ayo?

“Remind me again why I let you talk me into showing up like this?” you groaned, tugging at your black turtleneck. At least you’d swapped the green khakis for leather hotpants at the last second. There would be no way you were letting your outfit scream ‘avoid me at all costs’ tonight.

Finn, your twin brother, didn’t even bother to look up as he fiddled with the strings of his teal hoodie. Of course, the costumes were his idea. He’d even left Garrett’s place early just to make your costumes a surprise for everyone.

“You’ve been complaining for over an hour,” he replied calmly as he looked in the mirror, trying to hold your gaze.

“I was hoping it was a joke,” you replied, quickly finding his eyes in the mirror. They were the same color as yours. Most of your features were the same. Your personalities were quite similar as well, even though you would both argue differently.

Finn placed his hand over his heart, faking a shocked expression. “You wound me, sister.” Then he pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head, and a giant beak flopped over his forehead.

Your jaw dropped. “Nope. Ab-so-lute-ly not,” you said, shaking your head and marching over to yank the hood off his head. “This is where I draw the line. I refuse to walk into a party - late, mind you - looking ridiculous just because you do,” you declared, finger jabbing at his face.

“This,” Finn announced, “is art.” He grimaced and pulled the hood back over his head with one sweep, which made the beak hit his mouth and immediately bounce back into place.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “You’re the reason I will die alone.”

Finn grinned. “You’re just mad because Dr. Doofenshmirtz doesn’t pull as Perry does.”

That’s when you looked down at yourself. You were wearing a long white lab coat over your black turtleneck and hotpants. To top it all off, you were wearing black combat boots to complete the look. Yeah, you were definitely going to get rid of this lab coat as soon as Finn was out of your sight and too drunk to notice you had hit it somewhere, so he was probably never going to find it again. Hopefully, the boys would pull him into taking a couple of shots so it would be sooner rather than later.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late,” Finn said as he grabbed his keys off your desk. Then, if on cue, your phone buzzed from where it lay on your bed. As soon as you picked up the pink checkered phone and turned it towards you, your eyes were met by a text from Allie. ‘Where are you guys??? Sean already left me!?!!’ Another text came through immediately after. ‘I lost Hannah as well.’

‘She is probably with Garrett,’ you texted back.

A few weeks ago, that would have been the weirdest five words you could ever send one of your best friends, but it has become a habit by now.

Before, you were the only one who would hang out with the hockey guys, since Dean, Finn, Beau, and you were childhood friends who went to the same college. Plus, Tucker’s cooking was impossible to resist. He single-handedly improved your diet. It was a nice change not being the only girl at the house who wasn’t just there to hook up, even though Hannah was usually in Garrett’s room.

“That’s our cue,” Finn said while looking over your shoulder, reading the texts Allie had sent you. You shoved your phone into the pocket of your lab coat and followed your brother out of your dorm room. “Lord, have mercy,” you prayed as you slammed the door shut behind you.

By the time you pulled up, the house was bursting at the seams. Finn parked across the street, and the music thumped so hard it rattled the porch and even your car windows. Classic Beau and Dean. “How long before the cops show up?” you muttered, unbuckling your seatbelt. Finn just rolled his eyes and herded you inside.

You barely managed to step through the front door before you were greeted by Dexter with a hug. He sloppily threw his arms around your neck, which barely missed your face. “You made it!” he screamed into your ear.

“Yes!” you yelled back, which immediately made him let go to reach his ear with one of his hands.

He was about to complain about your response when he finally had a moment to comprehend what you and Finn were wearing. “Oh my god!” he screamed again, “I love your outfits! It’s so iconic!”

You smiled and nodded, letting Finn soak up the praise. Once you deemed the conversation over, you peered past Dexter’s shoulder and spotted a cluster of Briar U students, star athletes included, crowded around the kitchen counter, tossing back shots. Mostly Dean and Beau, of course. Their grins were your signal to escape Dexter and make your way over.

“Bambi!” Dean shouted, pulling you into a hug the second you reached them. There it was again, the nickname he’d given you back in high school after your secret drunken adventure and your epic stair tumbles. Sure, you could claim you were just pretending the stairs were a slide, which in fact was true, but no one would buy it. Besides, you secretly loved the nickname and how everyone else let it stick. “So, what are you supposed to be?” he asked, finally letting you go.

You sighed and nodded towards the person behind you. “Just check out the idiot behind me, and you’ll figure it out.” Dean froze, then doubled over in laughter. Beau nearly choked on his shot, eyes wide. “No way,” he sputtered.

“Yes way!” Finn spread his arms as he walked towards the group. “Where’s my award?” He spun around, showing his friends what he called his masterpiece. “Y/n are you-”

“Dr. Doofenshmirtz,” you deadpanned, lips pursed as you finished Tucker’s question for him. Dean was too busy wheezing with laughter to say anything.

“Break a leg, why don’t you,” you muttered to the blond, who was practically on the floor, gasping for air. “Or better yet, break both. That’ll keep you out of getting laid, which serves you right.”

“That’s not very nice, Bambi.” You turned, and there he was - Logan, with those big, dreamy brown eyes you tried not to get lost in. He stood next to Tucker, supposedly part of a duo, though all he wore were wings and a sleeveless shirt that did his arms every favor.

Logan smiled, “I think you look nice,” he added.

Shit. His words made your stomach clench, and your throat tighten, like invisible hands were squeezing every last bit of air from your lungs.

“So,” you lingered at your words, “Who or what are you supposed to be anyway?”

Tucker frowned at your question. “The bees and the birds.” Both hockey players replied, slightly in unison, slightly not. You blinked at their answer. “That’s-” you stumbled, “Why?”

Logan shrugged and smiled his famously wide smile. “It was easy, and Tucker really wanted to make use of the bee costume he had lying around.”

You blinked again. “Why do you even own a bee costume?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. Then you shook your head, hands up in surrender. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“We need to take a picture.” Tucker suddenly demanded. “No,” you replied even faster.

“Yes,” he challenged you.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Before Tucker could argue, Logan caught your lab coat sleeve and steered you toward the kitchen corner. His hand brushed your bare shoulder, just for a second, barely there, but you felt it all the same.

Suddenly, a wave of heat crashed over you. Fuck, why was it so hot? How was Dean not melting in that denim suit? You needed this lab coat off. Now, or you’d melt right there on the kitchen floor.

“C’mon, Doc. Smile,” Logan said, looking down at you, blissfully unaware of the predicament you were in.

Doc.

“Screw this lab coat,” you muttered, yanking at the sleeve in a desperate attempt to free yourself.

“What are you doing?” Logan asked, eyes narrowing as he watched you finally wrestle the coat off.

“I don’t like the coat,” you shrugged as you placed the coat on the kitchen counter.

“I do.”

“Well, too bad,” you shot back, locking eyes with him as you debated which layer to ditch next, since losing the coat hadn’t brought the breeze you craved.

“We want to join too!” You heard a familiar voice disrupt your thoughts, and as you looked to your left, you saw Garrett and Hannah appear from the crowd.

So, against your will, you ended up in the stupid picture. Beau jumped in halfway through, then some random guy in a Mike Wazowski costume. By the end, you’d lost count of the photos. Tucker had you in stitches, dramatically posing as ‘the bee’ and grabbing every prop he could find.

And Logan was still right there, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. Your throat tightened, heart fluttering up into your chest, desperate for more space.

Breathe. You needed to remember to breathe.

An hour later, the party had somehow become even louder. You were leaning against a counter, eavesdropping on the conversation Allie and her boyfriend Sean were having. “Let’s have this conversation another time,” she said, leaving her red cup on the counter and her boyfriend and you to fend for yourselves.

Spotting the abandoned red cup reminded you that your own hands were empty. You pushed off the counter and made your way toward the drink stash.

“Do you think there is something else besides alcohol?” You heard Garrett ask the person next to him who had his back towards you. “For you?” A familiar voice asked back, which made you jump and immediately cover yourself against the wall next to the doorframe.

Logan.

“No, it’s for Hannah,” Garrett explained while opening and closing every drawer. Logan turned towards the counter and put his hand in the sink filled with ice and drinks. “Here,” he handed a closed can of beer to Garrett and smiled softly, “Cans are safer.”

Oh.

Your stomach plummeted like you’d just stepped off a ledge.

“Thanks.” Garrett took the can from Logan and slammed a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, then walked away, presumably to go and find Hannah.

But Logan didn’t move a muscle. He just watched his best friend walk away. And you recognized the look in his eye as Garrett met up with Hannah again. It was soft, as if he finally felt relaxed for the first time in a while. You recognized it because you wore the same one every single time you looked at him.

Something twisted deep inside you. You felt a pang of jealousy that caught you off guard, mixed with heartbreak. The realization settled quietly. Logan had feelings for Hannah.

Oh.

This time, your stomach twisted so hard it felt like it was clawing its way out. Impossible, but it felt painfully real.

“Y/n?”

You blinked and let out a gasp. Your eyes found his as Logan was watching you now. He was leaning against the doorway, holding a red cup, probably filled with beer.

“Huh?” was all you managed. Words wouldn’t come, not after what you’d just realized. It felt like you were trapped in a storm cloud, ready to burst and rain for days.

“You look traumatized. Are you okay?” His expression changed from bright, open eyes to narrow ones, desperately trying to find out what it was that had you in such a grip that you couldn’t even pronounce a word.

You opened your mouth, closed it, then let out a sigh - half frustration, half laughter.

“Yeah, just fine,” you finally managed to scramble some words.

“That’s not what people say who really are fine,” he explained, slightly rotating his head while pronouncing ‘fine’. And then a crooked smile appeared on his face.

You stayed silent. What were you supposed to say? Actually, Logan, I just realized I’ve been crushing on a guy who looks at my best friend the way I look at him. That would go over great. You almost rolled your eyes, but forced a smile instead and took a sip, only to realize your cup was so crumpled it nearly spilled everywhere.

Logan studied you for a second, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Then Tucker yelled something ambiguous from the middle of the room. He shook his head while laughing at the younger boy. “Duty calls.”

“Good luck,” you replied. And then he was gone. You stared after him for half a second too long before dragging your attention back to the red cup in your hand.

“Okay,” you muttered, eyeing your crumpled red cup. “Love this for me.”

“Talking to yourself is usually the first sign of insanity.”

You frowned and looked up. Beau stood across the kitchen, holding his own red cup - uncrumpled, unlike yours, which had barely survived the stress of a single conversation.

You groaned once your gaze locked with his. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he answered as he strode towards you, leaning against the counter across.

You grimaced and raised your cup. “Amazing,” you said, earning a smile from Beau. He was never loud like Dean, always letting people come to him. Maybe that’s why you loved him being your friend. He understood the art of quiet, and you admired his calm presence. You’d learned to bury your wants deep, not always healthy, but at least you didn’t trouble anyone else. Beau always had your back since he figured this out during the years in high school you spent together, and the number of times you complained about your boyfriends to him.

“You could talk to me,” he said, which made you look up again and smile softly. “I know,” you nodded, “I just don’t know-”

You both turned at the sound of someone shouting Garrett and Hannah’s names. The crowd parted, revealing the pair near the hallway. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Logan watching Hannah, his gaze tracking her laughter. When Garrett tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, Logan looked away quickly, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.

You swallowed hard. Beside you, Beau followed your gaze, watching Logan slip away from the scene. Then Beau looked back at you, noticing the way you watched Logan. “Y/n…” he started, but Tucker’s voice cut him off.

You blinked at the sound of your name and looked around immediately like a deer in headlights. “What?” you shouted to nobody in particular.

“We need you for beer pong!” he yelled back as he threw the small white ball in your direction. Surprisingly, you caught it just before it would have hit your face and immediately shook your head. “No,” you answered fast.

“Yes.”

“We’re not doing this again,” you said, hands on your hips as you set your cup down. Suddenly, Logan appeared behind Tucker, draping his arms over his friend’s shoulders. “I’m with Doc, then,” he grinned, making your stomach drop. You shot him a look at the nickname.

“Who’s Doc?” Tucker asked as he turned his head towards Logan.

“Bambi.”

“Ah.”

“Fine,” you sighed, “but if I win, Logan drops the nickname.” He stepped up, offering his hand. You shook on it, and for a moment, he just stood there. Then he turned to Tucker and mouthed, “Never,” making Tucker snicker.

Beer pong quickly became chaotic, to no one's surprise. The red cups on the table were filled with water to prevent the floors from getting sticky and the house from smelling like dried-up beer. Dean contributed the most to the chaotic game by insisting on acting as a commentator and fully embodying his role as Maverick.

As the game started, Tucker roped Finn into being his beer pong partner. Finn was all in until he saw just how terrible Tucker’s aim was once he hit that tipsy-to-drunk sweet spot. It took about five minutes for them to start trash-talking each other.

Unfortunately, you weren’t much better. Every miss earned a laugh from Logan. It almost made you want to miss on purpose, but sadly, your aim was just that bad. “I swear I’m usually better than this,” you said, wincing as the ball landed four inches from the cup. “Hard to believe,” he teased.

“Have I ever lied to you?” you asked, turning to find him already watching you instead of the game. You stumbled, clearing your throat, trying to shake off the tightness. “No,” he said quietly. He looked like he wanted to say more, but then cold droplets splashed your bare arms, snapping you back to reality.

“Let’s go, Perry!” Tucker jumped and bumped his chest against your brother’s. Then both of them raised their hand in the air and high-fived each other.

The first time you notice him, he’s asleep.

Not the light kind of sleep people fall into on train rides with their heads tipped back and their mouths slightly open. Not accidental. Not peaceful. This is a full collapse.

The man in the black hoodie is folded awkwardly into the corner seat of Line 2 like his body simply gave up halfway home. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, headphones hanging around his neck, silver hair flattened against the subway window every time the train jerks.

You stare longer than you should, mostly because he looks familiar. Not celebrity familiar or“I’ve seen him online” familiar. Just familiar in the strange way repeated strangers become when your life narrows into routine.

11:43 p.m. Platform 4. Third car from the back.

Every night for nearly two weeks.

And always asleep.

The first night you notice him, you assume he’s drunk. The second night, overworked. By the fifth, you start checking for him before you even board. Tonight, though, something feels different.

The storm outside has turned Seoul silver and violent, rain hammering against the train windows hard enough to blur the city lights into streaks of neon watercolor. People are quieter than usual, shoulders damp from soaked jackets, phones glowing dimly in exhausted hands.

You almost miss your stop because you’re watching the man sleep.

Again.

His head knocks lightly against the glass when the train slows, yet he doesn’t wake up.

Jesus.

You glance around the car. Nobody else seems concerned. Typical. You hesitate before leaning over carefully.

“Excuse me?”

Nothing.

Closer this time.

“Hey.”

His eyes open immediately.

Sharp. Dark. Alert in a way that makes your stomach tighten. For one disorienting second, he looks terrified. Then annoyed.

“What,” he rasps.

You lean back instinctively. “Your stop.”

He blinks at you slowly before looking toward the station sign outside.

“Fuck.”

You try not to smile.

He scrubs a hand over his face and stands too quickly, clearly disoriented. Up close, he looks even more exhausted than you thought. Pale skin. Dark circles. A kind of bone-deep fatigue that expensive clothes and pretty features can’t hide. The train doors chime. He looks between you and the platform. Then sighs.

“Missed it anyway.”

The doors slide shut again.

You snort before you can stop yourself.

His eyes flick toward you.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little.”

“Cool.”

His voice is dry enough to crack concrete.

You expect the conversation to end there. Usually people avoid eye contact after accidental train interactions. Instead, he sits back down next to you.

The train rattles forward through the tunnel as rain streaks the windows. He closes his eyes again.

“You should sleep at home,” you say before thinking better of it.

One eye opens.

“You should mind your business.”

“Fair.”

Silence settles between you.

Not uncomfortable silence.

Just tired silence.

The kind shared between people too exhausted to pretend they’re functioning.

The train enters its underground subway tunnel and the rain stops hitting the windows as loud, finally giving you a chance to clear your mind.

You look down at your phone again. Three unread emails from your supervisor. One message from your mother asking if you’re eating properly. Another from your coworker reminding you about tomorrow’s presentation. Your chest tightens instantly. You lock the screen.

Across from you, the stranger watches you carefully.

“You got that look too,” he mutters.

“What look?”

“Like if one more person asks something from you, you might bite them.”

You laugh softly despite yourself.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah.”

He says it without judgment.

The train lights flicker once overhead. Outside, thunder shakes somewhere above ground.

Then everything stops.

The subway lurches violently before grinding to a halt between stations.

A collective groan fills the car.

You close your eyes immediately.

Of course.

Of course this would happen tonight.

Static crackles overhead before an announcement filters through the speakers apologizing for delays due to flooding near the tracks. Estimated wait time unknown.

Around the car, people begin complaining under their breath. The man across from you tips his head back against the seat.

“Perfect.”

You check the time.

12:08 a.m.

You still have slides to finish before tomorrow morning.

You haven’t eaten dinner.

Your feet ache.

And now you’re trapped underground during a thunderstorm with a stranger who apparently uses public transportation as a mattress. Something hysterical bubbles in your chest.

You start laughing.

The man looks at you strangely.

“You okay?”

“No,” you admit.

That only makes you laugh harder.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

Your laughter quiets eventually into embarrassed coughing. He watches you for another moment before speaking.

“You work corporate?”

You blink. “How’d you know?”

“You have the eyes.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Dead inside. Expensive tote bag.”

You glare at him. “I’m not dead inside.”

He looks unconvinced.

“You?”

“Music.”

That surprises you.

“Musician?”

“Producer.”

Oh.

That explains the headphones.

And maybe the exhaustion.

You study him again more carefully now. There’s something about him that feels heavy. Not arrogant like some creative industry people you’ve met. Just… worn thin.

“You work late,” you say quietly.

“So do you.”

“Yeah.”

Another flicker overhead.

The emergency lights switch on dimly, bathing the subway car in muted amber. The storm must be worsening.

People begin making frustrated phone calls around you. The producer beside you pulls his hood farther over his face.

“You famous or something?” you ask suddenly.

He gives you a long look.

“Why?”

“You look like you don’t want people recognizing you.”

“That bad?”

“A little.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“I’m not that famous.”

The answer itself feels evasive enough to confirm he absolutely is. But you let it go.

You don’t really care who he is.

Right now he’s just another exhausted person trapped underground, same as you.

“You got a name?” he asks after a while.

You tell him.

He nods once. “Yoongi.”

The name settles softly between you. Hours pass strangely after that. The train remains stalled while rain pounds somewhere above like the world is trying to cave inward. People slowly filter into silence. Some sleep. Some scroll endlessly through their phones. One elderly man snores loudly near the doors. And somehow, against all logic, you keep talking to Yoongi. Not about important things at first.

Bad convenience store coffee. The worst station exits during monsoon season. The weird smell near Hongdae after midnight.

Easy things.

But exhaustion makes people honest. Around 1:30 a.m., he asks, “You ever think about disappearing?”

The question catches you off guard.

You glance at him carefully.

His expression remains neutral, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel outside.

“Like permanently?” you ask quietly.

“No.” A pause. “Just… for a while.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“All the time.”

He nods like he expected that answer.

“I almost quit last month,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

“The job?”

“Everything.”

The words come out brittle. You stare hard at your hands.

“I spent years trying to get where I am, and now every morning I wake up nauseous before work.” You laugh weakly. “I used to think if I worked hard enough, eventually I’d feel successful instead of tired.”

Yoongi stays silent. Not the fake attentive silence people use while waiting for their turn to speak.

Real silence. Listening silence.

“I keep thinking maybe everyone else can handle life better than me,” you continue quietly. “Like maybe I’m just weaker.”

“No,” he says immediately.

Firm enough that you look up. His jaw tightens slightly.

“It’s not weakness.”

Something in his voice makes the words feel personal.

You study him carefully. “You sound like you know.”

He laughs once without humor.

“I haven’t slept properly in three months.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“No shit.”

You smile faintly. He continues staring ahead.

“People think creative jobs are romantic,” he says eventually. “But mostly it’s sitting in dark rooms until sunrise trying to make something good enough to justify ruining yourself over it.”

Your chest aches unexpectedly. Because you understand that.

Not music specifically, but the feeling of pouring everything you are into work until there’s barely enough left to remain human afterward.

“What kind of music?” you ask.

“Hiphop. Producing mostly.”

“You like it?”

The question lingers.

Then he shrugs.

“I used to.”

That hurts more than it should.

Outside, thunder cracks violently overhead and the train lights flicker again. For a brief second the car plunges completely dark. Instinctively, your hand catches his wrist.

Warm.

Solid.

The lights return immediately afterward.

Neither of you move.

Your fingers remain loosely wrapped around his sleeve while your heartbeat trips over itself in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you murmur quickly, pulling away.

“It’s fine.”

But his voice sounds quieter now. You settle back into your seat, heat crawling up your neck. The train remains motionless.

2:07 a.m.

You’re both too tired for self-consciousness anymore. Yoongi eventually falls asleep again beside you instead of across from you this time, shoulder barely brushing yours every time the train creaks.

You should move.

Instead you stay perfectly still.

There’s something strangely comforting about his presence. Maybe because he doesn’t ask anything from you. Doesn’t expect you to smile prettier or answer emails faster or become more ambitious or resilient or useful.

He’s just here. Breathing softly beside you. Human. At some point, your own eyes drift shut.

—

You wake to warmth.

And weight.

For one confused second, you don’t understand why your neck hurts until you realize your head is resting against someone’s shoulder.

Yoongi’s shoulder.

Mortification hits instantly.

You jerk upright.

“Oh my god-”

“It’s fine,” he mumbles sleepily.

His voice is rough from sleep.

Your face burns. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You looked like you needed it.”

The simple sincerity of that answer silences you.

Outside the windows, you can see the sunlight pouring in from the tunnel entrance. The train still hasn’t moved.

Your phone battery sits at 11%.

Six missed calls from work. Your stomach drops immediately.

“Fuck.”

Yoongi glances over.

“Problem?”

“I have a presentation at eight-thirty.”

He checks his phone.

“It’s almost six.”

“Oh my god.”

Panic blooms sharp and immediate in your chest.

Your breathing turns shallow.

No no no-

You can already picture it: your supervisor’s expression, the disappointment, the humiliation, another conversation about commitment and reliability and expectations-

Suddenly the subway car feels too small.

Too warm.

You press a hand against your sternum.

Breathe.

But your lungs won’t cooperate.

“Hey.”

Yoongi’s voice cuts through the static in your head.

You look at him sharply.

“You’re panicking.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

Your vision blurs slightly.

Embarrassing.

God.

Not here.

Not in front of a stranger.

Yoongi shifts toward you carefully.

“Look at me.”

You do.

His expression remains calm despite the exhaustion written all over him.

“Breathe slower.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can.”

His voice stays low and steady.

“Match me.”

He inhales slowly.

Exhales.

Again.

You try to follow despite the tightness clawing through your chest.

Gradually, painfully, the panic eases enough for air to reach your lungs again.

You close your eyes briefly.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

You laugh shakily. “People usually get uncomfortable.”

“I’m too tired to get uncomfortable.”

That startles a laugh out of you. He smiles faintly at the sound. And suddenly the atmosphere shifts. Softer somehow.

 Outside, rain continues pouring endlessly against the city. Inside, dawn wraps the subway car in muted gray-blue light while exhausted strangers sleep around you.

Yoongi studies you quietly.

“You hate your job that much?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

“I used to love it.”

“What changed?”

“I think…” You stare down at your hands. “I kept waiting for life to start after work.”

He goes very still beside you.

Like the sentence hit somewhere vulnerable.

“I kept telling myself once I got promoted, once I earned enough, once I proved myself…” Your laugh comes out hollow. “But every year I just got more tired.”

Yoongi looks away toward the rain-streaked windows.

“I get that.”

Something about him suddenly feels unbearably lonely.

You wonder when he last slept in a real bed. When someone last asked if he was okay and meant it. Whether he even remembers what rested happiness feels like.

The thought settles heavily in your chest.

“You know,” you say carefully, “you don’t have to ruin yourself to make good music.”

His smile this time is small and sad.

“That sounds fake.”

“Probably.”

“But nice.”

The train finally jerks forward around 6:40 a.m.

A quiet ripple of relief moves through the passengers. Yoongi exhales slowly beside you.

“We survived.”

“Barely.”

“You gonna skip work?”

You laugh incredulously. “In my dreams.”

“You should.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Easy for him to say.

But something dangerous blooms briefly in your mind anyway: calling in sick, going home, sleeping for twelve hours, ignoring every expectation waiting for you above ground-

The fantasy hurts.

When the train finally reaches your station, neither of you move immediately.

The doors slide open. Cold rain-scented air rushes inside. You stand reluctantly.

“This is me.”

Yoongi nods once.

“Right.”

For some reason disappointment twists unexpectedly in your stomach.

You barely know him, yet the thought of walking back into real life feels worse now somehow.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“For what?”

“Last night.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then quietly:

“Get some sleep.”

The doors begin chiming.

You step backward onto the platform. Yoongi remains seated inside the train, hood up, eyes exhausted. For one strange suspended second, you both simply look at each other.

Then the doors close.

And the train disappears into the tunnel.

—

You think that should’ve been the end of it.

Subway strangers are temporary things.

Brief intersections.

But three nights later, there he is again.

Same train.

Same car.

Asleep.

You stop short when you see him.

This time, though, there’s a takeaway coffee balanced precariously beside him.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then, before you can overthink it, you sit beside him and gently tap his shoulder.

His eyes open instantly again.

Sharp.

Alert.

Then softer when he recognizes you.

“You again.”

“You’re going to spill your coffee.”

He blinks down at the cup like he forgot it existed.

“Right.”

You try not to smile.

“You look terrible,” he tells you.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You too.”

“That’s fair.”

Something warm flickers briefly in his expression.

You sit beside him while the train rattles forward through Seoul’s midnight glow. Neither of you mention the fact that this already feels familiar.

“You skip work?” he asks.

“No.”

“You should’ve.”

“I know.”

You glance sideways at him.

“You sleep?”

“Also no.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Yeah.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch. You notice then how beautiful he is when he’s relaxed enough to stop guarding himself.

Not polished beauty.

Not celebrity perfection.

Human beauty.

Tired eyes. Soft voice. The slight slump in his posture from carrying too much for too long.

You wonder suddenly what his music sounds like.

As if reading your mind, he asks, “You listen to rap?”

“Sometimes.”

“Damn. Brutal answer.”

You laugh.

“What about you? Do you listen to corporate presentations recreationally?”

“Only the really sexy ones.”

He snorts quietly.

Victory.

The train rocks gently beneath you. Outside, rain still falls.

Lighter tonight.

The city glows silver beyond the windows.

“Why do you always sleep on the train?” you ask eventually.

Yoongi stays quiet for a moment.

Then: “It’s the only place nobody needs anything from me.”

The honesty of that answer lands heavily between you.

You understand immediately.

On the subway, nobody cares who you are. Nobody expects productivity. Nobody asks for perfection.

You just exist.

“I think,” you admit softly, “this is the calmest part of my day too.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

And for the first time in months, you feel understood without having to explain yourself into exhaustion first. The realization is terrifying, yet comforting. 

The weeks after that become dangerous in quiet ways.

You start looking for him every night. Sometimes he’s already asleep when you board. Sometimes he’s awake, headphones on, staring blankly out the window. Sometimes he saves you a seat without acknowledging it directly.

You never exchange numbers. Never make official plans. But slowly, inevitably, the train becomes yours together. 

You learn things accidentally.

He likes mint gum but never finishes the packs. He works best after midnight. He hates bright studio lights. He writes lyrics in his phone notes when he can’t sleep.

He learns things too.

You stop drinking coffee after 10 p.m. because it worsens your anxiety. You secretly wanted to study art before choosing business. You cry when overly stressed but only in private.

One night he falls asleep with his head against your shoulder. Neither of you comments on it. Another night you bring him convenience store food because he admits he forgot dinner again.

“You’re starting to mother me,” he mutters around a mouthful of triangle kimbap.

“You’d die without supervision.”

“Probably.”

He sounds completely serious.

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

Eventually, one rainy Thursday night, you ask to hear his music.

Yoongi goes strangely quiet.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

He stares at his hands.

“I think if you hear it, you’ll know too much about me.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Because maybe that’s already true. Still, after a long silence, he hands you one side of his headphones.

The song that fills your ears is raw.

Not polished.

Not commercial.

It sounds like insomnia feels.

Lonely piano layered beneath sharp percussion and lyrics spoken so quietly they almost disappear into the instrumental. You look at him slowly when it ends.

“It’s beautiful.”

Yoongi immediately looks away like praise physically hurts him.

“No one’s heard that one.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s honest.”

The confession settles between you like something fragile.

You want desperately to ask what happened to him. Who taught him exhaustion like this. Why he looks so unbearably sad whenever the train reaches his stop.

But some wounds reveal themselves slowly.

So instead you lean back beside him while rain traces silver patterns across the windows.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feels completely alone.

—

It happens in November.

You finally break.

Not dramatically.

No screaming breakdown or public collapse.

Just one Tuesday afternoon sitting in a conference room while your supervisor criticizes your presentation for the third consecutive hour.

Something inside you simply… empties.

You stare at the slideshow projected against the wall and realize with terrifying clarity:

If you keep living like this, you will disappear.

Not physically. Worse. You’ll become numb enough that nothing matters anymore. That night, you board the train shaking with exhaustion.

Yoongi notices immediately.

“What happened?”

You sit heavily beside him.

“I quit.”

His eyebrows lift.

“What?”

“I quit.”

The words feel unreal even now.

Your chest tightens.

“I walked out.”

Silence.

Then: “How do you feel?”

You open your mouth automatically to say you're scared.

Instead, unexpectedly:

“Relieved.”

Yoongi studies you carefully.

Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the tiny exhausted half-smiles you’ve gotten used to. A real one.

Soft. Proud. Beautiful enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Your throat suddenly aches.

“I don’t know what I’m doing now.”

“Nobody does.”

“You seem weirdly calm about this.”

He looks down at his hands.

“Because I think I’m about to do the same thing.”

You blink at him.

“The producing?”

“I haven’t made something I love in a long time.”

His voice turns quieter.

“I think I forgot who I was before all this.”

The admission cracks something open between you. The train hums softly beneath your feet while Seoul rushes past outside in blurred lights.

You look at him carefully.

This man you met by accident. This exhausted stranger who slowly became the safest part of your days.

“You know,” you murmur, “I used to think the train was depressing.”

Yoongi huffs softly. “It is.”

“No, I mean…” You smile faintly. “I think it was just lonely before.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face.

Then the train slows toward your station. Your stop.

You stand reluctantly.

But this time, before the doors open, Yoongi speaks.

“Wait.”

You turn back.

He looks strangely uncertain suddenly.

Vulnerable.

“Do you…” He exhales slowly. “Do you want to get coffee sometime when we’re both less miserable?”

Your heart stutters.

“You mean intentionally?”

“That bad of an offer?”

You laugh softly.

“No.”

The doors slide open.

Rain-scented air spills inside again, and suddenly you realize something terrifying:

You don’t want to leave him behind this time.

Not on the train. Not in passing. Not as another temporary almost-connection swallowed by routine.

So instead of stepping out immediately, you hold his gaze and say quietly:

“I think maybe the man I kept seeing asleep on the subway was exactly what I needed.”

Yoongi stares at you as something soft and astonished breaks across his exhausted face.

Outside, Seoul keeps moving.

Rain falls. Trains run. People hurry endlessly toward lives that wear them down.

But inside the dim subway car, beside the man who understands your exhaustion better than anyone ever has-

you finally feel awake.