#wonho

Third week in a row. Same office, same chair, same tragically beige carpet that has seen more emotional breakdowns than his Instagram DMs.

Not because of the partying, or the sleep schedule, or the existential dread that hits at 3am and whispers, “hey king, what if this is all meaningless?”.

But because every man he meets is in a relationship except him.

His therapist doesn’t even look up anymore. She just clicks her pen, like she’s starting a timer on how long it’ll take him to get dramatic.

“What happened this time, Jackson?” she asks, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.

“Everyone is in love except me,” Jackson declares, collapsing into the couch like a Greek tragedy in designer sweatpants.

He sprawls out so aggressively the cushion wheezes. One arm draped over his eyes, he looks like the world’s most dramatic K-drama second lead who never gets the girl but always gets the soundtrack.

“I tried getting a girl’s number last night,” he groans.

The therapist underlines something. “And?”

He peeks at her from between his fingers. “And she asked if I could introduce her to Jungkook.”

Silence. The kind of silence that deserves its own Oscar.

His therapist hums sympathetically, which is therapist code for “again?”

Jackson isn’t done suffering.

“The week before that?” He sits up just to gesture more dramatically. “A girl asked for Taehyung.”

He throws his hands up, incredulous. “She didn’t even pretend to be subtle. I was mid–flirting. I had a whole compliment lined up about her earrings. And she just—” He imitates her voice in a high-pitched tone. “‘Omg, you know Kim Taehyung, right? Can you introduce us?’” He clutches his chest. “I didn’t even get to the part where I say I like her style. Do you know how hard it is for me to do soft boy?”

“And last month?” the therapist asks, her pen hovering. She’s learned with Jackson that it’s best to let the monologue run.

Jackson’s shoulders slump. He covers his face with both hands like the memory physically hurts. “Yeonjun,” he whispers through his fingers.

The therapist leans in slightly. “I’m sorry?”

He drops his hands and looks at her, eyes wide and traumatized. “Yeonjun,” he repeats, louder. “From 4th gen.”

There’s a pause where even the clock on the wall seems to hesitate.

The therapist finally looks up properly. This, apparently, has crossed some invisible line.

“That… must hurt,” she says, and for once, it sounds less clinical and more like, girl, I’d be crying too.

Jackson’s voice cracks. “Do you know what it feels like to be the ‘do you know so-and-so’ guy? I’m like a walking LinkedIn connection for people’s crushes.” He sits forward, eyebrows knitting together. “Am I old?”

“You’re twenty,” she replies, already knowing what’s coming next.

“THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING,” Jackson cries, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m surrounded by men who look like Greek gods,” he continues, counting on his fingers. “Jimin winks at people for fun. He doesn’t even mean it half the time. His resting state is flirt.” He holds up another finger. “Wonho exists. That’s a hate crime against the rest of us.” Another finger. “Eunwoo breathes near a girl and suddenly she’s like, ‘Wow, fate is real.’” Jackson gestures to himself. “And I’m out here getting friend-zoned into being a party promoter for other men’s relationships. I’m basically Eventbrite with abs.”

The therapist presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “You do host a lot of parties,” she notes.

“That’s branding,” Jackson says defensively. “It’s community building. It’s networking. It’s—”

“It’s you inviting women to environments where all your stupidly attractive friends are also present,” she finishes gently.

He narrows his eyes at her, betrayal in his gaze. “Are you… victim blaming me right now?”

“I’m just observing a pattern,” she replies. “Maybe,” she says slowly, “stop inviting people to parties.”

Jackson blinks.

Stares.

Tilts his head like a confused golden retriever who just heard the word no for the first time.

“Stop… partying?” he echoes, as if she’s suggested he stop breathing.

“Or,” she clarifies, folding her hands over her notebook, “stop using parties as a personality.”

Jackson gasps like he’s been stabbed. “That’s literally my brand, doctor.” He looks personally attacked. “What am I supposed to do? Read?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

He blinks again, horrified. “Like… books?”

She nods.

He mutters, “I knew this was going to be a hard session,” under his breath.

The therapist leans back. “Jackson, you’re charismatic, you’re kind, you’re funny—”

He perks up. “And hot?”

She gives him a very professional look. “I’m not answering that.”

“I’ll put that down as a yes,” he says confidently. “Continue.”

She takes a breath. “You are more than the fun guy who knows everyone. But right now, that’s the role you keep throwing yourself into. If you only ever show up as the party guy, people will treat you like a doorway. Not a destination.”

He goes quiet at that.

A doorway.

To Jungkook. To Taehyung. To Yeonjun–from–4th–gen.

He slumps back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. “So what, I need a new personality?”

“Not new,” she says. “Just… expanded. You don’t have to stop hosting parties, but maybe stop measuring your worth in how many people show up, or who asks for whose number.”

He kicks his foot a little, sulking. “That’s like… half my hobbies gone.”

“Develop new ones,” she suggests. “Ones that are just about you.”

He squints. “Like… cooking?”

“That could work.”

Jackson pictures himself in an apron, holding a pan, accidentally setting something on fire while a girl falls in love with him over ramen. He decides he likes that visual.

“Or,” she continues, “you could try going places alone. No entourage. No back-up dancers of doom. Just you.”

“Alone?” he repeats, like she’s suggested exile.

“Yes.”

“Do I at least get a good outfit?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “But no parties.”

He groans, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “This is oppression.”

The therapist smiles. “It’s character development.”

He stares at the ceiling again, processing. Somewhere in the distance, a future version of him flips his hair in slow motion and thanks her. Present him, however, is still grieving.

After a few moments of theatrical suffering, Jackson sits up, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looks oddly serious for once.

“So what do I do,” he asks, “when the next girl asks me if I know Jungkook?”

The therapist considers this. “You tell her yes.”

He looks offended. “Doctor.”

She holds up a hand. “You tell her yes… and then you say, ‘But you’re talking to me right now.’ And you keep talking. You give yourself a chance in your own conversation.”

He blinks. “That’s… kind of smooth.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

He leans back again, thinking. For the first time, he imagines a scenario where the girl doesn’t pivot away from him like he’s the customer service line to someone else’s heart.

Jackson leaves the session with one new affirmation, typed aggressively into his Notes app with a little sparkle emoji next to it:

I am more than a gateway to Jungkook.

His new goal? Make a girl fall in love with him before the next semester. Not with the parties. Not with the guest list. Not with the ‘oh yeah, I know him.’

With him.

With the guy who accidentally cries at animated movies, makes terrible late-night sandwiches, cares too much, overthinks everything, and still shows up anyway.

Godspeed, Jackson Wang.

He schedules another therapy appointment on his way out. He knows he’ll need it.

──✶ main masterlist