What have I done?
The aftermath of the incident hung heavy in the air, a chilling silence filling the room and leaving Yoongi's family stunned by his unexpected outburst. In the blink of an eye, he unleashed a storm of violence that he could not have foreseen. His father lay on the ground, blood staining the floor beneath him, the weight of his blows rendering him motionless, trapped in a state of shock.
The room around Yoongi seemed to blur and dissolve, his surroundings slipping into an abyss of unknowns. His mind became a tempest of darkness, where sight, sound, and sensation were consumed by an all-encompassing void. A shadow loomed over him, a devouring presence threatening to destroy him entirely. With trepidation gnawing at him, he forced himself to turn away, unable to face the spectre of their expressions if he dared to glance back.
An instinct surged within him, a primal urge to escape, and he heeded its call without hesitation. Abandoning his family was his only recourse, a desperate attempt to forget the searing images etched into his memory. Yoongi sprinted, his feet pounding against the ground, driven by a need to find sanctuary in a realm where he could vanish from sight.
And so, he sprinted until his lungs burned, his heart raced, and his legs threatened to give way. When he finally sensed a safe distance between him and the turmoil he left behind, his eyes fell upon a hidden alleyway, a haven of shadows and secrecy. Yielding to the instinct that had guided him thus far, he slipped into the alley, collapsing to the ground. With his hands folded in his lap, he stared at the bloodstains on his knuckles, a stark reminder of the violence he had unleashed upon the one he had once believed would support him unconditionally.
His mind was a canvas painted with vivid flashes of the conflict, each frame etching a memory of his unforgivable actions. The echoes of his father's biting words reverberated each one, a wound that cut deep into his heart.
"Go ahead and leave! Do you think music is going to get you anywhere? Talent, my ass. An ungrateful son like you can do no good to this family!"
The word "ungrateful" was a dagger that pierced his soul, a term that encapsulated the despair of a son who had never received the approval he so desperately sought. He had anticipated their disappointment, a preordained reaction that had ignited his short fuse, leading him to commit the unthinkable.
Turning to face his mother's tear-streaked visage or his older brother's sorrowful eyes was a torment he couldn't bear. To do so would be to confront the monster he had become, a beast driven by anger, capable of striking down his own blood. His mother's cries echoed in his ears, a haunting refrain that refused to fade.
His brother's restraining grip on his arms, his futile attempt to hold back the tempestuous rage, had left an indelible mark on Yoongi's memory. In the aftermath, an odd sense of satisfaction mingled with guilt gnawed at him, a confusing blend of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. The release he had felt was tainted, tinged with the knowledge that he had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
For so long, he had harboured a reservoir of anger, a simmering resentment that had finally boiled over. He was relieved in some twisted way, having unleashed the pent-up fury he had held against a father who had never acknowledged his efforts or recognized his existence.
But now, shrouded in the darkness of the alleyway, Yoongi's tears fell like rain, mingling with the fading bloodstains on his cheeks. He was trapped in a maelstrom of emotions, torn between the release of his anger and the crushing weight of his guilt. The questions that had haunted countless souls before him reverberated in his mind.
"Why do I exist? Why should I endure a world that heaps shame upon those who don't conform to its narrow standards of success?"
A bitter chuckle escaped him as he murmured, "I never asked to be born, so why the fuck am I here?"
As his silent sobs continued, a shiver ran down his spine, a pang of paranoia coursing through him. He anxiously awaited a call from his family that never came. The silence gnawed at his nerves, pregnant with the fear that they had reported him to the authorities, that the police were hunting him down.
"I need to get outta here," he muttered, determination flashing in his eyes. With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, his resolve solidifying. He had someone he could turn to, who had always been there when he needed it most.
Fingers trembling, he dialled a number, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited. The moment the familiar voice answered, relief flooded through him, and he couldn't help but let out a shuddering sigh.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
The words were simple and mundane, but they carried a weight that transcended their meaning. At that moment, Yoongi felt a connection, a lifeline thrown to him amid his turmoil. He clung to it, allowing himself a sliver of hope that he could find a way to navigate the darkness that had enveloped his life.
As I stepped into my bedroom, the familiar buzz of my phone pulled me from the quiet. A message from Heechan lit up the screen.
Heechan: Hey—sorry. I'm out with the guys tonight. The League Championship starts in an hour. Rain check for next week?
I stared at the message, letting it settle for a moment. The disappointment didn't hit like a slap—it was more like a slow drip. Familiar. Predictable.
Me: Alright. Next week, then.
His reply came fast.
Heechan: You're the best. Love you.
I hesitated. Then typed back:
Love you, too.
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't effortless either.
We hadn't spent much real time together this month. And tonight had been on the calendar for weeks. I didn't want to turn this into a fight—God knows I've done the mental gymnastics before, trying to rationalize everything—but there was a quiet exhaustion settling in.
Subin's words returned, uninvited but not wrong.
"You're always rationalizing his absence like it's noble. It's not. You keep showing up, and he keeps opting out."
She wasn't trying to hurt me when she said it. She just had less tolerance for imbalance than I did.
Maybe I was tired of the narrative I'd written for him. That he was just "bad at expressing things," or "not used to real commitment." Maybe he was just comfortable taking what I gave, and I had made it too easy for him.
Two missed calls from Jimin lit up my phone. I called him back, still holding onto the tail-end of disappointment like a thread between my fingers.
He picked up after a ring. "Hey, stranger. Got a minute?"
"Hey. Yeah, just got home. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, nothing serious," he said. "Just thought it's been a while. Was wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight—chill, maybe start a show or something. I've got zero social energy left for the week, but I could use some company."
I paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Jimin's timing was uncanny. He had no idea how much I needed to not be alone tonight. "That actually sounds really good."
"Cool. Want me to come to you?"
"I don't mind coming over," I said. "I could use the walk."
He texted his address and said, "Bring snacks if you can. I've got drinks and judgmental commentary covered."
"Deal. Any show in mind?"
"Thought maybe I could finally convince you to try Stranger Things."
I laughed softly. "You've been trying for, what, a year?"
"And you've been stubborn for the same amount of time. But I think tonight's the night."
"Alright. I'll bring bribes. Instant noodles and chips work?"
"Perfect. See you soon."
We hung up, and I slipped on a coat. I didn't mention Heechan. Didn't explain the unspoken reasons I was so quick to say yes.
Because Jimin didn't know. And for now, I wasn't sure I wanted to open that door.
The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made you hear your own thoughts a little too clearly. I walked with purpose, clutching my phone like it could anchor me.
The convenience store was mostly empty, its fluorescent lights humming above the neat rows of snacks and overpriced instant meals. I wandered the aisles with half-focus, tossing a few things into the basket—chips, noodles, something carbonated I probably wouldn't finish.
I called Jimin one last time, unsure why it felt important, just to ask if he had a favourite kind of chips before I hung up.
That's when I saw him.
Sitting alone at the corner table by the window was a man who looked like he'd been dragged through the rain and left to dry in the dirt. His clothes were stained and stiff with dried mud, hair matted to one side, his posture a strange mix of tension and collapse.
But what caught me wasn't the mess. It was his eyes.
He wasn't just tired. He looked… displaced. Like he wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up there. Our eyes met in the reflection on the glass door, just for a breath. Enough to hold something between us, unnamed.
I don't know why I walked over. Maybe it was impulse. Maybe instinct.
He didn't look dangerous. Just lost. And that was somehow worse.
I approached, slow and steady, the plastic bag in my hand rustling with every step.
"Hey," I said, voice low but clear, holding out a wrapped snack. "Not sure if you've eaten. This isn't gourmet, but it's warm."
He blinked, startled—not in fear, more like surprise that anyone had spoken to him. His fingers reached for the food, slow and uncertain, as if touching it might make it disappear. He took it, like it cost him something, then pulled his hoodie back over his head—retreating into it the way a hermit might crawl into its shell. Not out of rudeness, but survival.
I nodded and offered a slight smile—not a grand gesture, not a probing question. Just enough to say, 'I'm not here to hurt you.' A small human acknowledgment that sometimes, being seen is enough.
As I turned to leave, I caught a flicker of something in his expression. Not gratitude, exactly—something older, heavier. Like recognition. Or memory.
I didn't look back again, but my heart beat just a little faster as I walked out.
Whatever his story was, it had weight. And tonight, I was already carrying enough of my own.