#champagnevi

you’re at a private charity gala hosted by the country’s top culinary institute. invited for your critically acclaimed essays on food culture—pieces laced with dry humor and sharp insight that caught the eyes of chefs and critics alike. jin arrived later, slipping under the radar in a tailored suit and loosened tie, blending in seamlessly among the glittering crowd.

your dress is deep red silk—fluid, sharp, confident. a slit high up your thigh, delicate jewelry catching the light. you’re every inch composed and magnetic, skimming through conversations with ease. jin watches you from afar, lips twitching every time your wit slices clean through a pompous comment.

and then one of the event organizers slides in beside you. older, distinguished, charming in that well-traveled, silver-fox sort of way. he leans closer than necessary, complimenting your writing, your dress, your smile. hints at exclusive tastings and private tours—professional, technically, but layered with something smoother, sweeter.

you handle it like you always do. polite. cool. warm enough to be graceful, distant enough to draw the line. but jin sees everything. he always does.

from across the room, his gaze lingers longer now—sharpened behind the soft curve of his grin. when your eyes flick toward him, he tilts his head just slightly, brows raised, as if to ask: having fun? you hide a smirk, tucking it behind your wineglass, and turn back to your conversation.

📱

Jin: making friends, sweetheart? or collecting tasting invitations? You: just working the room, handsome promise I won’t sample anything off-menu Jin: good because I’m already setting the table at home and dessert’s going to be you

later, when you step into the quieter lounge near the balcony, jin is already there. leaning lazily against the railing, city lights scattering like jewels behind him. his tie loose, glass of red wine poised effortlessly in his hand.

he doesn’t greet you right away. just watches, gaze slow and steady over the rim of his glass.

“good company tonight?” he asks eventually, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

you hum, sliding closer. “not bad. a few offers for private tastings.”

his smile curls at the corners—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“lucky you,” he murmurs. “sounds like you’re very… sought after.”

you step even closer, fingertips brushing the lapel of his jacket. “are you fishing for something, seokjin?”

his smile deepens, slow and dangerous. he sets the glass down carefully, turning fully toward you.

“not fishing. just reminding.”

one hand slips around your waist, palm pressing warm and deliberate over silk.

“reminding you that no matter how many tastings you’re offered,” he leans in, voice dipping lower, “there’s only one kitchen you’ll be cooking in tonight.”

your breath catches subtly. his gaze drops to your lips, then drags back up—steady, unflinching, dark with intent.

you tilt your chin, sass cutting through the heat. “i could’ve handled him, you know.”

“i know.” his thumb drags idly along your waist. “i just like watching you remind people you’re already taken.”

he leans in, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. “i like it even more when i get to remind you.”

later that night, jin doesn’t rush. he never does. he moves with that same unhurried confidence—like he has all the time in the world to savor what’s his.

fingers trail down the line of your spine, lips mapping slow, deliberate kisses along the slope of your shoulder. he peels silk away inch by inch, like unwrapping something rare and expensive, eyes dark and molten.

when you tug him closer by the loosened tie, breath catching against his mouth, he exhales soft against your lips.

“still jealous?” you whisper, teasing.

his grin is lazy, dangerous, beautiful.

“not jealous,” he murmurs, voice thick and low. “just making sure you remember where you belong.”

his mouth finds yours—slow, thorough, claiming. and as he drags you beneath him, warm palms spanning your hips, his touch leaves no room for doubt.

you already know.

— kim namjoon

he is quiet, rational on the surface. possessive underneath. checks himself constantly. but when pushed, he can’t help the flicker of dominance in his tone—especially when he thinks someone’s trying to outsmart him for your attention.

you’re an up-and-coming actress. sharp, striking, all slow-burning charm. namjoon fell for your brain first, but that doesn’t mean he’s blind to the way people look at you.

tonight is no different — a private after-party after the film festival, where you’d been invited as a presenter. like always, you and namjoon arrived separately, pretending to be nothing more than distant acquaintances.

the problem is the actor by your side tonight — respected, smooth, and just clever enough to be a threat. namjoon doesn’t interrupt. he trusts you. but trust doesn’t erase the slow flare of possessiveness when he sees the man leaning in too close or making you laugh a little too hard.

you’re in the middle of a casual, low laughter conversation when you feel it—eyes. his eyes. you turn slightly and see namjoon across the room, his jaw flexed, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a drink he’s barely touched.

he’s watching. always watching.

you feel confident. you’re used to this kind of attention and you know how to handle it. you aren’t playing into it—not really—but you're not rushing to walk away either. it’s more fun when you make him wait. watch. simmer.

he won’t interrupt. namjoon trusts you—he always has. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the flare of something hot and territorial when another man leans in too close or makes you laugh just a little too freely.

he waits. always waits. he knows how to check himself. But when pushed, when tested, there’s always that flicker—that low, deliberate shift in him that feels like gravity pulling tighter.

tonight is no different.

fifteen minutes later, you finally excuse yourself smoothly, your dress swaying as you slip toward the quieter lounge. you know exactly where he’ll be waiting.

he doesn’t look at you right away. instead, he stands in the dim hallway light, broad shoulders relaxed but his posture coiled.

“good conversation?” his voice is even. almost too even.

you smirk, unhurried as you cross your arms. “jealous?”

a breath. his eyes finally lift—soft brown, now darkened with something molten.

"i’m not jealous,” he says, measured. “just wondering how long i’m supposed to stand there listening to someone else flirt with my girlfriend like he wrote the damn dictionary.”

your brow arches, amused. “was it bothering you? you looked so calm.”

he steps closer, slow and steady, one hand ghosting the curve of your waist. his body heat slides against you as he leans close enough that only you can hear.

“i don’t like sharing your attention.” his lips graze the shell of your ear. His next words are velveted steel. “and I don’t like the way he looked at you like he was trying to figure out how you taste.”

a shiver skips down your spine. your smirk deepens, but your eyes soften with something warmer.

“he didn’t touch me,” you say, voice honeyed but edged.

namjoon’s lips curve—just barely. "he didn’t need to. that was his way of touching you.”

your fingers trail teasingly along his lapel. “you know… you could’ve walked over sooner. staked your claim.”

“i wanted to see how long you’d keep me stewing,” he murmurs, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, “i should’ve known better. you like making me wait.”

“i like making you watch,” you correct sweetly, batting your lashes. “you’re hot when you simmer, joon.”

his breath hitches, a soft chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. his lips press deliberately against your cheek, a slow drag that lingers near the corner of your mouth.

📱

You: was someone feeling territorial tonight? 👀 Namjoon: i let it go longer than i wanted to. if he touched you i would’ve ended up in a scandal. You: he didn’t. you know I’m yours, right? Namjoon: yeah. still hate watching someone want what I already have. you looked good tonight. too good. You: say that again when I’m on your lap, baby Namjoon: get home. i’ll say it with my mouth. everywhere.

later that night, the door clicks shut behind you, and before you can even toe off your heels, namjoon’s hands are already sliding against your waist. he moves like he’s reclaiming something—not rushed, not frantic—just deliberate, confident, consuming.

he presses you back onto the sheets, his weight settling heavy and comforting. his mouth traces a slow, reverent path down your throat, across your collarbones, teeth dragging lightly at your skin as his fingers splay against your hips to anchor you in place.

“you were jealous,” you whisper against his jaw, voice thick with amusement as your nails skim his biceps, “just admit it, baby.”

he breathes out a soft laugh against your sternum, warm and low.

“of course I was,” he murmurs, lips dragging to the inside of your thigh, his voice roughening as he speaks against your skin, “but only because you’re everything. and everything that’s mine should never be touched by anyone else but me.”

you grin, tipping your chin proudly. “damn right, joon.”

he hums approvingly. His hands tighten on your thighs. his lips seal against the inside of your knee like a silent oath. and that night, he shows you—with touch after touch, kiss after kiss—exactly how much he meant every word.

— min yoongi

yoongi’s jealousy isn’t loud. it doesn’t explode or unravel messily. it brews—low, lethal, precise.

he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t stomp across the room or tug you away like he’s staking a claim.

no, yoongi lets the irritation sit in his chest, slow and smoldering, until it finally sharpens into a single line you’ll hear echoing in your head for days.

a sentence that slices cleaner than a scream ever could.

yoongi doesn’t like loud scenes. he doesn’t do crowds unless they’re under the blinding lights of his profession, and even then, it’s work—not pleasure.

which is why tonight is the perfect setting: a small, private gallery event tucked inside a quiet art collective, recommended by one of your professors as extra credit for your film studies course. quiet, dim, curated—yoongi’s pace entirely.

you invited him because you knew he’d like the obscurity. he came because he likes you even more.

he lingers behind you as you move through the exhibit. you—sharp-eyed, brilliant, articulate—you’ve always loved pulling apart the composition of other art forms, finding parallels to film. that’s what caught his attention when you first met: your mind sharper than your eyeliner, wit faster than your smile.

tonight, though?

you’ve attracted the eye of one of the event’s featured guest curators. a man a little too well-versed in indie cinema. a little too eager to quote obscure 1960s directors at you.

a man who clearly likes the way your lips part when you get passionate explaining shot composition.

yoongi watches from across the room—leaning against a polished concrete column, dressed lowkey and muted. black cap, dark bomber jacket, silver rings glinting faintly under gallery lights.

he sips slowly at his drink, one brow slightly raised, expression unreadable—but his gaze is cutting and direct.

you feel it before you see it.

the weight of his stare sliding across your shoulder blades like warm silk. you don’t falter—you’ve always been good at handling attention—but your smirk twitches wider.

you angle your body slightly toward yoongi (just enough to let him know you know), while still entertaining the curator’s chatter. confident. untouchable. you’re not flirting, not exactly—but you’re not running, either.

after a while, you wrap up your conversation with practiced grace and glide over to yoongi, the heels of your boots clicking quietly on the polished floor.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even look up immediately. just tilts his head slightly toward you, deadpan but razor-sharp.

“nice lecture you got there,” he says dryly, voice low and unimpressed. “i almost enrolled in his class.”

you let a slow smile curl your lips. “were you eavesdropping, min?”

he finally lifts his gaze to yours—dark, amused, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying very hard not to grin.

“didn’t need to eavesdrop. the dude was practically panting when you started breaking down italian neorealism.”

you huff a laugh, cocking a brow. “jealous?”

“not jealous,” he says smoothly, sliding a hand into your back pocket with infuriating casualness. his thumb brushes slow circles into your hipbone.

“just bored. watching him trip over his tongue trying to impress my girlfriend was sad.”

your lips part in faux surprise. “oh? your girlfriend? i don’t remember you coming over to claim me.”

yoongi’s smile sharpens.

“i don’t need to claim what’s already mine, baby.”

he leans in—his nose brushes the shell of your ear, voice a hushed growl.

“i just remind you who’ll be unzipping this dress later.”

your breath catches—just slightly.

but you recover fast. always do.

you hum coyly, tilting your chin up. “don’t make promises you won’t keep, yoongi.”

his chuckle is low, sinful, hand squeezing tighter at your waist as he drags you flush to him in the darkened corner.

“i don’t make promises,” he whispers, lips ghosting your jaw.

“i just keep receipts.”

📱

You: you were broody tonight, min. jealous of the film nerd? 👀 Yoongi: broody? you kept tossing around french new wave terms like foreplay. i almost dragged you into the supply closet. You: almost? coward. Yoongi: get home. say “mise-en-scène” in that voice again. i’ll show you exactly what scene i want to set. You: bold of you to assume i’m wearing anything under this dress might have to “explain” it to me in detail, professor. Yoongi: keep talking. i’m locking my door right now.

he doesn’t say much as he pulls you into bed. hands grip firmer than usual—commanding but unhurried, fingers biting at your hips like a quiet claim. his lips drag rougher kisses along your throat, teeth grazing just enough to leave blooming marks in their wake.

when you arch against him, breath catching on his name, he leans close—breath hot against your ear, voice husked deep.

“don’t let another man talk to you like that again.”

you smile against his mouth, exhaling a soft, cocky laugh.

“don’t let another man think he has a chance, baby.”

his breath shudders, smirk ghosting against your jawline.

“smart girl.”

his mouth traces slow, burning paths along the curve of your neck and down your chest—every kiss a silent reminder of exactly where you belong.

you sigh, teasing lazy against his jawline—“still jealous, min?”—

his only answer is teeth against the inside of your thigh, slow and claiming.

“no,” he rasps, voice rough with want.

“just making sure you remember who gives you real lessons, baby.”

and by morning, you’ll have marks on your skin like underlined citations.

— jung hoseok [ nsfw ]

hoseok has always been magnetic.

he’s the light in the room, the warmth at the center of every circle. he laughs easily, listens deeply, and never lets discomfort linger in the air. he’s thoughtful. polished. sharp. but everyone who truly knows him—everyone close enough to see past the glitter—knows one more truth:

hoseok is possessive. quietly. beautifully. the kind that doesn’t say “you’re mine.” he just makes sure everyone else feels it.

he takes care of what’s his. he keeps things neat, under control, exact. and when something crosses a boundary—when someone crosses you—his shine doesn’t crack. it drops.

it’s a friend-of-a-friend party. not flashy. a cozy rooftop with warm lights and too many drinks. you’re in a soft knit dress and a jacket he gave you before you left home. not a celebrity. not a name anyone recognizes. you like it that way. you belong in the quiet.

and hoseok stays close. hand at your back, brushing your waist. always aware of where you are in the room.

but eventually, you wander. grab a drink. laugh with someone—some guy who works in media, apparently. you don’t know him. he’s too loud, too sure of himself. but you’re being polite.

what you don’t see is hoseok’s face from across the space.

he’s not smiling anymore. mouth set. jaw stiff. someone asks him something, and he answers too fast, eyes already gone back to you.

and the guy?

he’s leaning too close. not touching. but it’s the lean that does it. the way he looks at your legs. how he says something and nudges your arm like you’re sharing some private joke.

you step back half a pace. just enough to reclaim the space between you. but it’s not enough.

not for hoseok.

📱

Hoseok: baby. come here.

you look up. he’s still on the other side of the rooftop. watching. the look in his eyes pins you in place.

another buzz—

Hoseok: he’s looking at you like he wants to fuck you. don’t laugh at his jokes. they’re not funny.

your stomach flips. heat rises behind your ears. you shoot him a quick look across the space, mouthing sorry.

he doesn’t blink.

Hoseok: if you laugh one more time i’m going to drag you out of here and make you remember who makes you laugh like that for real

you swallow. hard. and excuse yourself.

you find him leaning against the hallway wall near the stairwell. arms crossed. one eyebrow lifted. not speaking.

“hey,” you say softly.

he tilts his head. “having fun?”

“it wasn’t like that.”

“wasn’t it?” his voice is low. too low. “you smiled at him.”

“i was just being nice—”

“no.” he steps in. close. “you don’t smile at people like that. not men like that.”

you exhale, frustrated. “hobi, i wasn’t flirting—”

his hand slides up your jaw so fast it stuns you silent. thumb pressed just under your lip. his eyes are dark. voice quieter now.

“i don’t like being jealous.” his tone is a whisper against your mouth. “i hate how it makes me feel. but baby, if someone else looks at you like they want you… and you give them anything…”

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, your ear.

“…i get so fucking mean about it.”

when you’re back at your place he doesn’t waste time. the second the door shuts behind you, hoseok crowds you back against it—mouth claiming yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not rushed—but it’s deliberate. hands gripping your hips hard, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself to you.

when he drags his mouth down to your throat, biting lightly, you gasp—hands threading into his hair.

his jacket is on your floor. so are your panties. your hands are flat against your wall. his hips are locked behind yours. he’s been taking his time.

not fast. not desperate.

punishing.

“still think he was funny?” he whispers it right against your shoulder as he pushes into you again.

you gasp—eyes squeezed shut, nails biting into the paint.

“n-no—hobi—”

he thrusts deep. slow. deliberate.

“think he could make you come like this?”

you shake your head, but he waits. still inside you.

“say it.”

“…no.”

“say why.”

you whimper, breath catching in your throat. “’cause you’re the only one. the only one who gets to—fuck—gets to touch me like this.”

a pleased hum. a kiss to your spine.

“that’s right. you’re mine. don’t forget it again.”

you wake to the soft rustle of sheets and the smell of coffee brewing. hoseok walks into the bedroom, setting your cup on the nightstand—his hair messy, a soft hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

he sits on the edge of the bed, gaze fond but still serious.

“i’m not usually like that,” he says quietly.

you smile sleepily, fingers lacing with his.

“i like when you’re like that.”

his lips twitch—half-smile returning.

jungkook, who casually brushed that thought aside. why would he feel so eager to tell you about his latest adventure? he shook it off and kept going about his day as usual.

jungkook, who smiled wide, bunny teeth showing, as he carefully looked at the keychain he’d gotten from the vending machine— a tiny kuromi figure with its mischievous smile and heart-shaped skull. it reminded him of you in the strangest, most specific way. he’d never even seen you wear kuromi merch. it was just… a vibe. your vibe.

jungkook, who had always admired your style and the way every piece of clothing looked unique in you. how everything you wore felt effortlessly cool, like you weren’t trying to stand out, but somehow always did. he’d never admit it, but he found himself hovering over clothes online, thinking, would she wear this? and then buying it for himself anyway.

jungkook, who never missed a day sending you tiktoks that reminded him of you. every single one with a message attached. "tell me this isn't literally you 😭" "we HAVE to try this, right? for science" "i feel like we’d get kicked out of this place from laughing too hard lmao"

jungkook, who, without even realizing, kept bringing up your name in conversations with his friends—always with that same smile. always in that familiar, affectionate tone he didn’t even notice had become second nature. recalling some story, some adventure you’d shared, or saying how you were the one who had told him something, or how you would find something funny.

“yah, that’s what i thought. even the other day at the escape room, i thought it was super easy— but then we spent like half an hour just trying to figure out one clue.” “you and who, kook?” “who else, gyu? him and his precious girlfriend—” “yah... what are you guys talking about...” jungkook shook his head quickly, cheeks tinged pink as he chewed his food. “anyway… she solved the first clue because she remembered something from a movie we saw at the cinema…”

jungkook, who could be in the middle of doing something completely ordinary—something simple, even boring as brushing his teeth or waiting for his laundry, and suddenly get hit by a memory of you that made him smile so big it felt stupid. like the time you both got caught in the rain without umbrellas and ran down the street, laughing until your sides hurt. you yelled at him for stepping into every puddle on purpose, and he grinned and said, "i had to make it dramatic. we were living our drama moment." jungkook, who laughed to himself in the gym the other day, remembering how you told him you drank so much water mid-workout once that your blood pressure dropped and you ended up throwing up. he laughed until tears welled in his eyes. the image of your flustered face as you told the story was still so vivid.

jungkook, who couldn’t watch a horror movie anymore without hearing your scream in his head, without picturing that day when you went to see a horror movie with friends and the way you would jump in your seat every time something sudden happened. you had turned to him with a sharp look and that crooked smile— the one that made his stomach twist and his hands sweat— and you called him “annoying.” from that day on, that smile became his favorite. and don’t even mention the time you laughed so hard at a tiktok you were watching that your laugh made him laugh too—like it was contagious. like it was his laugh too. he was just happy hearing you.

jungkook, who kept getting hit by these flashes of you... and damn if he didn’t love them.

jungkook, who started to realize that his world just felt… dimmer without you in it. on the days you didn’t text first. when you had to cancel plans. when you didn’t laugh at his dumb jokes. he didn’t like how quiet everything felt.

jungkook, who couldn’t deny the way you saw him—really saw him. he’d show up with tired eyes and a forced grin, and somehow, you’d know. you wouldn’t ask anything. you’d just be there. maybe sit beside him, hand him a snack, and let the silence stretch in that comfortable way only you knew how to make feel safe. even when he tried his hardest to keep it in. there you were—reading him like a book you’d read a hundred times, one that felt close and familiar.

jungkook, who was sitting on stage in the middle of a concert, the crowd roaring, the lights bright, his heartbeat steady with adrenaline— when the thought came. unprovoked. loud and clear.

it wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t thunderclaps and crashing waves. it was just... peace.

“shit… i’m in love.”

yoongi, who felt completely satisfied for the rest of the day just from seeing you smile at him, who carried a faint smile on his lips every time he remembered the warmth in your eyes as they met his, the small tilt of your head as you wished him a good day.

yoongi, who started keeping mental notes about the things you liked. the way you took your coffee, the songs you hummed while scrolling through reports, how you always seemed to stretch your legs the exact same way before a mission, like muscle memory.

yoongi, who once overheard you say you didn’t like surprises, and made sure everything he did around you was soft and gradual. no sudden bursts, no unexpected gestures. just quiet consistency. dependability.

yoongi, who started noticing how your voice softened when you talked to him— how you tilted your head, how your smile lingered just a bit longer. he’d replay those little things in his mind, sometimes wondering if he was imagining it. but then he’d see you again, and it would all flood back in.

yoongi, who felt completely satisfied for the rest of the day just from seeing you smile at him. he’d carry that smile with him like a secret tucked in his pocket— pulling it out during long nights in the studio, during lonely missions, during moments when the world felt too cold.

yoongi, who didn’t believe in love at first sight, but who realized that with you, it wasn’t a crash—it was a slow, inevitable unraveling. a warmth that crept in gently, until one day he couldn’t remember what life felt like before it.

yoongi, who got defensive when hoseok approached him, asking about his feelings for you—because he had noticed it too. the way tension seemed to spark whenever you were in the same space, the lingering glances exchanged between you two, subtle but impossible to ignore. Hoseok was both his friend and yours, and he saw right through it.

“it’s kind of obvious, you know.” “what is?” “that you like her.” “i don’t.” “yoongi.” “...shut up.”

yoongi, who denied any possibility that he was in love with you. how could he be? you had never even spent time alone together. maybe he was just drawn to you—you, who were kind to everyone, no matter if you had known them for years or only just met. you, who always offered to help those who needed it. you, who treated everyone with the same respect. you, who noticed the little details that others overlooked. you, who, despite your shyness, always did your best to keep things flowing smoothly. you, who always brought coffee for whoever you were working with first thing in the morning.

yoongi, who stayed up late one night, staring at the lemon cookies you left on his desk. you didn’t say a word, just placed them there with your usual coffee run. but he knew. he remembered mentioning it days ago. and now here it was—your small, thoughtful act, turning an ordinary day into something light, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

yoongi, who went home early that night, only to lie awake for hours, unable to stop thinking about the possibility that what he felt for you was real. could he actually be in love?

yoongi, who tried to rationalize it. how could he be in love? you’d never even been alone together. you were just... kind. but that kindness was different with him. or maybe he just wanted it to be. either way, it clung to him.

yoongi, who was staring at the ceiling, unable to breathe properly. because every moment with you was playing like a film in his head. your laugh. your voice. your softness. the way you always looked back over your shoulder when you walked away. and it was like his heart clicked into place.

yoongi, who got up and went to the studio, thinking maybe music would settle him. but every melody led to you. soft piano chords turned into the way your voice sounded when you said his name. beats matched the rhythm of your footsteps down the hall. lyrics formed from things he wished he could say.

yoongi, who felt a wave of panic crash over him the moment the truth finally sank in.

"shit, I'm in love."

yoongi, who called his therapist the next morning almost embarrassed. almost. but needing someone to say it was okay. that he wasn’t losing control. needing to hear her confirm what he already knew—so he could finally allow himself to feel it, fully and without hesitation.

“it’s okay to be in love, yoongi. it’s okay to feel love. even if it’s terrifying.”

yoongi, who spent the entire week building courage like a man sharpening a blade. he thought about backing out every day. but then he’d see you. you, with your coffee and your tired smile and your hopeful eyes.

yoongi, who approached you on friday, half an hour before your shift ended, heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears.

you turned, surprised but happy. "hey, you need something?"

he nodded slowly, almost amused with himself, almost shy.

"yeah... i was wondering..." a pause. a breath. "would you like to go get a coffee with me?"

you blinked. and then— you smiled. that same smile that had been haunting his songs, steadying his heartbeat, reminding him what it felt like to want something just for himself.

Dear (_______), We are pleased to inform you that after further review, you have been selected for the Berlin Arts Fellowship. We sincerely apologize for any confusion during the initial evaluation process and appreciate your patience while we reconsidered your application. We look forward to welcoming you to our program. Best regards,Berlin Arts Fellowship Committee

You reread the words once. Twice. A third time.

Then again.

And again.

They had reconsidered your application? But why? What confusion?

Your stomach twisted.

This was supposed to be a moment of triumph, of unfiltered joy, but instead, unease slithered through your veins, curling around your throat like a noose.

Because you knew deep down, in that quiet, terrifying place inside of you that always sensed when something was off—that something had happened behind the scenes. Something you weren’t aware of.

Something that made your initial rejection not a simple mistake, but something much worse.

Your hands trembled as you scrolled further down, scanning the thread of emails attached below. The correspondence between the fellowship committee, your university, and—

Your breath caught in your throat.

—your recommenders.

The first two recommendations were exactly what you expected.

Your mentor, Professor Han, had praised your talent, your unwavering work ethic, your dedication to your art. A renowned artist in the field, he had been your greatest supporter, the person who had urged you to take this leap in the first place.

The second was from an old collaborator, someone you had worked with on an international project.

But it was the third that made your blood run cold.

Because it wasn’t from Min Yoongi.

It was from Kim Namjoon.

Your eyes scanned the letter, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Namjoon had written about your time working with BTS as a creative consultant—your designs, your input, your artistic vision. He had written about your ability to capture emotions in your work, about how your art had transformed stages, concepts, and performances. He had called you extraordinary.

And it was because of this letter that Berlin had overturned their decision.

But it didn’t make sense.

Because Yoongi had promised.

You had asked him months ago if he would write you a letter of recommendation, knowing that his word carried weight, that having Min Yoongi, one of the most respected musicians in the industry, vouch for you would be invaluable.

And he had said yes.

He had shown you the letter.

You had seen it with your own eyes, neatly typed, his signature at the bottom.

So why wasn’t it here?

Your vision blurred as you scrolled further. There had to be some mistake. Maybe they had just used Namjoon’s instead. Maybe—

Then you saw it.

A forwarded message.

A direct email from Min Yoongi himself.

And as you read, the world tilted.

To Whom It May Concern, I would like to express my concerns regarding _____'s application for the Berlin Arts Fellowship. While I acknowledge her artistic talent, I have observed a pattern of inconsistency and an inability to handle high-pressure situations. As someone who has worked closely with her in professional settings, I worry that this opportunity may not be the right fit for her at this stage in her career. Min Yoongi

The words twisted into you like a serrated blade.

What?

You could barely breathe.

Your hands clenched into fists as your mind raced, trying to piece together what this meant. Yoongi had written this. He had sent this. Behind your back, without ever telling you. He had actively tried to sabotage you.

Yoongi had written to the committee.

Not to recommend you.

Not to support you.

But to sabotage you.

You felt yourself sinking, drowning in a sea of disbelief and betrayal.

He had lied.

He had promised you. He had shown you a letter of recommendation—one that didn’t exist.

And instead, behind your back, he had sent this.

A warning. A cautionary statement. A thinly veiled attempt to kill your chances before you ever got the opportunity to take flight.

The weight of it pressed down on your chest, suffocating, crushing, unbearable.

You felt sick.

Your fingers clenched around the edge of your desk, your nails digging into the wood as the realization slammed into you all at once.

Yoongi had never believed in you.

He had never wanted you to go.

And he had been willing to destroy your dream to keep you here.

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

Not yet.

A sudden need for answers surged through you, desperate and burning. Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone, your fingers fumbling as you dialed the number for the Berlin Arts Fellowship.

A woman answered on the third ring. “Hello, this is the Berlin Arts Fellowship office.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Hi, this is ____. I just received my acceptance email, and I wanted to confirm something about my application.”

A brief pause. “Of course,” the woman responded kindly. “Let me pull up your file.”

Seconds stretched into eternity.

“Ah, yes, I see it here. What would you like to confirm?”

“I… I saw that there were concerns about my recommendation letters,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can you tell me who submitted them?”

There was a pause. “Yes, of course. You initially had a recommendation from Professor Hang, and then a second one from Min Yoongi—”

Your fingers curled around the phone. “I noticed that the final recommendation on my file was from Kim Namjoon. But originally, I had asked Min Yoongi to write one. Could you tell me what happened?”

There was another pause—this one longer. Hesitant.

Then, in a careful tone, she said, “Min Yoongi had submitted concerns regarding your application,” she continued. “However, a third letter was sent later—one that countered those concerns and made a strong case for your acceptance.”

You felt your stomach drop.

The woman continued, unaware of the devastation settling into your bones.

“The additional letter from Mr. Kim, who spoke very highly of you. His recommendation was incredibly compelling, and after a thorough review of your work, we decided to reevaluate your application.”

You barely heard the rest.

Your ears were ringing, the world around you fading into static.

Yoongi had nearly cost you everything.

And Namjoon…

Namjoon had saved you.

It was because of him that you were still standing here, clutching this acceptance letter with trembling hands instead of watching your dream slip through your fingers.

Tears blurred your vision, this time unstoppable.

Not just from gratitude.

But from heartbreak.

From the staggering weight of knowing that the person you had trusted more than anyone in the world had looked you in the eyes, told you he loved you, and still driven a knife into your back.

You barely muttered a thank-you before ending the call.

Then, with shaking hands, you set your phone down on the desk and let the sobs wrack through you.

Because you had never felt so alone.

Because you had never felt so betrayed.

And because now, you knew exactly what you had to do.

The storm inside you had been brewing for hours.

By the time you reached the doors of HYBE, it was an unrelenting hurricane.

You stormed past the security desk, barely sparing a glance at the startled guard. You knew this building like the back of your hand—how could you not, after all the late nights spent waiting for Yoongi to finish working, curled up on the studio couch while he fine-tuned beats into the early hours of the morning?

Back when you still thought he loved you.

Now, that love felt like a noose around your neck.

The moment you reached the Genius Lab, you didn’t hesitate. You shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, making the three men inside jolt in surprise.

Yoongi was sitting in his usual chair, a notebook in hand, headphones around his neck. Across from him, Namjoon and Hoseok sat on the couch, deep in conversation—until they saw you.

Silence crashed over the room like a tidal wave.

“You fucking bastard.”

The words left your mouth before you could think, raw and venomous.

Yoongi’s eyes widened. “What—”

“How could you?” Your voice was shaking, your breath uneven, but you didn’t care. The hurt, the rage, the betrayal surged through you like wildfire, scorching everything in its path. “You sabotaged me. You fucking sabotaged me, Yoongi!”

Hoseok stiffened, his gaze flickering to Namjoon. Namjoon, who looked tired, like he already knew what this was about.

Yoongi sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “This isn’t something to freak out over—”

“Not something to—” A hysterical laugh tore from your throat, bitter and disbelieving. “You lied to me! You told me you sent a letter of recommendation—”

“I did.”

“No, you fucking didn’t!”

Your vision blurred with fury. “You sent them a letter telling them you doubted me. You made them question my integrity. You made them reject me. You almost ruined me, Yoongi. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s nothing?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He stood up, his voice low, controlled. “I was trying to protect you.”

You flinched.

For a moment, you just stared at him, the weight of his words crushing the air from your lungs.

“Protect me?” you whispered.

His expression didn’t waver. “You weren’t ready. Berlin is too far, too demanding—”

Your breath hitched. “Who the fuck are you to decide that?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You were supposed to be the one person who believed in me. And instead, you—” You choked on the words, your voice breaking under the sheer weight of them. “You tried to take this from me.”

Namjoon exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing his temples. Hoseok shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you both.

You turned to Namjoon then, something hollow settling in your chest.

“Did you know?”

His face fell.

And then—slowly, painfully—he nodded.

Your throat closed up.

Namjoon, your friend. Namjoon, who had fought for you when Yoongi hadn’t. Namjoon, who had written the letter that had saved your dream.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Thank you,” you murmured, voice raw.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m proud of you.”

A fresh wave of emotions crashed into you, but you forced yourself to hold it together. You gave him a small, pained smile—one that barely reached your eyes. Then, without another word, Namjoon and Hoseok quietly gathered their things and left, closing the door behind them.

And then it was just you and Yoongi.

The silence was suffocating.

Yoongi’s hands were clenched into fists, his shoulders stiff as he exhaled shakily. “You don’t understand.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don’t,” he snapped, his voice rising. His eyes were dark, desperate. “I couldn’t let you go. Do you get that? I couldn’t—”

Your stomach twisted.

“So you decided to fucking ruin me?”

“I wasn’t ruining you,” Yoongi argued, his voice pleading now. “I was—” He sighed harshly, running a hand through his hair. “I was trying to keep you here. With me.”

Your heart shattered.

“You selfish piece of shit.”

Yoongi flinched like you had physically struck him.

“I loved you.” Your voice was shaking, tears burning your eyes. “I fucking loved you so much I would’ve tried. I would’ve done long distance. I would’ve come back to you at the end of it all. Because you were home to me, Yoongi. You were everything to me.”

His eyes darkened, his lips parting. “I am home to you—”

“Not anymore.”

The words landed between you like a death sentence.

Yoongi’s entire body tensed. “No. Don’t—”

“I’m done, Yoongi.”

His breath caught. “You don’t mean that.”

You let out a bitter, broken laugh. “Oh, I do. I really, really do.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “Baby—”

“Don’t call me that.”

His throat bobbed. “I love you.”

Tears spilled over your lashes.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

Yoongi inhaled sharply, his face twisting with pain. “You’re the love of my life. I can’t—”

Your voice cracked. “Then you shouldn’t have done this to me.”

Yoongi reached for you then—desperate, frantic—but you took a step back, out of his reach. His hands hovered in midair before they curled into trembling fists.

“I can fix this,” he begged. “Let me fix this. Let me make this right.”

You stared at him.

At the man you had once loved more than anything.

The man who had just broken you beyond repair.

“You can’t.”

A sob tore from Yoongi’s throat. He crumpled before you, his hands clutching his hair as his breath came out in broken gasps.

“I’m leaving.”

His head snapped up, his face streaked with tears. “No, don’t—”

Your heart was in ruins, but your voice was steady.

“Goodbye, Yoongi.”

You hadn’t spoken to him in five years.

Not for lack of trying on his part.

At first, it was letters. Long-winded apologies that sat in your inbox, unopened. He sent gifts—things that once would have made you smile. A book from your favorite artist, a necklace you’d mentioned wanting in passing. Small things that showed he still knew you better than anyone.

The first few months were unbearable. You thought of him every day. Wondered what he was doing, if he was eating well, if he was happy. But time dulled the ache. You stopped flinching when his songs played in cafés. You stopped searching for him in crowds.

Namjoon helped.

After everything, he remained one of your closest friends. He never spoke about Yoongi unless you asked, never pushed, just stood by your side as you rebuilt yourself. And through it all, he reminded you that you were more than what happened to you.

The first year had been unbearable. He had tried—God, had he tried.

You remembered it all too well.

The first letter. You almost didn’t open it.

Handwritten, folded carefully inside a plain envelope unmarked except for your name — written in the handwriting you knew better than your own, sent to the address of a friend because he didn’t know where you were staying. Your fingers sliding over the ink he had pressed onto the envelope.

Yoongi’s handwriting.

You stared at it for hours. Touched the edge of the envelope, flipped it over, back again. You’d left Seoul to rebuild yourself, to run from the wreckage he left behind. And now, not even thirty days later, he was here — in ink, in your hands.

Eventually, you broke.

The paper inside was folded neatly. The first line was scratched out and rewritten twice.

I don’t know where to start.I’m sorry. That’s the start.

Your breath caught in your chest.

I was scared. I thought that if you went to Berlin, I’d lose you. And I did — but because of what I did. You were never the problem. I was.You were brilliant. You ARE brilliant.And I fucking wrecked it. You don’t owe me forgiveness. I don’t even expect a reply. But if you’re reading this, just know... I haven’t gone a day without thinking about you. I love you.I think I always will. Forever yours, M.Y.

You folded the letter slowly, pressed it to your chest for a long moment, then placed it in the back of your drawer and cried like the heartbreak had just happened all over again.

The second letter came six months later. Longer this time, messier, like he had written it in a hurry, emotions bleeding through the ink.

Tucked into a parcel with a carefully wrapped copy of an art magazine you had been featured in. You hadn’t even told anyone about it, only someone who followed your work religiously would have known.

Yoongi had circled your interview. The note inside was raw, rushed, less polished than the first.

I saw this and I cried.You looked happy.Not just “I’m succeeding” happy. Genuinely, radiantly, peaceful. I’m sorry that I ever stood in the way of that. I don’t know if you miss me. I hope you don’t. I hope you never look back. But I wanted to tell you that I’ve been following your art, every piece, every city. I tell people I knew you, once. I’m so fucking proud of you. I wish I could tell you that in person.

There was a smear of ink in the corner — like maybe he’d been crying when he wrote it.

You didn’t cry that time.

But you didn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

And then came the gifts. Three months after the second letter, a package showed up this time to your flat studio with no return address.

Inside your favorite record. A rare vinyl, first press, signed by the lead singer. One you and Yoongi used to play on Sunday mornings when you made breakfast in his apartment.

Taped to it was a note on a napkin, in messy handwriting.

“For the mornings I’m no longer part of.”

You sat on your bed for ten minutes holding it before putting it away in your closet.

You came this close to playing it.

But you knew you weren’t ready.

But the worst was when he flew out to find you.

You had been in Paris then, working on an installation, when a mutual friend mentioned seeing the Yoongi from BTS at a café near your studio. You hadn’t believed it at first, but the panic had been immediate. Your hands had trembled as you checked your phone, expecting to see his name pop up any second. When the messages came, you couldn’t bring yourself to open them.

That night, you turned off your phone and hid. You never met him, never gave him the chance. Because you knew that if you did, if you looked him in the eyes and saw the regret there, you might have forgiven him. Run back to him.

And you couldn’t afford to.

Not when it had taken you so long to stitch yourself back together.

And then, one day, you heard the rumors.

Yoongi was dating.

Namjoon had hesitated to tell you, but you asked, and he was honest. And the strangest thing happened.

It didn’t hurt.

It should have. You should have felt anger, jealousy—something. But all you felt was relief. Because it meant you were free.

And now, five years later, you were back.

The cab pulled up in front of your friend’s apartment, and you shook yourself from your thoughts, pushing them aside. Whatever ghosts lingered in this city, you wouldn’t let them haunt you.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to leave the past behind as you stepped out of the car. Your friend’s apartment was warm and familiar, a temporary home until you figured out how long you were staying.

Seoul was still home.

But you weren’t sure if you belonged here anymore.

Days passed in a whirlwind of press, interviews, and gallery showings. The exhibition was everything you had dreamed of, the culmination of years of struggle and triumph. Your friends came, their faces glowing with pride, their support unwavering.

The first night of your exhibition was surreal. The gallery was filled with people—critics, artists, admirers, friends. You had made something of yourself, carved out a space in this world where your art mattered.

Namjoon was there, of course. He had been one of your biggest supporters, a steady presence throughout the years. You had worked on Indigo together, and after that, your friendship only grew stronger.

“You’re glowing,” he said, nudging you with a grin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You exhaled, looking around. “Yeah. It does.”

And then, hours later, when the crowd began to thin, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: Congratulations.

You frowned. You had recently changed your number, so only family and friends had it.

You: Who is this?

A pause. Then—

Unknown: I guess you really deleted my number, huh?

Your breath caught in your throat. A cold sweat broke out on your body and only one name crossed your mind. Could it be?

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Your fingers hesitated over the screen, a thousand emotions clashing inside you. And then, as if drawn by some unseen force, you replied.

You: Yoongi?

There was no immediate answer, perhaps they were wrong. Maybe it's just some friend you didn't book. Maybe-

Yoongi: It’s been a long time.

You: Yeah. It has.

A beat. Slowly and quietly you moved to the side where you could not draw attention to yourself or get in anyone's way.

Yoongi: I meant what I said. I’m proud of you.

Something in your chest clenched. You stared at the message for too long, your mind a mess of memories and feelings you thought you had buried.

The world around you was still moving. Everyone talking to each other, moving around the place looking at your art, your work, while you stood to the side feeling your hands sweat with a knot in your stomach that you couldn't figure out what it was hiding.

You shouldn’t reply.

But you did.

You: Thanks.

Silence.

Then—

Yoongi: I’d like to see your exhibition. If that’s okay.

Your hands tightened around your phone. Would it be okay? Could you face him after everything?

You didn’t know.

The last you heard of him, after serving in the military, he returned to his music with the band and released another solo album as AgustD. An album you haven't dared to listen to yet. Even if you did, according to what you had read, contained romantic lyrics, which confirmed that he had also moved on with his life. Maybe he was in a relationship and you would never find out because it was no longer your business. You no longer had a place in his life.

Against your better judgment, you still typed back.

You: It’s open to the public. Last night is in three days.

Yoongi: Would you mind iaf I came?

You exhaled slowly. Thought about it. Thought about the past, about the person you were now. Your heart was at rest. Your life was flowing. You had nothing to hold on to and no need to hide or run away.

You: It’s up to you.

Yoongi: You still write in blue ink when you're nervous?

You: Still think too much when I’m scared.

Yoongi: Then nothing’s changed.

You: Everything’s changed.

Yoongi: Still. I want to see the version of you I never got to know.

You didn’t reply to that.

But you also didn’t tell him not to come.

And he also didn’t reply after that.

And for the next eight days, you found yourself holding your breath, wondering if he would actually show up.

The gallery buzzed.

The soft hum of voices, camera clicks, gentle clinks of champagne glasses. You stood at the heart of it all, a living ghost among your own work. It was the final night of the exhibition — your homecoming, they called it.

Your name was on a banner, on pamphlets, and in every whispered conversation.

"Did you hear she stayed in Berlin after the fellowship?""She’s worked with European and Japanese houses now — insane range.""They say her next residency might be in New York." "I even heard she dated an idol." "She worked with RM from BTS, that's kinda obvious." "He got her contacts."

Still, you smiled politely, took photos, accepted compliments with the quiet grace of someone who had grown used to being seen, but not always known.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the surreal weight of being here again. In Seoul. In this gallery. With your name in lights..

Five years ago, this version of you was just a blueprint. A dream Yoongi nearly destroyed — no, did destroy, in his own way. And yet, you were here. Whole. Rebuilt. Brilliant.

Namjoon approached you with a smile that could only be described as soft. He looked good — more relaxed than usual, wearing one of those clean cream jackets that made him look more like a curator than an idol.

“Final night. You did it,” he said, gently clinking his glass with yours.

“I did.”

“Are you okay?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. I think so.”

He gave you a knowing look. “Did he message again?”

A breath caught in your throat, but you nodded.

“He said he wanted to come. I said he could.”

Namjoon didn’t respond at first. Then: “If he does… be honest. Don’t protect him.”

You looked down into your drink. “I’m not the girl who would.”

He smiled, full of pride. “I know.”

You gave him a small look — gratitude, grief, all bundled into one. “You always believed in me.”

Namjoon’s voice dropped, soft but firm. “Because I knew what he tried to take from you. And I knew you’d rise anyway.”

A silence passed between you that didn’t need filling.

Later, in one of the quieter corners, you caught up with a few of your oldest friends — ones who had watched you crawl through heartbreak and self-doubt and still show up anyway.

Minnie leaned in, whispering, “Did you see the journalist from Vibe&Art? She said she felt chills at your third installation.”

You laughed. “She felt chills because it was freezing in that section.”

Lia, who had always been the dramatic one, grabbed your arm. “Seriously though — people felt this. You turned heartbreak into language. You turned Seoul into a church and let us all pray in it.”

"Amen."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart clenched.

Because that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? A quiet, sacred reckoning with your past. A last goodbye stitched into canvas and light.

By the time the crowd had thinned and the gallery emptied, a strange peace settled in your chest.

You stood alone in front of your final piece — the one that took the most from you. A towering sculpture of broken glass, copper wire, and painted photographs — fragments of your life reassembled into something brutal and luminous.

You stared at it for a long time, letting your own story echo back at you.

And that’s when you felt him.

A shift in the air. A stillness.

You didn’t turn right away.

You waited. Just to feel what it felt like — knowing he was here.

“...You always did know how to leave a room breathless.”

His voice.

Warm. Worn. A little heavier.

You turned.

Yoongi stood near the archway, dressed in all black — of course — and holding the gallery program loosely in his hand. His hair was shorter, neater. His frame still lean, but more solid now. And his face…

His face looked like he’d lived through the same kind of years you had.

Your mouth was dry. “You made it.”

He nodded. “I’ve been standing here a while. I just… didn’t want to interrupt.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply looked at him. Let the silence do the talking.

Then he stepped closer, slowly. Carefully. Like you might run away. He didn't want that.

“I don’t know how to start,” he said almost in a whisper. “Every version of this conversation in my head ends with me regretting something I said.”

You raised an eyebrow and almost smirked. “That would be poetic.”

He huffed out a laugh feeling nervous. “Still sharp.”

You tilted your head. “Still dramatic.”

A moment. A beat.

He shifted a little bit, feeling nervous, uneasy, anxious, agitated. As if everything depended on the fine thread tying him to his next words. Words that he went over day and night on those days when he regretted his decisions a little more than on other days. Considering all his ‘what ifs’.

All the alternate universes created in his head, all the possible endings. Happy, sad, uncertain. At this point he would take anything, but he was sure, convinced, determined that, whatever your decision, he would try until the last of his breath to keep you in his life. In whatever way, friend, acquaintance, co-worker. He would take it.

And then his voice broke, quiet and vulnerable:

“Still in love with you.”

It hit you harder than you expected. Not because it surprised you — but because it didn’t.

He stepped closer. “I thought I could let you go. Five long years. After everything I did, I thought it was the right thing. Let you grow. Let you become everything I was afraid of.”

You swallowed hard. “I became it anyway.”

“I know.”

He looked around the gallery, at the title of your exibition with your name. At the pieces that bore your soul.

“This is the most you thing I’ve ever seen. And it hurts, because I realized… I’m not in any of it. Not even a shadow.”

You looked away. “You don’t get to be.”

“I know that too.”

A long pause.

You ran your gaze around the place biting the inside of your cheek.

You weren't really going to tell him that those pieces were for your eyes only, the pieces that had his name, his face, his essence — all of him that had marked you. Because not only did he leave you with a bitter taste at the end of the relationship, but before that he was the most beautiful thing you had ever had. He was your partner, your best friend, who shared your likes, your dislikes, your whims and your feelings. Laughter, tears, screams, love, pleasure, everything you shared would always be safe in your heart engraved with ink of nostalgia and affection.

“I thought if I ruined it, you’d stay,” he said. “And that’s the part I can’t forgive myself for. Not that I hurt you — though that keeps me up most nights. But that I didn’t believe in you enough to follow you instead.”

That broke something open inside you.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You breathed slowly, searching for the version of yourself that had once begged for this apology. That had once waited for it.

She was gone.

But you were here.

“I would’ve tried,” you said finally. “If you had let me go, I would’ve come back. Or we would’ve found something. I loved you enough to try... Fuck Yoongi, you were everything to me." You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding for all these years." I thought you shared the same dream as me, that you supported me in my wildest dreams because that's what you told me. How could you think I would leave you behind? I wanted you by my side, maybe we weren't going to be in each other's presence all the time but I was sure, I could swear we were going to make it work. I could see us growing up next to each other….”

Yoongi’s eyes glistened. “And now?”

You thought about it. Thought about the five years of silence and growth and pain and art.

You were both different now. You changed. You grew up. Everything had changed, there was no way to go back to the past, and you were grateful for that.

“I still love you,” you said, almost hesitating to say it. “But I don’t know if it’s in the way it used to be. I think I love you like a story, like a memory. We were big once, but now, I don't think I can see that.”

He looked down, devastated but accepting.

You stepped back, giving yourself space to breathe.

You really were big. Yoongi was still hopeful at heart. He could still see it, clear as day, in the colours you painted his life. If he tried, maybe… just maybe...

Then he smiled — just a little. Just enough.

“Can I take you out for coffee?” He asked with bright eyes, full of longing.

If his friends, if his parents could see him right now— he was sure they would have said they hadn't seen that sparkle in so long…. They would ask him if he was okay, and he would only nod, say yes if you could only grant his one wish.

You looked at him. Looked at yourself. Looked at the life that still waited for you after tonight.

You could’ve said no. You could say nothing and leave, pretend it was all over. Put an end to it. Tear that chapter out of your life and memory.

But instead, you just said,

“…Okay.”