Heechan chose the spot—some little café I hadn't been to before, tucked behind a row of ginkgo trees that were already starting to drop their petals like confetti on the pavement. Spring in Seoul had that deceptive quietness to it. Everything blooming while something else quietly fell apart.
I got there early. Of course I did.
It was one of those cafés curated for people who pretend not to care what it looks like on their feed, while absolutely caring. Muted tones, rattan-backed chairs, soft acoustic guitar humming in the background. A tiny forest of succulents by the window. One barista. Two regulars who didn't look up when I walked in.
I picked the seat in the corner—not facing the door, but angled toward it. I didn't want to feel like I was waiting for him. Even though I was.
I ordered a lavender latte and sat with both hands wrapped around the ceramic mug, grounding myself in the heat. Letting the floral scent settle me. Subin had texted me that morning. Just a short message:
You don't owe anyone a performance. Just be honest. That's enough.
She didn't say his name, but she didn't have to. The way she trusted me—without forcing advice, without the kind of protective rage I used to mistake for love—mattered more than I could explain.
I didn't rehearse what I'd say. I already knew. I'd known for months, if I'm being honest.
Heechan walked in like nothing was broken.
Hoodie, baseball cap, dark jeans. Hands in his pockets. He spotted me in the corner and gave a short nod as he approached. No hug. No smile. Just the usual cool indifference I used to find intriguing.
"Hey," he said, sliding into the seat across from me.
"Morning," I replied, my voice neutral.
The silence stretched for a beat too long before I spoke again. "I didn't want to do this over the phone."
He leaned back, arms folded. "Do what?"
I blinked. It was either an act or he genuinely didn't want to acknowledge it.
"This," I said. "Us. It's not working anymore, and we both know it."
He looked away, jaw tight. Still, he said nothing.
I continued, steady. "You keep cancelling plans. Last-minute. No explanation. You disappear for days. You ask me for money, and when I try to talk about how distant things feel, you just… deflect."
He finally looked at me. "Okay, but I told you I'd pay you back."
I stared at him. "That's all you have to say?"
He shrugged, tone defensive. "You brought up the money. I'm just saying—I'll pay you back. I'm not trying to screw you over."
My mouth fell slightly open, not out of shock but the kind of quiet disbelief that settles in after disappointment has worn grooves in your chest.
"I didn't bring up the money as the problem, Heechan. I brought up everything else. The emotional distance. The flakiness. The way you act like showing up—barely—is enough."
"I've had a lot going on," he muttered.
I nodded slowly. "So have I. And I still showed up. Every time."
He exhaled hard through his nose, eyes flicking to the table. "Look, I didn't ask you to do that."
"No," I said, my voice low, almost too calm, "but you didn't stop me either."
Another silence fell, but this one wasn't peaceful—it pulsed with all the things we weren't going to say.
"You only responded to the part where I said you owed me," I added. "You didn't even flinch at the part where I told you I feel completely alone when I'm with you."
That made him flinch.
Barely.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, not meeting my eyes. "I don't know what to tell you, Eun Kyeong. Maybe you just… need more than I can give."
It wasn't cruel, but it wasn't kind either. Just honest. The kind of honesty that sounds like it's supposed to free you, but instead lands like an empty plate sliding off the table.
"I do," I said quietly. "I do need more than this."
We sat there, the two of us, in the soft morning light filtering through hanging plants and woven curtains. The latte between my hands had gone cold. So had we.
"I'm not angry," I added after a pause. "But I'm done."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
No apology. No effort. Just that.
I stood, slid my coat on, and left without looking back.
The clarity I walked out with was sharper than anything he'd ever given me.
I didn't cry when I left the café.
Not because I wasn't hurting—because I was. But the sadness had already run its course before the conversation even started. What was left was exhaustion. A kind of emotional fatigue that didn't need theatrics to prove it existed.
Outside, Seoul was stretching into mid-morning. Office workers on coffee runs, students with earbuds in, couples walking too close for how early it was. The world spun on, indifferent. I liked that. The anonymity of motion. No one knew that I had just ended something that had once felt essential.
By the time I reached the studio, the numbness had settled into a manageable hum. I tapped in my code, stepped past the front desk, and offered a nod to the receptionist. My body moved on instinct, muscle memory guiding me to the familiar rhythm of routine.
Subin was already inside the dance room, tying her hair back, a speaker in one hand.
Her eyes found mine in the mirror before I could speak.
"You okay?" she asked immediately.
I gave her a look that told her everything she needed to know. The kind of look that bypassed small talk.
"Oh," she murmured. "It happened?"
I nodded, shrugging off my coat and grabbing my water bottle.
She didn't push. Just walked over and stood beside me as I stretched, quiet for a moment.
"He said 'okay,'" I said, my voice low. "Just… okay."
Subin let out a breath. "That's it?"
"Mm. No apology. No explanation. Only thing he responded to was when I mentioned the money. As if that's all I came there to talk about."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's actually so predictable it's almost funny."
"I think I'm too tired to be mad," I admitted, pulling my leg into a standing quad stretch. "It didn't even hurt. Just felt like closing the door on a room I stopped sleeping in a long time ago."
She watched me for a beat, then gave a small nod. "That's because you already left. You just needed to say it out loud."
That hit deeper than I expected. I swallowed, holding my breath for a second longer than necessary.
Subin nudged me gently. "You didn't lose anything. You made space."
I gave her a grateful look. She always knew how to meet me where I was, not where she thought I should be.
The other dancers started trickling in. The energy in the room began to shift—sneakers squeaking on wood floors, the hum of warmups, someone testing a speaker with a bass-heavy beat. I welcomed it. It gave me something to anchor to.
"I'll be fine," I said under my breath.
"I know," Subin replied, bumping my shoulder lightly. "And for the record? You're already doing better than fine."
I inhaled. Rolled my shoulders back. Let the music rise.
It was time to dance.
I flicked through my playlist and cued up a track—something with weight and edge, just enough bounce to pull people out of their heads and into their bodies. That's what I needed too. To move. To sweat. To stop thinking.
The class filled in fast. My regulars found their spots; a few new faces lingered near the back, wide-eyed and stiff, like they were bracing for failure. I remembered that feeling.
"Alright," I said, clapping my hands once, loud enough to cut through the murmurs. "We're going full-out today. I need you to stop trying to be perfect and start trying to be honest. Got it?"
They nodded. Some smiled nervously. One guy near the mirror cracked his knuckles like he was about to step into the ring.
"Good. Warm-up first, then we get into it."
As the music kicked in, my body fell into rhythm like muscle memory was the only thing keeping me upright. And maybe it was. The grief hadn't disappeared. It just had a soundtrack now. Something to push against.
We started with isolations—chest, shoulders, hips. I slowed everything down, drilled it clean, then layered it with complexity. One by one, I saw their bodies catch fire. Not literally, of course, but in that way dancers do when they stop thinking and let the music do the work. They started hitting sharper, moving dirtier. A little more arrogance in their arms. A little more story in their steps.
The choreography I taught was bold, grounded in attitude and clean lines. Quick footwork, hard stops, body rolls with bite. A blend of control and recklessness. And with every count, I could feel myself recalibrating—anger, disappointment, exhaustion—they weren't gone, but they had somewhere to go.
By the time we transitioned into freestyle, the room had shifted. We were all sweating, breathless, flushed with adrenaline. The walls echoed with laughter and half-yelled encouragement. It was a good group. They were tired, but they didn't want to stop. Neither did I.
Subin appeared in the doorway, nodding at me with that knowing look—her way of saying you did good. I gave a quick wrap-up and let the class dissolve into their post-dance chatter.
I walked out of the room and grabbed my water bottle, trying not to wobble from the intensity of that last round.
"You look like you just came out of a baptism," Subin teased, tossing me a towel.
I caught it with a breathless laugh. "Feels about right."
"Ready for part two?"
"What part two?"
She jerked her head toward the hallway. "Jimin's finishing his contemporary class. I told him we'd come spy."
Spy. Her words. Not mine.
But I followed her anyway.
We padded down the corridor, sneakers quiet on the worn floors. When we reached the windowed door to his studio, Subin leaned against the wall and gestured for me to look.
Inside, Jimin moved like he was unravelling something invisible—fluid and sharp in the same breath. His body carved space like it had a secret to tell, each motion stitched with precision. You could tell he wasn't just dancing. He was feeling.
I stood there, watching through the glass like it was a scene from a film I didn't know I'd bought a ticket for.
There was this moment near the end where the music slowed and his arm reached outward—like he was offering something and taking it back all at once. It hit me harder than I expected. Not because of what he was doing technically—but because of the honesty in it. The restraint. The ache that pulsed through the lines of his body like it had lived there a long time.
When the music faded, his students clapped—soft, reverent. Jimin just nodded, sweat darkening his shirt. He didn't need applause. He'd already said what he needed to say.
Subin knocked lightly, then opened the door.
"Show-off," she grinned as we stepped inside.
Jimin turned, and when he saw me, something in his expression softened. Not in a romantic way—just… warm. Familiar. Like he was relieved I'd come.
"You guys been watching?" he asked, grabbing a towel and running it across the back of his neck.
"Eavesdropping," I corrected. "Different crime."
He laughed. "I'll allow it."
"You choreographed that?"
He nodded, resting his weight on one leg. "Yeah. Something I've been working on for a while."
"It looked… honest," I said before I could stop myself. "Like you weren't trying to impress anyone."
He blinked, and for a second, the room went still.
"That's the goal, right?" he said quietly. "Say something that's just for you."
I looked at him, then at the empty studio behind him. The lights were still low, the floor scuffed with effort. There was something grounding about the way he stood in that space—completely unbothered by how exposed he might look.
"I liked it," I said finally. "Felt real."
Jimin's lips twitched into something like a smile, more subdued than cocky. "Thanks."
Subin made a dramatic show of yawning. "Okay, before this turns into a TED talk on artistic vulnerability, can we please get food?"
I chuckled. "Agreed."
As we left the studio together—Jimin locking the door behind us—I felt lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But lighter.
Sometimes it's not about finding the right person to move on with.
Sometimes it's about finding the right moment to remind yourself that you still know how to move.
We left the studio a little after noon. The sun had risen higher, sharp and cold, cutting through the wind like glass. The three of us walked without urgency, our bodies loose from class, our minds still floating in that in-between space—post-performance, pre-real-world. Jimin mentioned a small spot nearby for lunch, a traditional place tucked into an alley across from the station. Not trendy or curated, just dependable. Seoul had hundreds of those, but this one, he said, had survived long enough to trust.
We didn't speak much on the way there. The fatigue was welcome, the quietness between us earned. Even Subin, usually talkative after class, had gone soft at the edges, lulled by exertion.
The restaurant was nondescript on the outside. An aged wooden sign hung above the door, its lettering half-faded but stubborn. Inside, it was dim, warm, lived-in. The kind of place that smelled faintly of burnt oil and stewed radish. A radio played something old—folk music, maybe—and a man behind the counter didn't look up as we entered. He barely moved at all, as if we were just another passing moment.
We found a booth by the window, its glass slightly fogged from the heat inside. I slipped into the corner seat and let myself settle into the vinyl cushion, arms heavy on the table. The worn wood beneath my elbows was scratched and carved into—dates, initials, the aftermath of late nights and shared meals.
Jimin ordered without looking at a menu—he must've been a regular here. Subin asked for whatever he was getting. I added nothing, trusting them both. I liked not having to decide. I liked not having to perform a version of myself today.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was functional. The kind that forms when people are used to working alongside each other, even in their rest.
"I'm glad you came last night," Jimin said eventually, his tone soft but certain. He didn't look at me when he said it, just kept his gaze on the scratched tabletop like he was tracing patterns in the grain.
"I needed to be somewhere that wasn't my apartment," I said, quiet but honest. "And Stranger Things didn't disappoint."
He smiled, that sideways kind of grin that flickered and passed quickly. "Still think it's overrated?"
I looked out the window, the condensation blurring the street outside. "I never said that."
"You implied."
I breathed out a short laugh, then rested my cheek against my hand. "Maybe I did. But it was a nice distraction."
His expression turned unreadable again. "Not everything has to distract you."
I didn't respond to that. There was something about the way he said it—neither flirtatious nor teasing. Just… observant. The way a dancer notices a missed beat before anyone else does. It made me shift slightly in my seat, unsure whether to deflect or sit with it.
Subin returned from the restroom then, and the moment dissolved.
The food arrived in metal trays, steaming and humble. Braised tofu, stir-fried kimchi, salted mackerel, and rice. Simple things, unassuming but comforting. The kind of meal that filled not just the stomach, but the parts of you that had been slowly wearing thin.
I took my time eating, chewing slower than usual, letting my mind wander in the lull. Watching Jimin eat across from me—head slightly bowed, chopsticks moving rhythmically—it was easy to forget the complicated layers beneath people. On the surface, he was calm. Playful. Reliable. But everyone had their own language of avoidance, didn't they?
"What do you do when you're not dancing?" I asked him between bites. The question came out quieter than I meant it to. Not small talk, more like a gentle knocking at the edge of a closed door.
He glanced up. "I write."
"Like, lyrics?"
He nodded, setting his chopsticks down for a moment. "Lyrics. Thoughts. Sometimes I don't know what they are until I read them later."
There was a pause. Not tense—just open.
"I used to write," I admitted. "But it felt like I had to bleed every time I tried. Dance felt easier. At least my body understood something when my head didn't."
Jimin studied me, not with pity, but with a quiet recognition. "They're the same thing. Just different outlets for telling the truth."
I didn't know what to say to that. Maybe I didn't need to say anything at all.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the sign above the door. Inside, the warmth of the meal settled into my limbs. No one rushed to leave. Time slowed, then folded into itself, the way it sometimes does when you feel safe enough to let your guard down.
When the bill came, Jimin reached for it first.
"No," I said, instinctively.
"Yes," he said, without looking at me.
Subin snorted. "You guys are literally the same type of stubborn. Just arm wrestle for it."
"I'd win," Jimin muttered, already handing the Ajusshi his card.
I rolled my eyes but didn't fight it. There was something in the way he did it—quiet, unassuming, like he wasn't trying to impress anyone. Just thoughtful without the price tag. Still, I made a mental note to buy him coffee next time, just to even the score.
As we stepped back out into the cold, the sharp wind hit like a slap to the face. Subin zipped up her coat dramatically. "I'm taking the subway from here. I have a date."
"Ooh," I said. "Is this the barista with the thick forearms?"
"No. That one ghosted me. This one's a dentist."
"Less sexy."
"But covered by insurance," she said, already walking backward toward the station. "Don't wait too long to fall in love, Unnie. The economy is getting worse."
"I'll put that in my calendar."
She disappeared into the crowd, her energy trailing behind like confetti.
Jimin turned to me, squinting against the sunlight. "You heading home?"
"Eventually. Thought I'd walk a bit."
"Mind if I tag along?"
I hesitated—not because I didn't want him to, but because I knew what my face did when I was left alone with people like him. Thoughtful, patient people. They had a way of making silence feel like an invitation.
"Sure," I said, slipping my hands into my coat pockets. "As long as you don't ask deep questions while I'm digesting."
"No promises."
We walked through backstreets mostly, where the city softened around the edges. Kids playing soccer with a flat ball, an old woman hanging laundry even though nothing would dry in this weather, the clatter of dishes from a second-floor window. All of it oddly comforting. All of it reminding me that most lives were built in the mundane.
Halfway down a sloped alley, Jimin stopped.
"What?" I inquired.
He nodded toward a small store wedged between a florist and a fortune teller's place. It was one of those oddly specific shops—rows of clocks in the window, all ticking at slightly different times. Some antique, some digital, some shaped like fruit or owls or cartoon characters. The sign above it just said: "TIME."
"You ever been in there?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I don't go into places that might be portals to another dimension."
He grinned. "Let's check."
Before I could protest, he was already halfway inside.
The air inside the shop was thick with dust and something oddly metallic. It smelled like rusting batteries and old air conditioners. The clocks ticked out of sync, like a mechanical jazz band with no conductor. A woman behind the counter didn't even look up, just kept eating a cup of instant noodles while the wall behind her buzzed with the sound of decades passing.
"Wow," I whispered. "This is either a dream sequence or a prelude to a kidnapping."
Jimin was already examining a vintage flip clock on the shelf, the kind that clicked with a satisfying clatter every minute. He held it up, thoughtful. "This feels like you."
"Because it's broken?"
"No," he said, setting it down. "Because it's precise, but still looks like it's barely holding it together."
I blinked. "That might be the nicest insult I've ever received."
He smiled again—quieter this time.
We didn't buy anything. Just stood there long enough to feel like we'd trespassed into a different pocket of the city, then left without disturbing the timeline. I told myself I wouldn't Naver the shop later, just to keep the magic of it intact.
The sun was setting, casting a watercolour wash over the sky—peach, lavender, that weird dusty pink you only ever noticed when you weren't rushing. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. Jimin had this way of walking with his head tilted slightly, like he was listening to music that hadn't started playing yet.
He glanced over. "You always look like you're about to say something existential when you walk."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's rich coming from someone who stares at the floor like it personally wronged him."
That earned a low chuckle. "Touché."
We reached the street where we'd part ways. I didn't feel like going home just yet, but I also wasn't about to say that out loud. There was something delicate about this stage with him, like wet paint that hadn't dried. I didn't want to smudge it with something too forward.
"You going to teach again tomorrow?" he asked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.
"Yeah," I said. "Hip-hop again. I'm tempted to throw in something ridiculous and chaotic just to see how they handle it."
"Like what?"
I thought for a moment. "Probably a choreography set to that one Shinhwa song that feels like caffeine and a breakdown."
His mouth twitched. "You should. Shake them to their core."
We stood there for another beat. The kind that felt too short and too long at the same time. I could feel him watching me—not in that overt, corner-of-the-lips smile way—but with that still curiosity. The kind you couldn't fake.
I cleared my throat, shifting my weight. "Anyway… thanks for letting us watch your class. That piece was—"
"I knew you were there," he said, not letting me finish.
I blinked. "What?"
He looked mildly amused. "I could feel you watching. You're not exactly discreet."
"Excuse me?" I laughed, startled. "I was very discreet. I was behind a wall of humans and Subin's head."
He leaned in slightly, just enough for me to catch the scent of his cologne—cedar, citrus, something warm. "You're the loudest silent person I've ever met."
I stared at him, lips parted, a retort hanging just behind my teeth—but it didn't make it out. Not because I didn't have one, but because… okay, that was good. Smooth, even. Not obnoxious. And I felt it—just a flicker. That moment when banter curved into something warmer. Not obvious. But there.
"I'm going to go before I say something regrettable," I muttered, already taking a step backward.
"Like what?" he called after me.
"Like agreeing to teach a class in socks just to prove I can outdance you," I said over my shoulder, deadpan.
He laughed. "You're welcome to try."
That night, my apartment was warm, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of soy wax and whatever cat food was currently offending Koda's royal standards. I toed off my boots and was immediately greeted by Kaia, who walked out from her hiding spot like a French queen inspecting her court.
"Hello, ma'am," I said, bending to scratch behind her ears.
Koda, on the other hand, launched himself off the back of the couch with the chaotic force of a small missile, landing on my shoulder with a war cry.
"God, Koda—do you even like me?" I muttered, wobbling under his weight. He purred loudly. Of course he liked me. When it was convenient.
After feeding them, I collapsed onto the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs. My phone buzzed. I expected it to be Subin or one of those discount delivery apps that sensed weakness—but it was Jimin.
"Made it home safe?"
I smiled at the screen before typing back:
"Alive and thoroughly tackled by my cat. You?"
"Survived the post-class mop duty. My back is 80 years old now."
"Rip. Pour one out for your spine."
"Next time we grab food, I'm picking the place."
I paused, staring at that last message. It was casual, noncommittal. But I saw it for what it was: a soft continuation. A toe over a line.
I typed back:
"Sure. But if it's a fried chicken place that spells 'chicken' wrong, I'm walking out."
"Fair. Deal."
I set my phone down. For a long while, I sat there in the quiet of my apartment, listening to the occasional clatter of Koda knocking things over just to remind me he was alive. My eyes drifted to the window, where the city stretched itself out in neon and stillness.
This wasn't a movie scene. It wasn't fireworks or confessions or sudden epiphanies.
But it was… something. A shift. A quiet step. The kind you only noticed when you were old enough to pay attention.
And I was paying attention now.
Yoongi left Namjoon's house with his hood up, the chill of the evening biting at his neck as he walked without direction. The city around him was alive—cars whizzing by, people hurrying somewhere, their voices fading into the hum of late-night traffic. But for Yoongi, there was only the weight of what had happened earlier that day, pressing down on him like a stone lodged in his chest.
It wasn't the first time he'd walked out in the middle of a fight, but this felt different. His father's face, the shock in his eyes when Yoongi's fist had connected, still haunted him. He hadn't even realized how much anger had built up until the punch landed. It was a visceral, almost primal reaction to years of coldness, of betrayal. That look in his father's eyes—detached, unbothered, like nothing had changed—had shattered whatever remnants of trust he'd held onto. And then Yoongi had run.
He hadn't meant to hit him. But it happened. And now he was out here, walking aimlessly, trying to make sense of it all, though his mind was a jumbled mess.
Namjoon's voice echoed in his head, soft but steady, urging him to calm down, to lay low for a while. It was good advice, solid advice, but Yoongi couldn't shake the feeling that he was being hunted. Not literally, but the thought gnawed at him. His father might have reached out to someone by now, called the cops, or even sent someone after him. Yoongi couldn't let his guard down. Ever.
The streets blurred as he kept walking, his boots slapping the pavement in a steady rhythm. The city around him had become just noise—unimportant. He needed something else. Space. To breathe. To not think about the situation that had unfolded. So he kept walking, deeper into the evening, not caring where it led.
He ended up at the train station without really meaning to. It was one of those places where people passed through, faces blending into the background, coming and going like they didn't matter. That was exactly what Yoongi needed right now: anonymity.
The station was quiet for the most part, save for the occasional train pulling in or leaving, their bright headlights cutting through the dark. Yoongi found a spot by the railing, his arms crossed as he stared at nothing in particular. His thoughts felt disjointed, like the rhythm of the train tracks themselves unpredictable, sharp, clashing.
It wasn't until the quiet hum of the station seemed to stretch on for what felt like hours that he noticed her.
At first, it was just the silhouette. A flash of movement that broke the monotonous flow of commuters and station staff. Yoongi didn't pay much attention at first—until her face came into the light.
It took him a second to place her. The last time he'd seen her, it was under fluorescent lights in a convenience store, both of them caught in the awkwardness of a shared moment that wasn't supposed to happen. But here, in the dim glow of the station, she seemed different—clearer. Her features were sharper now, no longer blurred by the harsh lighting from when they first met.
Yoongi didn't immediately approach. He didn't want to. Instead, he stood still, his gaze drifting over her, trying not to let the realization settle too heavily on him. She looked… lost. That was the word that came to mind. Something about the way she held herself, the slight tension in her posture, as if she wasn't entirely sure where she was supposed to be.
It took another moment before she looked up. Their eyes met—briefly, almost accidentally—but there was something there. Something familiar. It wasn't a huge gesture, just a glance, but in that moment, Yoongi could feel the shift. The recognition.
She didn't speak at first, just stood there, uncertainty crossing her face. Yoongi felt a weird tug in his chest, like he knew he should say something, but he didn't know what. He didn't know why. He wasn't the type to start a conversation out of the blue, especially with someone he barely knew. But the silence lingered between them, thick, awkward.
Yoongi wasn't even sure why he stayed in place. He could've turned and left, but something kept him there—his feet planted, his eyes still locked on her. It wasn't like he wanted to speak to her, not really. He didn't need to. But there was an underlying question he couldn't ignore: Why was she here, in the same space, at the same time as him?
He hated how his thoughts were spinning, how everything was suddenly fraught with meaning that didn't really exist.
For a few moments, they both just stood there, caught between the awkwardness of a near-stranger recognition and the desire to leave things untouched. Finally, Yoongi shifted his weight, took a deep breath, and allowed himself to break the silence, albeit with nothing more than a small, almost invisible nod toward her. A tentative acknowledgment that she was real, that he saw her.
Then, he looked away, not waiting for a response.
It was the kind of moment that felt like it could slip away if either of them gave it too much weight.
And Yoongi? He wasn't one to give too much weight to anything these days.
He walked past the turnstiles, headphones dangling from one ear, the other left bare in case someone called out to him or the world suddenly caved in again.
The station blurred behind him. So did her face.
That woman.
He hadn't expected to see her again—not here, not like this, under sharp fluorescent lighting that didn't flatter anyone. And yet she looked better than he remembered. Or maybe he was just less miserable this time around.
Yoongi tugged his hoodie tighter over his cap. The hoodie wasn't even his—it was Namjoon's, a size too big and washed enough times to feel like old skin. But it worked. It helped him disappear. He wasn't in the mood for being noticed.
He wasn't in the mood for anything, really.
As he made his way up the next set of stairs, his feet moved without needing permission. He had nowhere to be and too much in his head to sit still. The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped outside—spring hadn't quite warmed the city yet—and he let it bite.
The woman at the station, she'd recognized him too. He saw it in the way her expression shifted, slightly delayed, like her brain needed a moment to connect the dots. There was a faint flicker of hesitation in her eyes, like she wasn't sure whether to say something. He was glad she didn't.
Because he wouldn't have known what to say.
What was he supposed to do? Tell her he wasn't actually a convenience store ghost who lived in mud and regret?
He shoved his hands in the pockets of the borrowed hoodie and kept walking. Past closed shops. Past the taunting neon signs that flickered above plastic food displays in restaurant windows. Past teenagers loitering near the entrance of a karaoke joint.
His mind drifted.
Back to that night.
The fight.
The sound of his mother's voice still made his teeth clench. Not because of her—but because of the fear in it. The way she screamed his name after his fist connected with his father's jaw. The way his brother dragged him back, arms locked around his shoulders while Yoongi thrashed like something feral.
He didn't remember everything he said that night. He remembered enough.
The shame came later. The kind that sank in deep, behind the ribs, the kind that didn't leave even after a scalding shower or hours of sleep. If anything, it waited for him in the quiet moments. Like now.
He'd left. Ran. Called Namjoon from his phone with trembling hands and a voice so hoarse it barely sounded like his own.
That was two weeks ago.
Namjoon had barely asked questions. He just opened the door, handed him a towel and a change of clothes, and told him he could stay. That was the thing about Joon—he didn't pry. He didn't need to.
Yoongi crossed the street toward the small park up ahead, a convenience store across from it dimly lit. He had enough coins in his pocket for a drink. Maybe.
He paused.
Not because he wanted something to drink—but because he didn't want to go back yet. Back to Namjoon's place, where the heater groaned at night and the walls were too thin and he could hear Joon whispering on the phone to someone he hadn't introduced yet.
Yoongi sat down on a bench, slouched into the wooden seat like it owed him something. Pulled his phone out. No notifications.
Still no replies from the job apps. He had applied to three cafés, a bookstore, and a music store near the university district. No callbacks.
He'd try again tomorrow. Or maybe next week.
For now, the air was still cold. His breath still visible. And he had nothing except the sound of traffic and a face that wouldn't leave his head.
That woman again.
The one who saw him clearly this time.
He didn't even know her name.
He leaned back, stared up at the sky, and exhaled.
Maybe that was enough for now.
A wind passed. Not sharp, not warm—just a neutral kind of breeze, the kind that didn't ask for attention but still found its way into the seams of his sleeves. Yoongi tucked his hands deeper into the pockets and slouched further.
He hadn't meant to stop here, but now that he had, the silence felt bearable.
He scanned the street across from the park absently, watching as people filtered in and out of the convenience store. A girl with earbuds in, tapping her card on the reader. A couple arguing quietly by the ramen aisle. An old man counting coins with thick, trembling fingers.
This city never slowed down. But somehow, this little pocket of night—dimly lit, just shy of miserable—gave him a sliver of peace.
His phone screen lit up. A message from Namjoon:
"You good?"
Yoongi stared at it for a moment before typing:
"Yeah. Just needed air."
He didn't hit send right away.
The cursor blinked at him.
Then he backspaced the message, sighed through his nose, and put the phone back in his pocket.
He wasn't good. But he didn't know how to explain that in a way that wouldn't sound like he was spiraling. He wasn't. Not exactly. He was… holding on. Floating, maybe.
It wasn't the first time he felt this way. But it was the first time he'd left everything behind and had no plan. No deadlines. No gigs. No packed studio nights to distract him. Just vague ideas about part-time jobs and a bank account too empty to be brave.
And music.
Always music.
He hadn't touched his keyboard since arriving at Namjoon's. The guilt from that clung to him too—like a voice he was ignoring on purpose. Like something sacred he didn't want to touch with unclean hands.
He pulled his hood up further. It smelled faintly of Namjoon's laundry detergent. Mint and cotton.
Yoongi tilted his head to the side and stared at the train station again from across the street. The lights from the entrance buzzed softly. A flicker of movement caught his eye—someone coming out.
It wasn't her.
Of course it wasn't her.
She had somewhere to be.
He didn't even know why she'd taken up so much room in his thoughts lately. Just a stranger he ran into—twice. And yet, she lingered in his head with a weird kind of gravity, like a thought he hadn't finished having.
Maybe it was just timing. The way she'd looked at him like she recognized something. Not just his face—something else. Something he didn't quite have the words for.
Or maybe he was just lonely.
That seemed more likely.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and let out a low breath.
"Get your shit together," he muttered.
A couple walked by the bench behind him, laughing over something too intimate for public. Yoongi didn't turn to look.
His eyes followed the street again. The café on the corner was still open. He didn't have money to waste on overpriced tea, but the idea of warm lights and clean tables made something ache inside him.
He thought about applying there next.
Just until he had enough for a proper interface, new strings for his guitar, maybe a synth if he could find a secondhand one online. He wouldn't be picky. He'd rebuild slow. He always worked better that way.
One beat at a time.
A phone buzzed again. Not his. Somewhere close, but not his.
He let his gaze drift back to the train station across the street.
She wasn't there anymore.
He hadn't realized he was waiting to see if she would come back.
Yoongi shook his head and stood. His legs ached a little from sitting too long, but he didn't mind. It made him feel here. Solid.
He turned back toward the direction of Namjoon's apartment, the hoodie still tugged low, his steps quiet, steady. He wouldn't go back right away. Maybe take the long way, swing by the alleys behind the bookstore, maybe see if the jazz bar was still doing late-night sessions.
He wasn't ready to sleep.
Too much music in his chest and nowhere to put it yet.
But soon.
He just needed one stable thing. One place. One rhythm.
And maybe… if the universe was feeling generous, maybe that girl at the station would show up again.
Just not too soon.
He didn't trust his timing yet.
The streets were thinning out now.
It was past midnight, and only the city's stubborn creatures still lingered—delivery drivers, students dragging their feet home, a man smoking beside a shuttered pharmacy like the sidewalk owed him something.
Yoongi walked with his hood up and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Not because he was cold, but because being smaller felt safer. The kind of safety that came from disappearing a little, blending in just enough to be passed over.
He didn't look up often. The fewer faces he met, the easier it was to breathe.
He passed by a laundromat that was still open. Machines spinning in fluorescent silence. A kid in headphones dozing on top of a dryer, arms crossed over his chest. Yoongi watched him for a moment—not out of curiosity. It was envy.
He missed sleep like that. The kind you didn't have to earn.
He kept moving.
The jazz bar on the corner was closed.
No notes leaking out onto the sidewalk. No older man with the wild gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses packing up his sax in a cracked leather case. No pulse.
Yoongi stood in front of the door anyway.
He pressed his fingers lightly to the glass, like maybe if he stayed still long enough, he'd hear something—maybe a ghost of a chord or a stray hum that got left behind.
But there was nothing.
Of course there wasn't.
He lingered a moment longer before turning and walking toward the narrow street behind the bookstore. A cat darted past him. Orange tabby. Startled. Its paws padded quick across the concrete and vanished between the rows of trash bins.
Yoongi let out a breath through his nose, something like a half-laugh.
Funny how everyone ran from something.
He passed under a flickering streetlamp and paused. Dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The brightness stung. He blinked and adjusted the screen.
No new messages.
Not that he expected any.
Namjoon had texted earlier that he wouldn't be back until morning—some kind of department event for his grad program had dragged into a late-night faculty dinner. He told Yoongi to help himself to the leftovers in the fridge.
Yoongi had barely opened it. Appetite came and went like an unpredictable guest these days.
The thought of being alone in the apartment tonight didn't exactly bother him. But it didn't bring peace either. Just… more quiet.
He scrolled briefly through some of the notes on his phone.
Lyrics. Fragments. Messy and unpolished.
He read one under his breath:
"I buried my name in the drywall / just to prove I was here once."
He stared at the words for a second. Didn't flinch. Just locked the screen and kept walking.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It just was.
He could figure out the job thing tomorrow. Maybe the café. Maybe the used record shop near the university. He'd heard they were hiring. Maybe Namjoon would vouch for him if they asked questions.
And maybe—
Maybe he could finally start sketching out something new. Not a mixtape. Not an album. Just one track. One thing to prove to himself that he still had it. That he hadn't lost the voice that used to speak through his bones like it belonged there.
Yoongi turned the corner, heading back toward Namjoon's building.
His thoughts dragged, weighed by the night. It wasn't unusual. He was always alone in the dark, even when the lights were on. But tonight, as he crossed the street, something—some thought—just nudged at him.
Something familiar.
He hadn't thought about her since earlier, when he'd seen her in that convenience store.
It was strange. He didn't know her name. Didn't really know anything about her.
But still—
Why hadn't she followed me?
He hadn't been expecting her to, but that was the thing—he hadn't been expecting her to leave. Something about the way she had turned away like it didn't matter… That stayed with him.
He shook his head, trying to push it aside. It was stupid. She was just some face in a store. But—
It wouldn't let go. He walked faster, head down.
It was the look in her eyes. Not pity. Not that fearful, hesitant look people gave when they saw him like this. No, it had been different.
Like she'd seen him. For whatever that meant.
The thought felt like a weight in his chest.
He rounded another corner, and the building loomed ahead. Namjoon's apartment was a few minutes away.
But the moment hung on.
He hadn't realized how much he was hiding, too. Maybe that was why it felt like an echo.
Maybe it was easier to carry the weight when you weren't the only one.
He reached the building entrance. Stepped inside.
And still, that question lingered in the back of his mind, unspoken.