s a rare combination of beauty and poise, and even though you have already explored his mind, body and soul, you feel the initial fascination anew.

There are moments in this memory that make you forget that you haven’t turned the clock and jumped into who you once were. There are rarely second, and barely ever third chances in life.

In a moment this will be gone. You need to hold onto it, at least for a minute, at least for the remainder of the time that’s left.

You let the conversation flow, aware of all this, but unable to change the memory. You listen and smile back when Jungkook vows, “I won’t give you any reason to rage.”

“Then you seem too good to be true.”

“Really? The bar is low these days. But also… I don’t think I’m too good. I just consider myself good.”

“Really?” you echo. “How does one know for sure?”

“Well,” he leans back, too, imitating your crossed legs, head up to blink into the sun for a moment. He’s golden. “If you want to get into this on a sociology basis, you’ll have to wait, so I can write you an entire essay.”

You laugh. “But?”

“But if you want a short answer… I think sometimes you just know. There is enough evil in this world and we see it, whether in our lives or in the news… and if you can’t identify with it, I don’t think you’re bad.”

You think about it, let it sink in. There’s logic to his words, some truth you might make your own. Perhaps a silver lining whenever you find yourself in doubt.

But…

“Dunno,” you conflict, “sometimes we still judge and do things that we don’t consider bad, not really, but… they might seem awful or odd to others.”

“…Like what?”

“Like. Well, I don’t know.” You lift your hands, shaking your head. Your eyes fall to your knees, racking your brain, and when something surfaces, you try, “Like growing up with trauma and promising to not forward it, but doing it anyway.”

Jungkook hums in agreement, nodding — he must be a true talent when it comes to friendly discussions, an intellectual while possibly competitive in other areas. He adds, “Or hoping for somebody to lose a connection with someone on purpose because one can’t stand the third party.”

You turn to look at him, eyebrows closing in before you chuckle. You admit, “That sounds oddly specific.”

“To be fair… yours did, too.”

Touché. 

You press your lips together to signal defeat and as you look away, he laughs, following your gaze until the two of you grow quieter. A while later, you tell him, “Didn’t think somebody would notice me.”

“After that thing today? Sure. I noticed you before, too.” You cock an eyebrow and he immediately stutters, briefly but tellingly before he clarifies, “Not in a creepy way. I just remember most faces, especially in class. It’s not a huge group of people.”

“I don’t know, we are quite a few. But… I did see you before, too.”

He shrugs a wide shoulder. “Must be my charm.”

He knows how to make you laugh; the dangerous type of person to succumb to. Not that you’re already in that spiral that he might pull people into, for sure, but you don’t assume he’s easy to combat.

“Must be,” you say under another snicker.

He nods his chin towards the laptop and the book next to it as he asks, “Are you doing today’s homework?”

“Hm? Oh. Yep.”

“Mind if I join? Might be easier together. Like a study group — duo.”

You don’t struggle with the matter at all; you’re nearly done, too. But his warmth next to your body is comfortable and you like his voice and his eyes and the way he talks—

So you succumb a little.

“Sure!”

And as soon as you do, the pixels break.

As if a connection is cutting. As much as you gave in that day, the feeling comes to pass; the place wears away, as if you’re underwater and then—

The lingering emotions become a dream. The fragments disappear.

But while the memory vanishes, the feeling doesn’t. Dr. Choi told you, didn’t she? It’ll need a core memory for it all to fade in its entirety.

Because as you move to the next room, as though witnessing a cut to the next scene at a theatre, the affection still runs deep. Your past self doesn’t exactly spell the big L-word just yet, and from where you sit, as though in her body but through somebody else’s eyes, you know you’re not fully lost in him yet.

Just on your way there…

This is another classroom, but the walls are painted in a different colour. Not white, but an ugly, dirty, pale yellow. This time, you’re further back, still diligent but slightly preoccupied.

On the other side of the room, Jungkook has his head propped in his hand, his fingers and eyes signalling messages from afar. His lips word something you can’t decode and you shake your head, laugh because his mere presence makes you laugh anyway.

You’ve known him for a while, and you can never stop looking.

But you keep your banter-loving self intact as you leave the room, your steps slowing while his accelerate. He effortlessly reaches you before you can vanish out the door — but you’d have waited anyway.

You warn, “You need to stop.”

“What, why?”

“You distract me.”

His smirk is smug, proud, proving a long intended goal now reached. His elbow nudges your side, tickling you a little in the process, and he rejoices, “That’s my purpose!”

You roll your eyes, forcing them away from his intoxicating face. He’s cut his bangs, and the way they frame his features softens him — like dipping him in something unbearably sweet, as if to ruin your day.

All sugar and warmth and whipped cream and sprinkles on top.

You challenge, “Then why don’t you just sit next to me, huh?”

“Because,” he tsks, a smacking sound, and then has the audacity to claim, “it’d make me lose my focus even more. Can’t afford that.”

“…You find me distracting? I’m all calm and studious.”

“Do I find you distracting? More than anything.”

Your steps halt. It’s the lax, nonchalant tone that catches you off guard. It doesn’t match his words immediately — but then you remember that this makes up an enormous part of his personality.

You know that in your later time together, he’ll use this as a defense mechanism, too. Will speak his emotions freely, but at the same time keep himself composed in case your reaction doesn’t match what he intends.

That is, until his restraint breaks. At some point, he’ll become too comfortable. Sometimes a blessing, mostly a curse.

Right now, you find this approach endearing, refreshing; but under the right circumstances, you’ll come to grow irritated by it.

As he comes to a stand, peeking over his shoulder to find you a couple feet behind, you calm your pulse and the pace of your heart. Your wit escapes you on rare occasions, and he summons most of them. So the best you could do is stutter, right?

No. You grant yourself a moment to rack your brain; a needless preparation, because just before you can provide an uncreative answer, he realises. His eyebrows rise by a minimum.

But then he tells you just as coolly as he likes to be, “You’re my friend. Of course I’d find you distracting. Don’t you remember your school days?”

You scoff. You don’t mean to, but somehow you still do, maybe disappointed by his response, or disappointed by your own expectations. You ask, “Is that it?”

“Yes.” The answer shoots out of him, confidently and firmly. A sigh follows and his shoulders fall, as if he’s tired of explaining something to you over and over — before remarking, “We talked about this, bug. It’s my charm. You’re supposed to fall in love with me, not me with you.”

You’re already interrupting halfway through, turning away from him and then back when his hand grips your elbow. He’s laughing quietly, a lovely and genuine cackle, and once he’s done and your old, beloved sarcasm has recovered, you question, “Okay, and is it working?”

“Is it working? You tell me.”

Douchebag.

“I meant the other way round,” you tell him, “you not falling in love with me. I can be charming, too, so — is it working?”

His laugh ebbs down, replaced by a more harmless, soundless smile. There is an answer in his dark pupils somewhere, but you can’t see behind the sparkle. Neither through his words and to their intent when he says, “I see you’re learning from me.”

“Learning what?”

“Smooth-talking?”

“You are not a smooth-talker,” you bicker, forefinger pointedly poking his chest, “you’re just a dork who’s afraid of microwaves and talks about animated movies way too much.”

“I analyse them.”

You start walking down the hall, pulling up the strap of your bag. “Right. Your analysis is like eighty percent just you crushing on Meg from Hercules.”

He grimaces, a goofy expression that indicates that he can’t help it, and you punch his shoulder which makes him stumble a step or two. Purely performative, of course. He’s built like a Greek God himself.

“Hey,” he voices softly, a rapid change of topic that you barely expect, “speaking of… Come to the movies with me this weekend.”

Sometimes, you find it hard to counter at your usual speed, even though you often consider yourself a fast thinker and an even faster talker. Today, you don’t think and only talk, telling him foolishly, “I was actually going to busy myself this weekend.”

You weren’t.

“Doing what?” he wonders.

“Dodging you.”

“Damn. Do that then.” He hardens his jaw, completing your quipping, the tongue in his cheek more effective than he knows. “I’ll take another girl.”

He’s ahead of you as you reach the college’s exit, taking two steps at once; you hurry to catch up, a hand pulling at his wrist until his brisk pace matches yours again.

You mutter, “Shut up. Don’t you dare.”

Another low chuckle. And then, everything goes blank.

Jungkook got you seats in the back of the cinema hall because he promises it annoys other visitors less — and because he talks during movies. You do, too, so you’re okay with his decision.

You look around. Somehow, you can’t quite remember how you got to this place, but you guess he must have invited you sometime before.

At least, it seems that you aren’t yet as close as your real self remembers. It’s one of your first dates, though it still feels more like a friendly outing than anything else.

Doesn’t help your nerves, though.

And the sound effects, close behind you and blaring in your ears, only add to the nervous thumping of your heart. You didn’t mind the distance to the screen until the scenes of cars rushing and music playing reverberated in your head.

“I can’t even hear my own thoughts,” you wail-whisper into his ear, careful to not yell around but determined to give him a piece of your mind. “Too loud!”

“But I was right,” he stands his point, “nobody around to feel disturbed.”

“Shut up—”

You launch a tiny piece of the popcorn at him, and he shakes his head in reprimand, lecturing, “Hey! If you’re going to throw popcorn, don’t waste it. Target my mouth.”

You exhale, clicking your tongue before you offer it to him and he snatches it gratified. Instinctively, your finger bolts backwards, though unscathed, and you say, “Surprised that you didn’t bite me.”

He swallows the popcorn, asking, “Did you want me to?”

“Yes, it’s a kink.”

Your voice roars too much as the music slowly dies, the last notes of the cello piping down. Jungkook blows out a laugh, a head a couple rows ahead turning, holding your gaze and then returning to the movie.

You bite your lips, clear your throat. And then, quieter, tell him, “I thought you knew.”

“That it’s a kink? I should’ve. The amount of times you threaten to eat off my nose.”

Yes, because it’s cute. But you won’t tell him that. He continues, “Tell me more about your kinks.”

You puff out a sarcastic breath, side-eye him. “Well, if I told you already…”

You notice your mistake the moment it leaves you. You stare at the screen in a straight line, calming your breathing, sure he’s closing in enough that you can smell his perfume. The scent boggles your mind.

You know what he’s going to ask before he does it; courtesy to your memory, but you also know that you knew at this very moment, all those years ago. 

“Yeah?” he whispered. “When else will you tell me?”

He’s looking at you, not even veiling anymore that he’s closed the safe gap. His shoulder meets yours, warm against your clothes, and when you lift your gaze to his, the same words ghost your mind… in the exact same constellation…

I want to kiss him so bad.

How insane would it be if you drew in now, threw your gaze down, then up again, then down again and — met the cushiony balm of his lips?

Would he reciprocate it?

Maybe. You can’t rule it out; not with his smooth, warm fingertips reaching for your chin, lifting your face as he urges your eyes to align; they ignite a flicker. And not when he prompts, “Wanna tell me?”

“…Isn’t that weird?”

“Why?” He lets go, defuses the situation, even if only by a minimal fraction. The air is still galvanised, only almost broken by what he says next, “Really, why? We’re friends.”

You draw a breath. If he’s demanding it, you’ll play the game. What good does it do to weasel your way out of this? You’re not a scaredy-cat. And the more you get to him, the less he’ll be able to resist. You see it in his eyes.

There’s temptation and a sort of crackle neither of you can deny.

So you crawl up into his brain, snug and hot in your skin, and say, “Okay. I want to be crushed under… his weight.”

His, yours, just understand.

“Ah?” he voices.

“And I… I want him to shut me up if needed. In any way possible.”

This can’t be happening — are you dirty talking to your best friend? Is he even your best friend? He always feels more than this, like he’s stuck you into purgatory, neither in nor out of the hell that you’ll burn with him in.

Fuck.

You can see him stirring in his seat, restless, as if he’s attempting to hide in it and come out of it at once. You’re satisfied; you want him. Closer than he is, even closer than he becomes within a moment.

But as you remember the surroundings and who he still is to you… who you still are… you can’t get yourself to not crack under the nature of your bickering selves. Daredevil as you might be, you need a quiet space, someplace that doesn’t keep you waiting.

Though you’re still waiting. Still lingering. But you know — you see him. This intensity could get much worse, and you’d be forced to either flee the scene or continue things quietly, in secret.

So you go the safe route, finally break and say, “And then I want him to sell my toes pics, so we can get rich.”

Jungkook breathes out. Breathes out hard, as if he forgot for a couple seconds. His shoulders and body sink, somewhat exhausted, and he laughs breathily, inhaling, averting his gaze. That is, until he finds your eyes again, rolling his own when he sees your eyebrow twitch up in tease.

“Goddamn it,” he curses. “This isn’t doable. I think you should reconsider.”

Ah? Oh… 

Maybe he’s forgotten that you never mentioned him explicitly.

So you wonder further, a lilt in your voice, “Why are you offended?”

“I’m not.” Sure. That’s irrefutable, given the peach colour his face has turned to, visible even in only the light of the movie. “Just for whatever guy you choose.”

“Mhm,” you only hum.

He waits, shifts, and once his mind, as you assume, has cleared as much as yours, he asks, a hand on your arm, “Were you serious?”

You huff. “Totally. And…” You’re as bold as ever. Closer now instead of him. Tellingly, you throw the tiniest look down to his lap, and then back up to his face — a miniscule moment before you state, “You seemed to like it, too.”

“Oh yeah. I’m just a guy, and you’re hot. You gave me ideas for the future.”

You need a million nights to let each of his words sink in because… you thought you were brave?

You’re hot.

You gave me ideas.

You don’t get to ask him who the ideas are intended for, or how you being hot actually affects him — what he’d do with that info. If it was up to you, you’d leave right now, rush to his or your place, lock the door.

But you don’t get to. You only flinch when somebody in the more front rows shushes you, asking you to be quiet and let others enjoy the movie.

You knew what was coming and you have relived this day a dozen times over the years. But you still hate all of this anew; the wait, the proximity, the knowledge that after all the vigour the two of you basked in, everything came crashing down.

But what can you do?

In this very system, you are powerless. You might try to alter a memory, even though you haven’t yet figured out how. That is, if it’s possible at all. But you cannot change reality.

Just… at times, you forget that this is bygone.

So you can only sit back. Only say what you’re supposed to say; what you actually muttered afterwards, “You were wrong. We’re disturbing people.”

His hooded eyes close and open again. He’s still in a fog, coming down from it, quiet when he confesses, “Sometimes I can be, too.”

“…Was it perhaps a bad idea to come here?”

He laughs. There is tenderness to it sometimes, not the usual sarcasm or unabashed flirting. Just a soft, small chuckle.

The memory starts to fade.

His beam is followed by an equally feathery—

“Hey… I might be wrong at times, but… this is just right.”

You lift your face. Look at him; then back to the screen. And then, he disappears.

When you open your eyes and your fingers tangle with the wires, you’re not exactly sure whether this is yet another memory you can’t place.

The purpose is to forget, so maybe you’re somewhere in the midst of something your brain has already deleted. But then your head falls to the side, your eyelids fluttering open to an unclear vision of Dr. Choi and Byul, the assistant from before.

Choi said that while it’s crucial to forget they were ever here at all, it’s okay for you to wake up once or twice, since this would be the last encounter they’d remove from your software. You’re supposed to know as little about this as possible once you’re done after all.

But your first reaction is still anxiety. You didn’t think you’d need to wake up — so naturally, with your memory of them intact, you assume failure.

What went wrong? Do they doubt that you could’ve stayed in there, living through four years of your life until they left? Maybe there’s too much info, too much to obliterate.

“Leave this here,” you hear Dr. Choi say, her voice far away, growing the more you come to your senses.

Your face feels dry, cracked, and when you bring your hand to your cheek, your fingers catch the dampness. You cried — if they really started at the beginning, you cried reliving some of the most joyous moments the two of you shared. Or maybe that’s why.

The bittersweet beginning that you can’t return to, can’t hold onto. If there was a way to head-dive into a past so long passed and restore it and promise to fix things as they approached, you would.

You would… of course. If you hadn’t been ready to fix them before too, you wouldn’t have tried at all.

That’s the issue… you tried, but— but…

Your voice is as weak as your mind as you sit up, careful to not pluck out something that might fry your brain, “What happened?”

Dr. Choi’s instructions halt, a hand directing her assistant to stop. She regards you, forehead smooth and her tone calm, cool. You must look and sound so different from her.

“Okay,” she then mutters, turning back to Byul and quietly tells her to keep an eye on the data. Then, back to you, “Everything is fine. We’re just taking a break.”

Your chest lightens, if only by a bit. There is never enough air anyway to really free your heart. It feels clumped day in, day out — you don’t think the early days that you just wiped out did much to eradicate your feelings.

Everything still hurts. Like a fucking disease.

“Is that normal?” you ask.

“Yes, certainly. Even when their content is light, the memories you’re going through are heavy, and you’re separating even heavier emotions from who you are. They are yours. Bidding goodbye to something which was once yours isn’t easy.”

You would know…

Your throat constricts.

“And,” she continues, “that heaviness can feel like actual physical aches. You know how our body protects us from extreme pain by passing out? If we burden you with too much of what once was, it’ll become too much for you.”

“…What happens if I stay in there for too long, then?”

“Technically, nothing fatal. But it weighs heavy on the brain. Bad hormones might overshadow the good ones. And we want to make you happy, not worse without you even remembering how you got there.”

You nod. She’s a good doctor, isn’t she? Delivering explanations in such logical, empathetic ways. You guess the painful truth of what the program does could be lightened with a… well, lighter mood.

But how does one do that? Even a smooth-talking doctor like her can’t gloss over something so hefty.

She gives your pat a tiny shoulder, offers you a glass of water, and you nod once again, faintly. Your body is affected to the point of numbness; not the type of numb that blanks your mind but rather hurts.

It’s a paradox you cannot fathom. Maybe there is no science behind it, no words that can truly label every emotion after all.

You accept the water gratefully, sipping once reflexively. You aren’t hungry or thirsty or need anything particular at all, but your body is burning up, demanding hydration. If the liquid on your face is any indication of what’s to come, you’ll need an entire jug.

You’re scared.

A hand tightly wrapped around the glass, you watch the strangers in your home walking around, calculating whatever needed, talking, looking back and forth.

The object, a pen you used back in college, is still touching your tummy. You don’t know whether it was important for the memories or just a catalysator for the rest, but it must have done at least something.

You don’t know. You can’t remember anymore…

Your pulse heightens.

You can’t remember. You will stop remembering.

At this time, you know how you fell in love with him, how things played out in the three years after the one year you were friends. But even that will vanish, won’t it? How does one just… just forget? Forget somebody who used to be such a monumental part of—

You swallow. If you overthink it again, you will falter. And there is no going back, goddamn it. Even if you stop all of this now, you can’t regain whichever memories you just lost, and you won’t make things good with him again because… because he—

An odd sound escapes, somewhere between a silent sob and a breath; it catches Dr. Choi’s attention. She leaves her spot at the computer and walks up to you, gentle as she asks, “Are you okay? We will continue in a sec.”

You’re still for a moment. Barely blinking, head spinning. You close your eyes for a bit, and when you open them, you shake your head weakly. Your lips won’t move, but once you get them to, you say, “I still know that… A lot of our dates passed without any further steps.”

She listens, head angled, eyes soft. So you continue, “I still remember many of them. We haven’t gotten far yet, right?” You sigh — or rather, breathe out the crying. “It was the beginning and I was in love with him. I knew. But we didn’t kiss for a while. Some of it might already be erased, but the feelings are… still fully here.”

“Yes,” she immediately confirms, her voice so, so tender, “that’s what I meant. There are many core memories, but the ultimate one is somewhere in there… It'll take time. Do you know what it is? The rest can be removed faster once this one is gone.”

You give it a thought, but… how could you possibly guess? The time Jungkook and you spent together was a time with a heart less in the world. Yours was merged with his; every moment was valuable. Or almost.

You can’t…

“I don’t know if I can really… pin down one single moment,” you tell her, “there were too many. So, so many.”

She waits. Lets you think.

But when you come up with nothing in particular and too much at once, she speaks, “That’s how it is with complex feelings like affection. It’s riddled with places and tastes, scents and memories. Forgetting is much harder than loving. We let love consume us, so it’s easy to do.”

And sometimes, it leads to heartbreak that swallows you just as fast.

If Dr. Choi wasn’t doing this, you think, she’d be a writer. A poet, perhaps, jotting down human emotions as if she invented them.

It consumes one indeed; it devoured you alive until he did. He still gnaws at you, so deeply that it might kill you. You could bottle that power of his, use it as a weapon. When did the two of you become so lethal?

But Choi’s words make you wonder something else, too.

“…Have you done this, too? To yourself?”

She smiles; you nearly assume her answer. But then she shrugs, admits, “I don’t know. If I did, I am certainly not allowed to know. There’d be no point in it.”

“You just… you sound like it. Like there’s something one can never truly erase.”

“Hmm… sometimes there’s no memory erasure needed to feel that way.”

You silence.

Her smile stays, but her eyes sink to her fumbling thumbs. This is the most disquieted you have experienced her so far; and on top of a personal life, you guess that if you were in her shoes, you’d also feel a type of deeply rooted pain from the job alone.

Witnessing somebody’s pain and then watching it disperse can’t be easy. That’s what makes the job of a doctor what it is, doesn’t it?

Her chest rises and falls, and then she looks at you with newfound confidence. Back to what her profession demands, she states, “We’ll just get through everything and see where we find something. It takes time, but not ages.”

“How… how long was I gone now?”

“Only a couple minutes.”

You’re baffled. “That’s it?”

“It feels longer than it is. A lot of the memories are grouped and then taken away. You just relive those individually that were particularly important to you. As I said…”

Her smile is faint. Yes, you know. Core memories. “And the individual ones pass like dreaming. You might have noticed,” she remarks. No; you can’t say because you don’t know. “We don’t dream too long, but the story plays out that way.”

You can’t imagine which memories your brain could put into groups; you regard all of them as important.

“Yeah… yeah, okay.”

“Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure? As we progress, it will get harder. So use those breaks.”

Breaks… it’ll be a break until it stops being one. At some point, they’ll find the core memory, and then, you won’t wake up to their faces anymore, but to your room, empty, unaware of what transpired. Unknowing that something just broke off of you.

“Some of the core moments might be when we were already together. Or when we broke up,” you aid.

“Yes?”

“We can… we could try.”

Another nod. “Let’s do that, then.” She turns back to the computer, mumbles something to the assistant, and then orders, “Lay down again? We’ll continue.”

You shift on the pillow until your body feels light enough. Closing your eyes, you perceive some of the words, waiting for some signal or a start.

A moment later, you drift off.

She was right; this does feel like a dream. A soft and somewhat rosy, non-bug view.

And Jungkook is right there. The sting is extreme, searing.

He’s right here, in your arms, his usual warmth burning your body. Seasons passed briskly — and then, another autumn and another winter arrived and went. It’s been around a month that you’ve been with him now; for over a year, you endured the struggle his presence brought.

This must be the main echo of another group of memories. Once this one goes, the others will, too.

But for now, you remember the time that passed close to the day you’ve jumped into; and in those many, short, ecstatic weeks, the ambiguity between you shifted… and now your luck is immeasurable.

Or at least, at this very moment, you think it is. At some point, when more seasons have arrived and passed and arrived again, he will be gone. Luck might take on a different definition then; or rather, it will be wiped out of your vocabulary entirely.

Sometimes, love just isn’t enough — that’s what makes a star-crossed story tragic.

No villain, no betrayal. Just a beautiful connection that doesn’t survive the reality human beings build around themselves.

This isn’t a bad memory yet, but every ounce of the adoration you feel will lead to one. To many. Maybe you remember this one because of the nature of the conversation. Or because it foreshadows something you should’ve known back then already.

Or maybe because somewhere in your heart, you know that this will bring what you’re looking for… to dull the pain faster, straight as an arrow toward the core memory…

But first you need to reach that break up you’re looking for, right? The reason you suggested it to be the deeply buried trigger was easy; because in hurt and longing — this is when one loves the most.

Jungkook once told you.

No… he will tell you now.

He’s playing with your hand, moving closer to you under the sheets, still fully dressed. In truth, you haven’t reached the highest base yet. You’ve been in bed together, dating, making out, cuddling.

But something would usually come in between. Red alert exams. Your parents visiting. Jungkook’s brother visiting. Your period.

“We always talk about society, norms, the modern world and all that stuff in the books,” he says, “but never really about the real world itself.”

You were just talking about your current college classes and about who despises or loves you as fellow uni-goers. The class you attend is yet another one of those hipster ones, students with Starbucks lattes and other sociology clichés. 

The professor is nice, the topics are great; but Jungkook doesn’t seem to agree. So you ask, “What would you like to talk about?”

“Mmh… if there was just a class on how human beings act when affected by their emotions…”

“I don’t know,” you click your tongue, “this feels more like psychology than sociology.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s justifiable to talk about it in this class, too, though. Because, it sits right at the border… internal processes — psychology. Emotions in social context — sociology.”

He’s a good talker, and you’re easy to convince. You purse your lips, nodding on the pillow. Your stare is still fixated on the ceiling; you like listening to him. Calms you.

“So,” you repeat, “what would you like to talk about?”

“Okay, so—”

There he is. Revved up, turning to his side, your hand in between both his palms now. He likes the closeness, the touch.

“I’ve been learning a couple new words these days. They belong to different cultures and I don’t know. I wondered whether having words for certain emotions in one language, that don’t exist in another language, has any effect on the way a person thinks.”

You rethink his query, let it echo in your mind until it has dawned on you. Okay. You gesture for him to continue, “Like, does someone who knows the word Meraki go through life differently than someone who doesn’t know Greek?”

You snap a finger. You saw a similar post on Instagram just recently, a compilation of terms that cultures use to define certain complex emotions. Wide-eyed, you contribute, “Or, Koino Yokan. Do you know what it means?”

You meet his eyes, tearing them off the ceiling. When he gives a brief, “No,” your cheeks heat up. Aside from the way he looks at you, the phrase calls upon a warm, tingling sensation in you — something your body of that time remembers that your brain can’t.

An already deleted memory, you’re sure.

You trace his digits with a gentle forefinger, explaining, “Japanese. Knowing that one day, you’ll inevitably fall in love with somebody you just met. A sense that they’ll be yours.”

“Right… that’s pretty,” he smiles. Hums. “Saudade. Portuguese… Specific type of nostalgia. Missing somebody who is gone.”

There’s melancholy in his words, but somehow, your fondness for him grows. Something about the way he talks about emotions, understands them, draws you in. Jungkook has always showcased a clearly high EQ, but you couldn’t foresee just how much it’d deepen your attachment.

You ask, “Do you have more of these?”

“I do, yes. Some of them are sad.”

His voice is so tiny, so fragile. You blink. “You sound like they make you sad…”

“Maybe. I sometimes feel like I have felt a shit ton more than I needed to in life. I mean… like you, like everyone does. So somehow, these phrases hurt. There’s bittersweetness in them. I don’t… I dunno. Example — it’s difficult to lose somebody and not yet know what the emotion is called. Grief sounds almost… like an understatement.”

You grow bewildered and scared the further he ventures into his mind. Is he hinting at something? Trying to communicate through implicit musings?

Your eyebrows arch and then knit, and you ask, “What are you talking about?”

He hesitates, weighs his options — whether to say something or not. Maybe this is far bigger than you. Once he sees the growing dread in your face, his lips form an O, and he shakes his head, clarifies quickly—

“No. Nothing like that. Most of my friends moved when I was younger, and then we moved a lot. It’s just that it didn’t feel like I could keep people around for too long.”

He’s never told you that before. Or did he and you don’t know anymore? You can’t even guess.

But of course he’d treat these words with such care; once scarred by something so young, it is anything but easy to fully recover. You haven’t experienced such difficulties in life, hard knocks on wood, but you know plenty of people dealing with their own miseries.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say. You can’t undo his past, but you can make his future brighter, right? “I’m around.”

“You are,” he says, releasing your hand to kiss your palm.

“What was it?” you wonder, another inch closer to him. “The sad word you were thinking of.”

“Ah… Onsra, it was, I think. It’s an Indian word that Indians themselves don’t even always recognise. I’ve heard it’s kind of rare? And it describes the moment of loving someone for the last time. Knowing things are coming to an end, whatever end it may be.”

Your parted lips shut. You stare at him for a second, breathing out quietly, and he cocks an eyebrow with a tilt of his head as if to say, “Yep. I know.”

You say, “This is… so sad. That’s a shitty feeling.”

“It is… But oh — have you heard about that thing that—? Like, how people nowadays deal with such heartbreak in crazy ways, too? There are all sorts of programs to erase your memory and stuff, so the last time you love can be an actual last time.”

You feel like you’ve read about it somewhere, but you dismissed it as a hoax meant to squeeze money out of people. You didn’t think it was real. But Jungkook is usually well informed about worldly things, so there must be a certain truth to it.

Yet, you wonder, “Seriously?”

“Yep. Science and technology are advancing. But I feel like, if more people knew these words limited to some cultures, they might think about life differently. With a bit more hope.”

Ironic…

You mention, “Is this how you felt? As you moved around? Like you were loving for the last time.”

His answer is ambiguous, yet as clear as you can demand. You don’t address the subject matter further once he says, “I have felt it before. I don’t want to again.”

So you only promise, “I don’t think you will.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yes. Because,” your hand settles on his face, his skin hot under yours. You don’t think you’ve said this before because his eyes widen with each word, “I’m in love with you in a way that I know will never stop.”

The melancholy falls.

And his Cheshire Cat grin is immediate; eerie almost, or as much as Jungkook’s ethereal face is capable of looking. But it pulls you in because gosh, your cheek muscles hurt, unable to relax as you laugh, and then ask,

“What? You wanna say something, too?”

His grin falls, an expression taking its place that, at first glance, reminds you of fatigue. But it’s not. It’s one of the versions of his dreamlike stares, eyes so lost and found and achingly fond.

You can almost feel and taste the sincerity when he says, “I don’t need to tell you.”

“…Why?”

“Because. You know how I feel.”

The quiet stretch between you doesn’t feel awkward. He’s patiently ceasing all conversation, only looking at you, waiting for your reaction. But you’re not too big on words right now; your tongue is dry.

Longs for him.

So you only whisper now, bringing this era of endless teasing, safe distance and pure, innocent, silent craving to an end.

“I think I do.”

That’s more than enough.

Because a moment later, he’s kissing you.

You’ve kissed him a hundred times by now; your lips know it, and your body too, even when your mind doesn’t. But this time feels different. He is closer, holds you tighter, like he’s reaching for you from a distance.

And when the kiss deepens, he is more out of breath. Explores your lips with his, moving slowly, his mouth warm and sweet. His hand slithers to your sides, under your shirt, and at least some of his restraint wavers when he shifts fully to climb over you.

He holds your leg against his hip; you already had it wrapped around him, whenever that actually happened. And as he does, you feel the growing bulge poking your stomach, firmer when you kiss him like you’re glued to his lips.

And then… a subtle touch of the tongue.

Just the tip, just for a nanosecond before he backs away again, looks at you with misty eyes. Gauges your reaction. And then gives in when you sigh in want, diving back to seek the tongue. You play around, taste it like you’re starving, and he’s faring no better.

Not at all. In fact, the erection only hardens further, and you lift your ass, estimating what you’re getting in a bit. Not that you’re entirely unaware, though because…

Fuck, he’s hard. You arch your back until you press into him, call his name when he moves to your bare neck.

You hold onto his shirt as he licks a stripe along your skin, paving a way up to your jaw and then back further down to your clavicles. Your shirt is already oversized, but it’s stuck to you right now. It only moderately helps when he pushes the neck of it down; his kisses to the mounds of your tits suddenly chaste.

It’s when you whimper that he appears in sight again, all messy hair. You think he would’ve asked eventually; and when he does now, your heart soars, “Do you… want this?”

You flash a weak smile, too enraptured to properly react. “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I need you to say it.”

His voice is so soft; like a pile of cotton. You grab him by the collar, lifting your too-tight shirt until your tits jump out. His eyes widen for a second; you watch, bigger than ever. He has seen you like this before, even if just for moments… but it never not amazes him. Men. 

Cursing under his breath, his hand grazes up and down your sides slowly. You break his string of thoughts — if there are any — as you admit, “I want you.”

“To… do what? Hm?”

“You know it.”

“Say it, bug, fuck,” he urges with a greed in his voice, humping into you. You breathe in.

“I want you to strip me bare.”

His tongue darts out, licks his lower lip and then yours. He shakes his head, waits, and when nothing follows, he laughs, “That’s it?”

“No. Of course not.” You swallow to wet your throat, even if just a bit. He could help. You’d get to your knees and keep going for him to help the dryness in there, you swear… “I want you to kiss me everywhere, too. And I want to suck your dick.”

The last one is impulsive, not very thought out. But it helps. It affects him. He draws a breath so sharp that it nearly reminds you of a whistle.

His head is visibly spinning, but he focuses, “Everywhere? May I?”

“Fuck, don’t ask. I… I want you to fuck me dumb, okay?” You mewl quietly when he lightly bites into your perked nipple. Those damn nerves; he’s making you say all this, “Pound me stupid. Right the fuck now.”

“Oh, get all bossy on me.”

“No. You.”

“Yes? I’d say you seem impatient, but… you took your sweet time telling me all that. Your kinks.”

You laugh; you really didn’t. You couldn’t have formed a thought faster. You’re already a mental mess… does he know that you’ve never been this empty-headed before in your life?

“Isn’t it obvious that I want you?” you ask.

“I don’t care. I need permission.”

Shit, you might dissolve.

“Take me then,” you order through gritted teeth — or beg, you don’t know, “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“…Ah, now that is… Since when?”

“Since… the movies.”

Too quick of an answer. He knows, too, judging the smug chuckle.

“Right, right… there was a reason for you to list all your fetishes,” Jungkook remarks, lips above your ribs.

“Great observation but… you don’t even know half of them, baby.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me. This damn near killed me. What is this?” He’s talking about or to your shirt, upset at it, and the interaction makes you laugh. His expression is hilariously irked when he pulls it over your head, only relaxing when he buries his face in your tits. Hums. “Mmmh, I want you naked. My God, you’re drop dead gorgeous.”

“You—you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you tits out before, Jungkook.”

“I’ve seen you, too,” he jokes, a slap to your chest, “just haven’t gotten this far yet.”

He means gone, not gotten, you’re sure.

He’s right, as he proceeds, he’s still as little innocent as you are. While you wished to get to know each other better before giving in completely, his lips still sometimes found their way between your chest, his fingers up your thighs… this isn’t new. But it just… truly never went far.

Because Jungkook is a fucking tease. Would stop before you’d unfold, so you’d stroke his dick over his pants before he could explode. He’d kiss you, light up your nerves, but then suggest getting dinner just when his fingertips slid under your panties. That’s it.

This is much more. Much, much more.

He kisses you one more time before he moves down your body, licking stripes along your skin and leaving behind gentle, temporary bite marks. Your shorts are easy to get rid of, so if he teases you now, you’ll flip.

But Jungkook being Jungkook, of course does; tells you, “Let’s see what you’ve got there for me.”

He raises your leg once more, further kisses to your inner thigh, inching in until he reaches your pleading core and pulls down your panties, too. The repetitive innocent touches of his lips to your heat rile you up.

“Look at this,” he says, well aware that you can’t, “you’re already a waterfall. What if I did nothing at all? You look so… ready.”

“Yeah? Then come up and do your thing.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and assures, “Is this reverse psychology?”

You want to answer, shrug your shoulders, throw out a provocative, bratty response or two — but a moment later, he’s attached his lips to your pussy.

And he does it so well from the very first moment on. Kisses your nether lips the same way he made out with you before, crude, wet sounds erupting as he moans into you.

You reckon this is all much more tender than he will be in a while; because while the tongue that he adds a second later is pleasant, you see the flames in his eyes when he looks up. You throw a glance down at just the right moment.

See him staring up, beastly pupils, almost rude the way they affect you along with the figure eights down below. If he continues just a bit longer, the saliva, combined with the juices he’s lapping up, will dirty the sheets and his clothes.

But you don’t think he gives a rat’s ass about the bed at this point. He’s moving into it, seeking friction, all while concentrating on nothing but your taste and your touch and your smoldering body.

You call out a desperate, “Jungkook,” when he wraps his soft, velvety lips around your clit, softly sucking, never painful. He’s not oblivious like that, you think. He’s paying attention.

Whenever he grunts and groans, the sounds echo through you; the vibration only adds to your pleasure; you cannot complain. Or maybe, maybe you can…

Because as he shifts, his clothed shoulder brushing along your inner thigh, you flinch at the scraping of the unpleasant fabric.

Why is he even still wearing clothes? Goddamn inequality.

You tell him, “Take off your clothes.”

“Huh?”

“This,” you tug at the shirt, trying to pull it off of him, “off.”

He stares for a second. The info must not register in his brain, because his eyes are lost, processing it. And when he does, he says, “Is only fair. ‘Kay.” He flicks the bean, hilariously dramatic as he says, “Be right back, lovelies.”

Moving back, he comes to a stand at the edge of the bed, his lips glossy from your essence; you do wonder whether he’ll keep the promise to be back. From what you can deduce, he will make you beg today.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt, gathering the fabric slowly, almost absentmindedly; he cannot stop staring at you, up and down, taking you in. The cotton bunches in his hands before he lifts it over his head in one smooth motion, hair falling back into place as the shirt drops to the floor.

Then, his fingers move to his joggers. He loosens the straps, slides them down along with his boxers, and sets his limbs free; hurls the clothes onto the lonely shirt until an unceremonious pile remains on the floor.

He doesn’t rush it, of course. He moves like someone who’s adjusting to a sight, getting comfortable, familiar. Despite having feasted on you already, he’s still not used to you. You feel proud.

You melt under the half-smile, the kind that knows you’re carefully watching. He doesn’t mind at all; he wants you to. And you so are.

You’re taking in each detail. The ripple of his abs, the firm chest. The perked nipples and bulging bicep. And the smooth pelvis, leading down to an impossibly stiff, growing, huge dick.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, and he rubs his neck; less out of humility, but more to say, “Well, yeah.”

Maybe he expected you to react the way you do. The open mouth and the surprise in your eyes; the hunger and the urge to jump his bones. But you bet he doesn’t expect you to get up to your knees, watching you near his awaiting body.

In truth, he’s already readying himself to fall back onto the bed, continue where he left off; but you’re faster. Sitting up straight, you reach for his cock, eliciting a gasp of surprise when you start moving your hand up and down.

“Now that is…” he starts, clicks his tongue. He caresses your hair, pushes it behind your ear. And when your thumb circles around his slit, he puffs out a breath and says, “I think I’m okay with this.”

“Okay, huh?”

“More than okay. Do your thing, my girl.”

You break out into a grin. If this is what a life with him is going to be like, you’re certainly prepared for it. Love is only half as scary when someone offers a sense of safety.

Funny how only a single endearment can do that, too.

You should let him know that you feel the same.

So your knees shift further, right to the edge of the bed, and as you bring your legs together to seek relief, you return the favour, too. Take him into your mouth keenly, leading him in as much as you can take.

The head lays on your tongue dripping, precum spilling as you repress your gag reflex. But you remain steadfast. Begin darting your head back and forth. You hollow your cheeks, suck at the tip, spitting and gathering more saliva until he’s drenched.

Your tongue comes into play not long after; it swirls around the skin, draws circles the way he did. You attempt your best to get enough air in, sure that you won’t stop until he tells you to. You keep going as long as his cock twitches inside, throbbing, so hard that you suspect he’s already close.

His hands settle on your head, leading you in and out. He’s not forcing you, not fucking your throat, though part of you wishes he did. But he’s careful so far, loving; the real danger might come later.

For now, he lets you suck, kiss, lick and hum.

That is, up until the warning a minute later.

Out of his mind, he leads you back, and you let go with a plop, though reluctantly. His mind is whirring visibly, eyes blinking to refocus, and under his breath, he says, “Now some day… we need to do nothing but this all day.”

“Gladly,” you tell him, purposely collecting the spit under your lips, wiping it off with a thumb. He hisses, shakes his head.

“Seriously. I’ll have my cock buried in your throat until you’re hoarse…”

Well, shit.

“But today, I just…” He sneaks a look around the room. Initially, you don’t entirely understand, about to ask what he’s looking for, but then he asks, “My jacket is on the couch, I think.”

“Why?”

“Condoms.”

“Oh…”

Right. Right, maybe he’s not wrong. You are on the pill, but it might just be a reasonable idea to use protection for the first time.

“Hurry then,” you tell him, and he does.

It’s comical, in fact, the way he rushes out of the room; you hear the rustle of clothes from afar, and a couple seconds later, he’s back again, three condoms in his hands. You scoff.

“What?” he wonders. “I’m all for a good time. Might it last as long as possible.”

“I can’t believe you have condoms here at all.”

“It’s you, sweetheart. I’ve been carrying them around.” He shrugs a shoulder, his breath a whistle as he rips the package, rolling it rubber over his tall length. “Why? You gonna complain?”

“Me? No way. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” he mutters as he flings himself back into bed, forcing you to the back of the bed and mounting you until you find yourself under him.

His kiss is even filthier now, a taste so foreign yet your own. He is hot and keen above you, heavy as his quivering limbs struggle to keep him afloat. Your unclad, restless body is giving him a hard time, literally, but he’s mastering the challenge like a champ.

The doe eyes are long gone, profound hunger prominent in his predator gaze; you see the longing already, but you welcome it when he says between kisses, “If it was up to me… I’d ruin you right now.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

“What? Why do I sense a but coming?”

“Because you’re the priority. I want you to enjoy it and not just nut in a minute.”

“Fuck, will that happen?”

He tilts his head, a click of the tongue you want back on your skin. “I will try my best not to. But you are… so fucking sexy.”

“I have… your dick poking my stomach and it… it feels huge. And your muscles are pretty much caging in my face, Jungkook,” you say, a breathy explosion of your thoughts, “and those tits. Why are they bigger than mine?”

He laughs. “You were saying…?”

Right. You had a point to bring across. “Let’s not talk about me being sexy when you look like… this.”

“I look like what? Like myself? You enjoy that?”

“Anyone with fucking eyes enjoys looking at you. You’re so—”

“No,” he interrupts, a shake of his head; his hair is falling onto your neck, tickling you, “no, you are. So gorgeous. So hot, no matter how you look and what you wear.”

“And you still waited to do this.”

“Took more patience than I’ve ever needed in my life.”

You scoff, “You ass. Why did I have to suffer, just ‘cause you’re a tease? I’ll sing a song about how wrong you have done me.”

Another chuckle breaks out of him, but it’s curt, cut short by his teeth scraping over his lower lip. His eyes flit up and down, his mind buzzing at the feeling of your breasts, and he asks with insufficient brainpower, “No song… do you want me to shut you up already?”

“…You’re an idiot. Don’t do this to me.”

“Wouldn’t have yet anyway.” The yet drives you crazy. “Besides, I want to do so many other things to you.”

“Good. Good…”

“So what about the toe pics?”

Goddammit. This clown—

You want him to fuck you so bad. This is terrible; the waiting, the jerking of his cock, the way he sometimes shifts to hump into you, balls covering your pussy. Your legs are getting weaker as they wrap around him, your body inching towards his.

He’s so cruel.

You tell him, “Those, you can sell.”

“God, you’re hot.”

You don’t know if he’s even still hearing you; perhaps your humour is amusing, arousing him. You wonder if you could continue for long enough to make him come with words and provocations alone. Or maybe, he’ll do it himself.

Because his cock moves down to your pussy, the head stimulating your clit as he holds his weight above you. You grip his shoulders for support, trying not to crumble from this alone — this is the first time after all. Every touch feels dramatic to you.

“Any last words?” he inquires.

“Many.” 

“Yeah? Then I must be doing something wrong.”

Your voice, all strident and worn, rises in volume as you complain, “You’re not doing anything, that’s the problem!”

“Okay. One last question and I’ll give you what you want.”

“What.”

“Since the movies, huh? What’s a few more seconds?” He snickers when you breathe an, “I hate you,” following up with a, “So how did you feel back then?”

God, he’s a monster. A sadist. You answer, “Horny. Like now.”

Unmistakable smirk; he’s enjoying this thoroughly. Who would’ve thought that a cool-headed, gentle man like him could turn out so… dominant? Not that you’d dare to complain about it. You feel that if you did, he’d wreck your shit harder.

“Give me specifics,” he demands, and you groan in mild annoyance. Reach down to his cock, leading it to your pussy, but he, while gasping in surprise, pulls back. “Stop. Keep it short, though. I’m at my wit’s end, too.”

“Mmmh… how do I talk… if you keep playing with my cunt like it’s a bell?”

The laugh is sudden, broken by pants as he keeps himself together, but he doesn’t hesitate to emphasise his demand when he moves, his hand leading the head of his dick to your pussy before pulling back again.

“Jungkook—” you call.

“Talk, or this is all you’re getting.”

“Fuck you! Fuck me,” you say, pausing when he kisses you with passion, tongueing before he stops to wait, “Okay. Okay… you know how there are scenes in movies where people meet at the bar?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And… and they flirt with cringey dialogue. And they drink and then there’s a sudden cut to them making out at the literal door and then they’re suddenly in bed, bird’s view of the bed shaking, them fu—”

All the air escapes your lungs before you can finish your nonsensical thought. You don’t know where you were going with it and you won’t find out either.

Because mid-speech, he splits your pussy without a warning, without a word. He pushes in further, and you assume he’s bottomed out, so many curses on your tongue that you cannot let out.

Your mouth is open, and you’re gasping, your breath catching. You only realise that you’ve thrown your head back when you relax it again, meeting the sight of stiff jaw muscles and fires in his eyes.

Bit by bit, he slides in more, and while you appreciate the caution, you feel ready enough to take him in one fell swoop. 

You grit your teeth, your cheeks burning, and you inaudibly state, “You— you’re out of your fucking mind. You’ll get that back.”

“That I wanna see. Need to fight me for it,” he says, halting his ministrations to ask, “You good?”

“Not good enough. You make me wait so much, and then dismantle me just like that… I— fuck, Jeon Jungkook.”

“This is such a beautiful sound… say it again,” he orders, kissing your jaw.

“I hate you, Jeon Jungkook.”

His tongue peeks out of the corner of his lips, an entertained undertone in his voice, “That’s good enough. I promise I’ll make it good again.”

“How?”

“I’ll get you amazing croissants from my favourite bakery.”

You are with a manchild. An endearing, adorable, though beastly one, but a manchild either way. Hard to believe that this is the same guy who dives into philosophical conversations and doesn’t surface for a long time.

“Seriously?” you ask.

“Fun fact. It’s close to your work.”

“…This is it?”

He actually manages a dumbfounded, clueless expression, a top tier actor when he wonders, “You want more?”

“To make things good again? You could fuck me… like actually.”

“Are you complaining, you brat?”

His right veiny hand bolts to your face, fingers digging into your cheeks as he moves your head left and right. A warning reverberates in his words that turns you into a titillated puddle. First and only time in your life that you’re ready to serve as somebody’s slave.

So you risk it, “What if I am?”

“Fuck around, find out.”

Great decision after all. Because he finally pulls out until only the tip remains inside and then dashes back in. Once or twice, kissing you as slowly as he’s fucking you. You sigh, moan, troubled because of the pace until you declare, “Fuck it. I will ride you.”

“But I want to look at you…”

“Get off of me,” you order, and you know he has half a thought to not listen; but you’re charming him.

So he laughs, obliges, leaning back until you’re pushing him onto his back. You keep him there, an admonition in your eyes, but he’s already too busy ogling you. And as he does, a quick idea forms in your mind — turning around, you execute it immediately.

Much to his disdain.

You hear him say, “Thought you were going to ride me?”

“Just you wait.”

You straddle his legs, allowing a full view. You grant his eyes to drift over your ass, satisfied when he grabs a handful, presses in, leading you to his cock. Looking between your legs, you see him grabbing the length pinned to his stomach, and slowly shift back to align with it.

He must be loving the sight. The sounds are telling, heavy, guttural when you sink down on him, not stopping until he’s buried head to hilt. And you make sure to go slowly at first, so he can wallow in the slickness that your pussy covers his member in.

And how you’re wrapped around him, your ass constantly meeting his pelvis, hips circling. Your eyes roll back into your skull each time you take him all in, and your head falls back whenever his hand touches up and down your body, soft on your back and then aggressive on your ass.

“Fuck, I am losing it, bug,” you hear, a brief, smug smile gracing your face before your mouth parts again.

You’re satisfied. He isn’t just yet.

Because no matter how infinite his prior teasing seemed, he doesn’t seem too eager to let you do the same to him. Because as you fuck him on, he soon gets sick of your hidden face, pushing himself off the mattress until his chest is glued to your back.

A hand suddenly wraps around your neck, not too harsh but certainly unexpected. His teeth start nibbling at your ear, and he repositions only slightly until he can thrust into you from below.

You reckon it’s not easy; he’s out of breath. But he still does it with such vigour, determination and strength that you barely notice how tiring it must be for him.

The hand on your neck turns your head until your lips meet, and he kisses you hard, the tongue impatient. A hand grabs your tits and kneads them, keeping your torso in place before he removes his arms entirely.

Not to torment you this time; but to push your body forward. You fall onto all fours, detaching from him; but he’s quick as his knees hit the mattress, nearing your weak legs before he pushes them together.

Strong fingers dig into your ass, and you yelp; louder when he rams himself in, an effortless motion. He doesn’t wait to pound into you this time. He’s unmasking himself, letting restraint go. Holds onto your hips, keeps you in place — but it doesn’t work all the time.

You bolt forward on the bed, your mind boggled as he switches up the pace. Fast first, then slower; tiny pauses follow before he starts wreaking havoc again.

His lips move along your back until he can barely hold the weight anymore. Your knees shake, equally feeble, and when you fall onto the sheets with him in tow, he uses the new position to try something new.

Something dizzying again. Grabs your wrists, relocates them above your head. He’s both relentless and sweet somehow — his kisses are worlds apart from how he’s tearing you open. You can’t help but laugh; the satisfied, blissful kind.

You gasp, tell him, “Holy sh-shit… you’re… not as sweet as I thought.”

His laugh is breathy and broken, and he kisses your temple before he asks, “Am I not? Damn…”

“Not just a nerd… but merciless, too.”

“Only… only with you. You make me spiral.”

He brings your wrists together, locking them in one of his large hands and sneaks the other between you and the mattress. It takes a moment to seek out what he’s longing for, but when he finds your clit and starts fumbling with it, you turn wild.

“Oh my God—”

“He can’t help you now either.” His thrusts are slower now, calculated. “So just let go, yes?”

Your legs are shaking, angling as his cock penetrates you deeper, hitting just the right spot. Jungkook understands that stimulation isn’t merely about pace but about deliberate jolts, too. He proves it immediately.

With how attentively he listens to you, panting, fingers keeping a rhythm. 

In that sense, you’re not surprised when your walls start narrowing, rogue waves approaching until they hit the shore and you drown. He keeps the pace as you ride out the high, positively delighted as you hear him chuckle.

You can’t speak properly, your voice hoarse as you ask, “What?”

“I just. I wish I could do this all the time.”

This is really it — you can’t talk right now. Your body is loud enough; you can’t yell over it because you won’t even be able to hear yourself. So you just listen.

To his huffs when he lets go of your hands, waiting for a bit longer before he resumes fucking you again. You whimper, slightly overstimulated already, call his name — and he uses the moment to fulfill a fantasy you’re sure he’s held veiled for a while.

Because he slaps a hand over your mouth, jokes, “There we go.”

You scoff under the palm, but it sounds more like a pathetic wheeze.

Another strange sound follows when Jungkook decides that he has crushed you for long enough, wrapping an arm around your tits as leverage. Then, he moves the two of you to your sides, your ass pressed to his tummy.

He raises your left leg and drapes it around his own, spreading you wide to pump into you diligently. You wish you had a mirror standing in front of this side of the bed; you’d be able to watch the thick, creamed length pushing in and pulling out.

Would see his eyes, all foggy and fucked out, mouth open against your ear, staggered breathing into it. Or how he pinches your nipples, how you bring your arm back to his head, feeling for his lips.

The kiss is sloppy and sinful, and you groan into it when he slows down to drive the entirety of his cock into you. How can he reach so deep?

You shut your eyes tight, let your head fall to bury your mouth in his arm.

And then, amidst the insatiable gluttony, he says, “I think I’m… about to come, too, but I… I want more.”

More? Holy crap.

“Are you… kidding?” you clap back. “Your stamina is…”

He snickers, answers, “Well, thank fuck. Never doubted I’d fuck you well, though. Know why?”

“Huh?”

“Because it’s you. No other way… to react to you. Like, shit, I… thought about this. A lot—”

“...Insane. Insane.”

Nobody can blame you for losing your train of thoughts. This is all you can really mutter right now; certainly not a single coherent chain of sentences. He’ll have to do with this, and you’ll gladly listen.

Like when he confesses, “No, I would. All the things I’d do to you… for you. The way I’d touch you. Gotta have the entire building hear you.”

For you.

Another shiver along your spine, ironically co-existing with your boiling blood. The influx of emotions seems misplaced at first; feelings and physical symptoms mix, but you’re not the least surprised by any of it.

The rush of affection and adrenaline is just right. Because.

“Fuck, you have a hold on me,” he tells you, pecks all over your neck, “you are so fucking sexy.”

Yes… because he makes you feel that way.

“Still just so—” he starts, pulling you in tighter until it feels more like an embrace than anything. You turn to look at him. He’s sweat-soaked and warm, orbiting around you. “Still surprised I didn’t come the second you touched me.”

“How are you still…”

“I’m trying so hard to hold on.”

“Jungkook…”

You call his name so sweetly that you damage half his brain. Your eyes are looking up into his, your voice quiet and pure, no matter the circumstances. His answer is just as delicate as his fingers raise your chin, “Yes, baby.”

The rush of affection and adrenaline is just right, because—

“…I love you.”

And the movements stop entirely.

You wonder whether you’ve said something wrong, but his gaze suggests otherwise. The sentiment is too fiery and present to mean anything but reciprocated adoration. You know it the moment you say it.

And he proves it when he shakes his head and declares, “No… this won’t do. I need to see you.”

He is… but you know exactly what he’s talking about.

So you know to turn around before he can pin you to the bed, and once he’s back to the initial position and glancing deep into your heart’s core, you see each of his defences down. Not that he has that many when it comes to you.

But right now, he looks as vulnerable as someone ever could.

If possible, he’s harder now, fully immersed; you don’t assume it’ll take much longer. Because his balls are already firm when you reach for them, fondle them. And when you tug him in to kiss him, he lets out a sound that’s new to you.

A weak mewl, a moan that’s somehow both lewd and sweet. He submerges his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your body again. And as he sinks back in, filling your every inch for the last time tonight, he whispers—

“I love you, too. So much.”

He doesn’t stop now; keeps the speed. Not too fast, not too ruthless. The kisses to your shoulder and your face are constant as he compliments between each one, “You are beautiful. And an insane human being. In the best fucking way.”

“Kookie…”

“No,” he disputes, not sure what; he’s a goner, much like you, “I’m yours. I want to be.”

“You are.”

“Fuck, I’m… I can’t.”

His voice is strained, his hips stutter. He can’t hold himself back, is what he means. Your pussy aches, but you don’t care. You’d watch him chase reprieve all day if you could.

“It’s okay,” you assure, and that suffices for him.

He jerks, all jittery, and then lets go. You wish you could feel him filling you up. Could actually keep him inside, hot and abundant, let him watch as the liquid streams out of you. Fuck, fuck…

The way he’s looking at you. The thick, furrowed eyebrows and the gap between his lips. The shiny skin and skilled hands on your face. Fingers brushing back your damp hair before his face falls back into your neck.

Despite all the mess, you feel at peace. The control and harmony between him and you is indescribable, somewhat beyond belief.

And when he’s done, he emerges, a tender smile enlarging your heart as he says, “I didn’t expect that.”

“…That we’d fuck?”

“No. You saw me come in prepared,” he says, and you laugh, “no. That you’d tell me you love me.”

“Well… I do, handsome.” Cloud seven carries you to Heaven when he brings your knuckles to his lips, kisses one by one. You add, “Why did you not expect it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to make assumptions.”

“Do you never feel that I do?”

“Now that you say it… the permanent banter should’ve revealed as much.”

“Exactly.”

You titter, pause, take a moment to look at him; nothing else. But then curiosity gets the better of you and you ask, “What about you? Did you expect yourself to say it?”

“Expect it? I don’t need to expect anything I know to be true.”

“Right… Right. You’ll be the end of me.”

He shrugs a shoulder, still melting into you, hesitant to move at all. Tells you, “You’re stuck with me. So I better be the end.”

“I want you to be.”

“Good… me too, love.”

You lie there in the dimming light, quiet settling around you like a blanket. His length softens inside you, and given the condom, he should probably let go soon — but he only does once his breathing slows enough.

As he sits up, leaving you cold and open and finally discarding the full condom, he murmurs, “What now?”

You hum. “Shower?”

“Would it be evil of me to suggest we go another round?”

You can’t suppress the laugh. “Yes. I am sore as hell because of you.”

“Okay, okay… I’ll let it slide this time. Not that I can’t get it any other time I want to.”

“Not wrong.”

“What do you think of… the bakery?”

“We could just stay here, too,” you say, brushing your foot against his. “Put something on. Wait till we get hungry.”

He cracks his neck; smiles at the ceiling. “I’ll get hungry in no time, gorgeous, believe me.”

You inhale all the air in the room. Shit.

“You dirty talk now,” you jest, “but you’d fall asleep half an hour into a movie.”

“Shut up.”

You sift through options with the lazy comfort of people who feel no smidge of stress, no rush, exchanging small glances and laughter and half-baked suggestions until he finally pats your thigh and says, “Okay. Shower first.”

“And then bakery,” you add.

“And dinner after.”

“Look at us,” you tease, “functioning adults.”

“Barely. Not after today. Maybe half-functioning adults who love each other.”

You rise with a wide, goofy, school girl smile; still warm from each other, still soft around the edges. He half carries you to the bathroom, stealing kisses on the short journey to the shower. It occurs to you that sometimes, things can truly feel within one’s control.

And for years, they will; until they won’t.

Because it takes a while for them to spiral out of control.

The utopia you built, the clouds you made your mattress — all of it would crack and dissipate soon. Every inch of your soul encased this relationship, him and you, but the second the rosy, bubbly opening act closed, you found yourself in a nightmare.

Your apartment has changed. It’s still the same, except that months must have passed, because you remember that it looked different when you were a sophomore. At this point, you’re already a senior.

Jungkook has moved in with you. Once months passed, he found a safe home on the bed next to you, sharing positively everything he could with you. His time, his thoughts, the space. He’s done some cosy things with your place; you like the scent of his cooking, the diffuser and the quiet clicking noise of his controller when he games before sleep.

But as the state of the apartment improves, the two of you wither.

Girls’ night today.

Either the mirror is particularly flattering to you tonight or you have actually managed to doll yourself up in time, with a result you are one hundred percent satisfied with. You twirl once, flattening the dress just in case, wide awake and prepared for  long-lasting hours.

Jungkook is texting a friend he’s known for a bit. Met him at some work-related dinner party a few months back, and they clicked at least enough to spend nights Overwatch-ing in front of the monitor. They aren’t in touch too much, but they find company in each other when you do your own stuff.

Tapping the screen, he looks up briefly when you announce, “I’ll be going then.”

You round the couch to where he lays cross-legged, pinning your bag back to your hips as you lean down and peck his lips. Big, round eyes stare up at you, peeking through his permed bangs, and he asks, “When are you coming back?”

“Hmm… I can’t say yet. But you don’t need to stay up.”

“I’ll worry, though.”

“Oh, it’s okay. We usually carpool.”

He waits, hesitates. “Shall I pick you up somewhere?”

In the beginning, you thought of his worries as sweet and his offers as disarmingly chivalrous. And any other day, you’d say yes, too — but over time, you have learned that Jungkook is overly paranoid. Sometimes, his concerns concern you in return, which saps some of the fun out of the night.

He has picked you up many times before; but today, you tell him, “It’s okay. Really, you can go to sleep.”

“Let me wait for the cab downstairs at least. I can’t sleep otherwise, and it brings me a sense of relief, too.”

Okay…

You know that he cares — if you rejected each of his offers, he’d only grow agitated, nervous. So you lift the left arm a little, then let it fall again, shrugging before you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Good — it brings a tender, small smile to his face. “See you, babe.”

And that’s where this is supposed to end.

You’re supposed to return drunk and joke around with him in the bathtub. You should be dropping the latest tea and watch his eyes expand, no matter how often he claims to be unaffected by drama.

And then, you’re supposed to fall into a slumber, sleep like a rock and wake up to another tender Sunday morning. Bright and new and hopeful.

But the night plays out differently.

Somewhere inside, you know you’re not truly here, that this is only a replay of a done deed. The dream becomes more defined, the more you think about it, but you still cannot reshoot this very scene as they do in movies — and yet, you hope for a different outcome.

Jungkook picks you up the way he promised. Lets you wrap your arm around his neck, your body light, pushing into his. You’re tipsy, foggy-brained, enthusiastic as he closes the apartment door and stalely asks, “How was it?”

You don’t notice the tone at first; the dopamine blends out the grey tints of the world for now and focuses on the fairy lights in your living room. He hung them up there… you love them so much, you really do.

Just a little less than you love him; but he, in return, does not seem amused. It’s not his voice that betrays him, but rather the humourless, solemn expression he sports. His lips form a thin line and his eyes are glazed, crestfallen.

But you simper, try to lighten the mood. Maybe he’s just tired.

“It was great. Sooo fun,” you let him know, fingers in his hair, “a lot of stuff I need to tell you.”

“Tomorrow. Get some sleep now.”

“But… it’s extremely interesting.”

But he only repeats, “Tomorrow.”

You scowl. You leave his hair be, separating from him in wordless embarrassment and beeline to the bathroom. A hand on your hoop earring, you swallow, throwing a look back to where he slumps onto the couch.

“Why aren’t you going to bed? I’m here now,” you argue, laughing a little.

“Wanna make sure you’re okay.”

You wait. Nothing more comes; his attitude doesn’t change. So you follow up with, “…Okay. What did you do tonight?”

“Nothing. Gamed a bit. What else can I do, really?”

Your frown deepens, forehead muscles stiff. The tension sobers you up; you halt mid-motion. Turning around entirely, you lean against the living room doorframe and spit, “Okay, uh. Is everything okay?”

His answers are clipped.

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

There’s a curt pause, words hanging in the air, and you see the gears in his head turn, an explanation slowly being sculpted. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset before — the lonely, overthinking type, not quite the raging one.

His voice turns significantly softer, but there is no use in tempering the unease anymore — his declaration easily evokes new guilt anyway.

“You didn’t message me once.”

You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. In truth, you’re not even sure he said what he said, or why what he said might be… bad at all. Are you stupid or drunk… or both? You can’t make heads or tails of this.

Your unfiltered brain nearly blurts a gutsy, “And?” But you decide to draw from your empathic yet rational vein, as cautious as he is. You admit, “I didn’t realise I needed to.”

“No, just… a Hi or How are you or I miss you. Just anything, I guess.”

Fuck… what?

You’ve seen such skits on social media. Discussions on relationship issues, insecurities that tug one farther from goals and the ease that should be present between couples. This is not a particularly healthy sign.

“I was with my friends, Kook,” you try to pacify, “we don’t use our phones at the table. It was a girls’ night.”

“I text you when I go out.”

…What? When?

“You don’t go out often.” It is in no shape or form meant to be an attack. It’s true; Jungkook enjoys a change of scenery from the apartment, just not necessarily with people around. He’s a gym rat, a homebody. An introvert. “And also, it’d be okay if you didn’t text me, because I want you to enjoy yourself. Baby…”

You push yourself off the wall, your feet too light and unsteady, but you manage to get where he sits. With a playful groan, you make yourself comfortable on his lap, and though slightly reluctant, he lets you anyway. Looks up at you with an ache you cannot comprehend.

How come that he’s saying this now? You’ve been together for two and a half years.

Or has he gotten truly comfortable just now? Were the two of you too in love, too tactful about everything because it was all so… new?

Has the falling stopped for him? Where does he really stand right now?

“What’s wrong, Jungkook?” you wonder, a hand on your boyfriend’s cheek. The skin still feels the same, but the person doesn’t. All these years — this is a first. “I didn’t realise this could become a reason to fight.”

He quickly defends, “I’m not fighting.”

“But you’re disappointed.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what I am.”

You want to say childish. But you’re trying to be patient with him, to understand him. If you snap, he’ll snap, and what good does that do?

“Okay, then let’s talk about it. I am sorry that you feel the way you feel.”

You hiccup for a second, closing your eyes and opening them again right away. You clear your head; looking at him, it doesn’t take much to do so. He woke you. There’s no possibility for sleep just yet.

He shakes his head. “But you’re drunk.”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I came in like this, but… I want to talk about this.”

His eyes pause on you. You’re pouting a little, earnest and concerned, in a determined fight to win him back for the night. The guilt backfires as he tells you, “Don’t apologise.”

“What can I do then? What’s up?” You exhale, wipe back the left side of his bangs. His dark, sparkless pupils are still innocent, pure, but riddled with something that’s much bigger than you. “Baby. I don’t know you like this.”

“…How do you know me then?”

His words are a whisper; still not a strike, still not aggressive. Just… quietly disheartened. You put your hands on his shoulder, slowly rubbing as you count, “You are happy. Witty. Kind. These things never bother you.”

A shoulder shrugs under your touch.

“Maybe they do bother me and I just never had the chance or the courage to express it.”

Wow… this is… a statement.

“A chance?”

…What does a chance mean? Were you hindering him? Or was he holding back for your sake? This is not how love is supposed to grow.

You lean back a little, muttering, confused, “So… I should worry about your feelings like this each time I go out?”

Perhaps it’s clicking now. Perhaps he’s understanding the underlying ridiculous nature of his words, because he clicks his tongue, softly shoving you off his lap, and says, “No… No, forget it.”

You stand in front of him like some immobile stick figure, staring down as he manspreads on the couch, face in his hands. This is insane. Not a reason to argue in a million years. Is this what your friends mean when they mention a boyfriend’s permission or his doubts?

But Jungkook isn’t like that.

After a minute, just as the discouragement increases, you chew on your lower lip, balancing on one leg and then declare, “I’ll go shower.”

He doesn’t hold you back when you stomp away, and you don’t look back. The water is hot, inflames your soul and frees your brain. You rethink the conversation, shake your head at the bits you never hoped for in a relationship.

God. Communication is supposed to nurture a relationship, not… insecurities.

But as you finish with an ice-cold switch, cooling down each nerve, new motivation washes over you. This is stupid with two O’s, and you cannot conclude the night like this.

You dry yourself up. Walk out with words on your tongue that might mend this. When you come back, he is still sitting where you left him minutes ago, but he’s glued to the back of the couch, slouching. Palms on his eyebrows, rubbing.

He hears you when you return and shoots to his feet like a bullet. The rapid motion makes you flinch and softens him; for a moment, you think he’ll freeze at the spot and then dash past you and to bed.

But he opens his arms. Closes the distance to you, wraps you in. Your hair is damp, free from hair spray and dirt, wetting his shirt as he nuzzles you into him. The words stuck in your throat scatter until you forget about them, and instead, he speaks—

“I am sorry. I…”

His chest vibrates, and so does your brain. You are sleepy all of a sudden, eased by the reappearance of the man you actually know. You close your eyes and listen on.

“I think I am not used to having somebody around, and maybe I’ve become too attached to you. I… I didn’t consider myself the dependent boyfriend, but… maybe I am and maybe I need to work on it.”

You breathe in. More regret settles in. Confusion, too.

Work on it…

So the reason he flipped wasn’t because of the usual toxicity you have heard about, was it? Not the type that demands permission from him or requires a status update every other minute. He doesn’t want to lock you in, but rather let himself out.

It is him, not you.

Or maybe you are telling yourself all that because your love reaches an abyssal depth. Maybe it’s becoming just as dark, too.

No… probably not.

You aren’t blind to his issues; you love him, but you won’t lie. So you admit, “If you truly are dependent then… you should work on it, Kook. I’ll be here.”

“Me too. I’m here for you, too. I am so sorry.” His breath trembles, uneven. He’s suppressing tears. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“It’s okay, Kookie. I promise I am here.”

He is sorry; as the memory begins to depart, you feel that he is sorry.

Not every apology undoes a mistake, but you know he means it. Jungkook has never been in an actual relationship before. Situationships hurt and casual friendships that could’ve turned into more never did, some reason or another.

You two seem to fit together, so it is easier to love and adore. Right? But… now you catch yourself wondering whether you being a match or not was, is, ever will be the issue between the two of you.

Because if you — truly you, not this unaware past self — dig deep enough, realise what followed after, you know. You know that you were just convincing yourself that his personal problems were solvable.

Which doesn’t mean he is wrong believing in redemption. But you should’ve walked away far earlier.

Because it happens again.

A plethora of mistakes that stem from deeply rooted insecurities do not just go away. Human beings are fragile; apologies sometimes only do so much before one returns to the old ways.

Jungkook loses half his mind whenever you walk out for the night, and then you fight about it. Of course your brain would choose these memories to search for that final moment. 

It can’t even remember the previous one, but judging by these flashing pictures, you know your system is working at a high pace. Deleting the upcoming fights, the irritation he shows, the voices gaining on volume each time.

The self-pity, the guilt-tripping. You give in and apologise, and then he apologises, and from some point on, you fear going out without him at all.

The exasperation remains and heightens, and once your mind settles on the final proper fight, you start hearing some dialogue again. The fast-forwarding stops.

“You can’t make your doubts my problem for the rest of our lives,” you’re saying, “you need to change this or I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep living through this every time.”

By now you’ve learned that he doesn’t need to curb his temper, but rein in his abandonment issues. But he’s not able to — and you hate being blamed constantly.

“Then don’t live through it,” he fights, as loud as you — this is different from the tipsy, somewhat peaceful argument you had three months ago. He points to the door. “Just go then.”

The blood in your face boils, your jaw stiffening. You breathe out like a bull and then curse, “What the fuck, Jungkook? I’m not out fucking somebody, I’m with friends.”

“We can go out, too.”

“Are you fucking jealous of my girlfriends? We do stuff all the time!”

“Yeah, sure, say it like I’m forcing you.”

The gaslighting takes up a new level. You’re aware. You’re not a psychology student the way Jungkook wished to be half a dozen times, but you can read a situation.

You argue, “No, you’re not forcing me to go on dates. But to be somebody who I am not. To worry about things I never worried about. I can’t fucking do this.”

This is… the first time you have bared your thoughts like this. You are gentle, you swear you are; but there is this headspace you have found yourself trapped in lately. A limit you have reached. How long can you feign understanding until you run dry of it, too?

You guess you have struck a nerve. 

Just the way your words surprised you — not that you thought them, but that you dared to verbalise them —, they prick him just the same. His stare falls to the ground, lips parted, button nose in the way.

You melt each time. This is the problem. You always surrender.

Your heart softens as you step in, bringing his hand into yours. Vexation still resonates in your voice but so does affection as you explain, “Look… I get what you have been through. You aren’t used to somebody sticking around, but— I promised I would.”

You swallow and lick your lip, weak by the lashes moving as he blinks. Fuck…

“Jungkook,” you call; he meets your eyes, “it’d be great if you trusted me.”

Silver lines your eyelids, and you sniffle, rapidly blink the tears away. He stares. A second and two, and after around half a minute, he mumbles, “I… I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“I know… I know. But it’s hurting me.”

You know Jungkook as somebody usually so bright. Intelligent and snappy, wit one of his main strengths. He likes to be philosophical. Whatever else you can still remember, you know his stance on good and bad people.

Perhaps this is what he implies whenever he assures that you, or he, are good because neither of you identify with the evil of the world. But… one doesn’t always discern the fine line.

You don’t know what you are, ultimately. You know what he isn’t.

You tell him, “You’re not a bad person, Jungkook. You need to work on yourself, on these issues, just… because. Baby, I am not your permanent anchor. I want to be here with and for you, but you need to be your own person, too.”

“I…”

“This here did change me. It isn’t me…” You grasp his hands tighter. “I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t want to lose myself either. Do you get what I mean?”

But Jungkook only catches one real statement, as if in trance and circling around the words he picks out, “I’m making you lose yourself.”

“Just… everything. Not just you.”

You don’t know what everything is. He is everything. But you don’t want to make matters worse. He still seems to understand.

Repeats, “I am sorry.”

You shake your head. “Look at me,” your hands float up to his face, lift it and hold it in place. “I love you. Please just trust me.”

His words are barely more than a whisper. Sweet and frail. “I trust you… I trust you.”

It sounds sincere. You want to believe it. You can’t force anything more out of him and can’t make yourself believe otherwise, so you choose to hold onto this. A million fights need to show any ounce of change… at some point.

Maybe this one will. You don’t know. But you do know.

You decide not to care; bask in the moment you won’t get back. Let the memory play as you find yourself back in the sheets with him, moaning I love yous and I am sorrys.

And as the room grows dimmer, he breathes the admissions back to you — but the distance is already established; and you should’ve known.

The further you progress, the less you know who Jeon Jungkook was as a person.

Well, rather…

You don’t lose sight of who he truly was, not in the sense that you forget about his existence just yet. But by now, you don’t know what he enjoys. Don’t know how you met. Don’t remember the dates you went on or what you mostly did when you spent weekends at the apartment.

You do know when you got together and when you felt the most in love with him, and you know how you broke up.

You think that most of what you know about him or experienced with him is already gone. You stop at the major memories and skip-remove the rest. There were probably a billion pictures you flipped through.

Three years, right? Three years is a long time.

Will it hurt your brain once you’re done?

You don’t know.

But what you are fully aware of is another pain, stacked behind your ribcage; most intense right the hell now.

Jungkook is distanced; how long has it been since your problems began? You can’t say. But there must be some depth to it, because he looks dejected, his cheeks hollow as he approaches you on the couch.

As of what you can currently tell, you thought the two of you were okay again. You know he isn’t doing particularly well, so the fights must have been heavy — but the you from back then thinks that he was reflecting. Waiting for things to blow over.

But you only realise what his expressions and the energy-lacking movements really mean when he kneels in front of you, bringing a concerned look to your face. He touches your knee and you want to ask what’s wrong. But then he says—

“I think I should leave.”

You laugh nervously, not expecting for him to walk out on such a cold January afternoon. “Where to?”

He waits. The way he struggles… the poignant pain in his eyes… and the reluctance in his words.

You understand; know what it is before he says it.

“This… us… we should stop.”

For a good, prolonged moment, you are perplexed. You must have misheard. Or he is pranking you, playing out one of his dumb jokes. But… but in hindsight, you feared, knew…

This was coming.

You utter, “…What?”

“I’m just. I’m ruining it. I don’t want you to lose yourself.”

Your heart knows that he is right. You know you are merely half of who you should be, need to be. The confessions buried in your heart might not be too buried after all… you must have told him before.

Because just like you, he knows he’s right, too. Took it to heart, didn’t he…

And yet…

“Jungkook, wha—”

“Please listen, I… I thought about this for a long time.”

You touch his arms and he shifts closer, knees falling to the ground to settle. The two of you might stay right here for a while. He can’t rush this. You can’t let this happen.

Desperately, you try again, “Jungkook—”

“You know what’s the worst part? I can feel myself turning into someone I don’t even like and you… you keep shrinking to make space for me.”

“That’s not true, I’m just trying to help—”

“It is true,” he interrupts again, “I know you’re trying to help, but… I think that’s the problem, too. You shouldn’t have to keep fixing me or changing yourself, so everything fits. No, listen,” he lifts a hand when you try to argue in between. Your vision starts to blur. “Every time I worry, you pull yourself smaller, so I don’t fall apart. I see you being more careful.”

“Stop. What are you talking about?”

You know what he’s talking about. But the panic is growing and consuming you, and he isn’t considering it, all depleted and affected by his own beliefs.

A tear travels down your cheek, and he wipes it off, waits before he talks on. Your chest constricts, and you don’t know whether there’s enough dry space on his palms to truly catch what’s to come.

Your upper body curls, and you lean forward, crushing his hand as you echo, “Please?”

“You don’t get it. I can’t keep taking pieces of you just so I can feel whole. Okay?”

“So… so what are you saying…?”

“That… I need to figure myself out before I make those around me disappear completely.” His voice quietens, as if he’s forcing himself to let the words out at all. “I can’t do this to someone like you. I love you.”

His eyes are drenched in tears when he looks up. The spark in them is still present, but this time, it’s not joy that birthed it.

“But if… if I stay like this,” he stutters, “I’ll end up resenting myself and you’ll end up resenting me, too.”

You know, so undeniably know that he is right. There is not an ounce of a lie in his admissions, even if some piece of you might want to combat it. Of course you want to — because no matter how ridiculous your fights and problems are, you’d rather keep them and him than drown in the silence.

You know this pattern.

Holding onto a rope that cuts your skin, aware that you need to let go, yet imprisoned in the illusion that if you fight for long enough, the rope will turn to silk. You want to be happy — but you want him to stay, too.

There is no way to do both. But you don’t want him to leave. You don’t fucking want to.

Breathing becomes harder, your throat tightening and your limbs falling into an uncontrolled tremble. Your voice is as cracked and raw as it can get, and you more so stammer than you talk, “No, I— l-let’s work on this, ple-ease, I’m— I don’t want to fucking lose y—”

“You won’t lose me… I hope to stay a part of you.” He smiles, but it doesn’t improve anything; in fact, you come undone, your sobs louder, frenzied. “But we won’t work like this, you— you deserve to breathe. Baby, shh… please, sweetheart—”

No, you can’t. Fuck, you might pass out.

You close your eyes, seek the oxygen for your chest. It barely helps, but you hear him encourage you, counting, instructing you to inhale, exhale. A hand touches your cheek. Your heartbeat thumps unrestrained.

Your world view will change now, won’t it? It will change along with your idea of love, of joy, of chaos and of silence. All this, only for his touch to remain the same.

Because as his fingertips run along your cheekbones and your temple, you know this damn touch is right, if not everything else. You do not have the faintest about the moments you shared, but, in the deepest parts of yourself, you just know that this is how he’s always touched you and always loved you and that this hurts like a bitch.

You can barely breathe; part of your brain houses a blaring alarm, bright red and loud, and you fear you might slip into near-hysteria. How does one stop this? And how will you prevent every other breakdown once he’s gone?

How…

You shake your head. Instinct leads you on, lets his hand electrify you. His eyes are yearning, pained, already singing an entire ballad on the affection he inhabits and the prospect of having to keep it on from this day on.

Where will any of you let any of this out? Where or who will you put all your love into? Is there anybody even out there except him?

What… why…

This shouldn’t be up for discussion. Him leaving, him staying. You’re supposed to figure it out…

You shake your head again. Beg once more, nothing more than a quiet whisper. You sniffle, let the tears drench your face, and when his scent nears too much and you’re reminded that, in a moment, it’ll be gone, you break.

You lean in, grab his arm, steering him towards you until your lips meet his. For a tiny moment, the impact is clear; for just a second, he stays there, as if it’s a reflex, but the very next instance… he pulls back.

He holds you at arm’s length, well aware that none of you will be capable of letting go or forgetting or accepting the situation. But his eyes double-cross him — you don’t see an iota of actual bravery or restraint in them. The arm pushing you away is weak, as if wanting to be shoved away.

And then, he does so himself.

He gives you a second to react, and when he sees you hunger for him, all sorrow and longing and madness, his hands tug your face in. The kiss is more fierce, harder now. For a split moment, you wonder whether the force of his grip will lead you down the couch, onto the carpet.

But instead, he goes in with all he can, pushes you up the sofa again and says, “Lay down.”

You do. You’ll do anything today. Let him kiss your lips, your neck, your tits. Will easily let him undress you and melt with you, so fast and so hot that you almost imagine him keeping you whole.

Your million pieces don’t feel the ache, just for now as his kisses turn fervent. All tongue and bite, humping and shifting, moaning and whimpering into your skin. He holds you close, preparation brief as he slides into you so effortlessly.

You don’t talk much. Only glances; only pleas. Skin slapping against skin, teeth scraping the mounds of your breasts, your shoulders. He fucks you until you can breathe even harder; flips you, turns you, nails digging into your hips as he holds you on top of him.

He lets go and you let go, and you know for sure that nothing the two of you ever did must have felt this intense before. Nothing hurt this much before, either. It’s cruel, this pain of loving somebody for the last time.

Sometimes, he whispers, “More. More—”

And you breathe, “I… I need you, harder.”

He listens. You cry into the kisses, let him take over, bury your mouth in his shoulder to muffle your whimpers. And he hammers into you, out of you, and you vividly feel the goosebumps all across; all the extra love; the speed at which you fall apart.

You feel each movement, each friction, each thrust actively.

You can’t name this sudden heightened emotion, but it feels familiar to you. The insanity of it, the volume of your wails, how you call his name. The way you feel him, hold him, want him to wreck you.

There is a name for it.

As you near the end, all he declares is, “I love you. Fuck, I love you so much…”

And you implore, “Then don’t leave, just don’t—”

He doesn’t listen this time.

As he catches his breath above you, the stare is painfully resolute. Those dark orbs are expressive, you think; they reveal much more than he is allowing. Because he is steadfast in his decision, and though weak, he will not stray.

You see that in his eyes, too. Even though he’s still holding you; and even though he is still peppering kisses on your face.

You try a last time.

“Please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows kiss. You let your head drop to the side, a tear trailing down your temple. When you inhale, your breath is shaky. And a heartbeat later, he gets up. Pulls out, leaves you empty, head to toe.

You don’t cry much. But the sobbing won’t stop. This is fucking shattering you.

“Jungkook… Kookie, please…” you whisper. You sound more hopeless now, the syllable barely a sound; more a puff of a breath.

He inhales so deeply; dread befalls you that he might turn and yell at you, drill into your brain how right he thinks he is. But though his movements are as fast as you anticipated, his touch is soft. Feathers when he stoops to where you sit, your face suddenly back between his hands.

“I love you,” he declares, his gravelly voice much clearer than yours, though just as hurt, trembling, “I fucking love you. You are the best thing to happen to me and the best thing that’ll ever happen to somebody else.”

The mention of a potential stranger digs a sword through your heart, and you nearly buckle, your head too weak to stay tall on top of your torso. You want to curl in, press a hand to your chest.

He doesn’t let you. His palms hold you firmly. He continues, echoes like a prayer, “I love you. I love you so, so fucking much, it hurts.”

And all you can incessantly repeat is, “Please…”

Your constant implorations fall on deaf ears; or at least, on unreasonable ears. He hears your sounds, but he doesn’t stray from his too firm, too rash beliefs. Or perhaps, he is perfectly aware and his decision perfectly sane, and you’re the one failing to make sense of this whole… thing.

But you keep pleading while he keeps nodding, helping you get dressed. You’re like a child, numb and crying, hands clamped together and knuckles white. You let him lead your limbs into your warm pajamas; except, everything feels cold.

When he kisses your forehead and his lips leave an invisible mark on your skin, it still feels icy. You feel you might vomit when you, syllable after syllable, manage to spit, “So you’re just… just leaving?”

He never offers reprieve.

“I don’t want to,” he says, “but I… have to. If I stay, I will panic and you’ll aid me, because it’s who you are. You love in such a way, just so…”

His eyes are glassy, a single tear rolling down. Sometimes, you think he might get through this rather unscathed, but then he betrays his heart, hiccups, the lower lip restless.

“You love selflessly,” he continues, as if it’s a superpower, a gift rather than the insult you perceive it as right now, “but I’ll fuck up… and you’ll stop loving me for good.”

The hum of the streets outside fills the space between you. You’re a wet mess, a hot face and tangled hair. Your cries fall quieter and the world’s noises amplify. But with that, the emptiness starts its expansion, too.

When you were a teenager, you once read that as a way of dealing with pain, the body often shuts down. Falls unconscious, numbs you momentarily. You recall Dr. Choi telling you the same.

As your inner system fails and the room blurs, you know it’s shutting down, too, but… you don’t lose consciousness. It’d be easier if you did, but you don’t.

You’re awake, aware, every single fibre burning and frozen. You don’t quite recognise your own, now lower voice when you say, “I believed we could make it work.”

Jungkook’s eyes stay glued on you. The more you say, the clearer his pain becomes. And so do messages, without a motion of his lips, but they’re clear to you. He’s saying that you’ve always believed; that you did for the both of you. That he won’t be the reason you stop believing in anything at all.

As he breaks the gaze, stare floating down to his feet, you see the damp lashes. The soft cheeks, the full lips. The way they’re turned down a friction of an inch. Regardless of what you might remember or not, each inch of your body knows just how much you’ve loved all these little pieces of him over the years.

And he’s taking them away from you. Keeping himself to himself. If you love selflessly, he loves selfishly. You denounce such a balance.

You try to say something, but the words have ceased for good. The chaos that your brain endured over the last half an hour ebbs down to complete quiet, one that ironically resembles disquiet to its core.

As you stay mute, he hesitates. All you can do is look up at him. You watch him lean into you, just close enough that you can feel his breath. It’s not a kiss, just a pause; fingers find your hair. 

And then, he doesn’t utter a goodbye, but something else. Or maybe, he does; maybe, to him, it is a farewell.

“Thank you. For seeing the good in me.”

There’s meaning behind this that’s long lost on you. You cannot imagine somebody not doing so. But you can’t ask. Deep down, in the present version of yourself, you know, or think, you aren’t capable of it.

And the past never occurred the way you’d want it to, so you let time pass… let this pass.

A couple seconds later, Jungkook throws on a black jacket over his grey turtleneck sweater, zips up the backpack he already prepared…

And a minute after, he leaves quietly.

You stand on the same spot, at the edge of the couch for a long time. The door remains closed, trapping his scent and warmth so cruelly.

You stand silent, breathing slowly, shakily. You’ll have to learn to fill this silence again.

And you stand until the world fades and your knees buckle, and eventually, you let yourself imagine that he allowed you to love him properly one last time.

Somewhere, there’s a word for this emotion, isn’t there?

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼