Hi admins ! Can you do long jungkook angst scenario whereby you've been liking him so long eversince you first saw him and he knows about it and urm he kinda actually lead you on and got irritated about it ? like you've been annoying him because you cared and love him ? You were hurt badly so you decide to break off the friendship and block every contact and things that you communicate with him and tried to move on but he realises that he loves you too and wants you back ? Thank you admins ~ ^_^’
Hi, I’m back! Here’s the second and final part of the Jungkook angst scenario in which he’s like “ew no” but then later “baby come back” ok now I’m just being callous. It’s late, and I’m trying to study for an APUSH test. So here it is, I hope it’s sufficiently upsetting. Maybe I’m a little weird about this, but there’s a certain uplifting quality to writing angst, but definitely not reading it, as demonstrating by poor Rin over there in her mushroom corner, lovingly wrapped in a blanket burrito by yours truly.
So I made up these really cool instant blanket burritos that I can throw at her across the interwebs like a virtual cookie (so these blankets don’t actually exist) and upon contact with target (Rin), they wrap themselves into wonderful warm safe burritos. Then, she is captured and immobilized so I may pet her hair and feed her tea and fruit without getting kicked or clawed by an errant, thrashing-in-emotional-distress limb. Alternately, I can use these convenient interweb blankets for immobilizing a moving target such as Rin on a rampage. So I can pet her hair and feed her warm beverages. I applied many blankets during the writing of this scenario. Such is the life of Mother Hen Kuma. Maybe Momma Bear Kuma, though now I’m just saying Momma Bear Bear. Momma Kuma, it is then. Dear lord, I’m going to bed. I’ll regret this tomorrow when I post it.
Your friends crow in delight, excited that you two are finally “getting somewhere,” but you’re scared. Terrified, in fact, that this might just blow up in your face and end in tragedy.
Naturally, it does. In retrospect, this short period of happiness was perhaps the worst part of all.
“I thought I told you I don’t see you that way!” he hisses, one day while the two of you are walking around campus aimlessly. He crowds you against a wall, caging you in with an arm on either side of your face. You can see his chest heaving with inexplicable emotion. His breath fans out hot over your face.
“Jungkook--” You start, and he harshly cuts you off.
“No! I TOLD you before! I thought we’d be okay! We could be friends! I--” with a small choke and then a noise of frustration, his tirade screeches to a halt. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. His hands gesture jerkily, as if trying to convey what his words cannot. It’s heartwrenching.
“I heard you! I did!” You can barely restrain yourself from screaming. “But what the hell is all this? The muffin? The beach party? The labs? I don’t think you really needed to come over, did you? We could have finished at the library! What the fuck, Jungkook?”
“We’re just friends! That’s all! Do you hear me? Just! Friends! I did all those things because I wanted to become close to you after pushing you away so harshly. I never felt anything more for you and I’m pretty sure I never will, ____!”
“Well, what do you think you’re doing right now? You’re not exactly endearing yourself to me, are you? All that you did to regain my friendship? You never needed to do any of that! Once you said we’d just be friends, I told myself I’d be happy with that! Just friends is better than nothing at all!” Tears are swimming in your eyes, causing your vision to blur, but you steel your resolve and keep them in. You can’t give him the satisfaction. Voice cracking with emotion, with disappointment, with fucking-hell-I-knew-this-was-coming, you can’t help considering slapping him. “Instead, you lead me on, gave me false hope, made me think I had a fucking chance!
Suddenly, his head snaps to the side, and your hand is stinging from a slap you’re not entirely sure you authorized, but are now fully in support of. He deserved it, the bastard. His face is slightly pink, and he’s holding a hand to it, almost in wonder. Taking advantage of his confusion, you stomp on his dancer feet, hard, and break out of the prison he’s formed around you. He shouts out for you in surprise, but you don’t look back, can’t look back. Won’t look back. Tears course down your face, now safe from Jungkook’s hard eyes.
Like an angry ex-girlfriend, you cut him out of your life without mercy. The irony is not lost on you. If he’s eating with your friends, you eat elsewhere. If he tries to partner up with you in English, you quickly turn to one of your friends. They understand, and remember to always include you when you’re around. They’re mourning, you think, nearly as much as you are and you love them for it. It’s not so tough once he stops eating with you guys, and life goes on as it did before, almost.
Sometimes he calls you, and his caller ID on your phone makes your stomach clench and your hands start sweating. You never pick them up, and delete his voicemails without listening to them. Eventually, you delete his contact altogether. By the time he stops calling, you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten his number already.
Your thought is confirmed when you receive a series of texts twenty-two days later (no, you’re not counting) that reads:
Can we talk? I’m sorry. I just
Please, give me a chance.
I don’t know what I can say.
You’re the best thing that’s ever
And you reflexively respond is who is this?
Your best friend catches you by the sleeve one day during break, a urgent light in her eyes pleading for you to listen. “_____, please. Hold on. Watching you two destroy yourselves over this is almost too much to watch. I can’t imagine how it must be for you guys. Come on, just go meet him during lunch, okay? He asked me to ask you. Figure it out, okay? Please, for your sake and his and ours.”
You pull her into a tight hug, and tears leak out of your eyes, staining her shirt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I can’t. It-- It hurts too much. You know this won’t end well. He says he’s sorry. I can’t believe him-- What if he lets me down again? I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
A small, neatly folded piece of paper tumbles out of your locker thirty-four days after The Day. It’s addressed to you in equally neat, all-too-familiar handwriting. Without reading it, you open it to crumple it, and toss it into the recycling bin when you get into the chemistry classroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you can see Jungkook die a little inside. His eyes are draining of their once-contagious effervescence, and he slouches a little lower on his stool, drawing himself smaller, as if to protect himself from his own regret and sense of loss. You almost relent.
You can see him trying to catch your attention, trying to get eye contact, but you purposefully dart your eyes away whenever he looks back at you. It’s oddly satisfying, seeing him like this, like you were; there’s a sick sense of vindication sitting in your heart. Somewhere in your heart, though, a soft, distant voice tries to tell you this isn’t right. You shouldn’t wish your pain on anyone else, nor should you inflict it upon others, even if they are the cause. Stubbornly, you ignore it.
During labs, when you are required to converse and cooperate, you’re terse, cold. Purely functional. You refuse to allow personal issues to adversely affect your grades. That would be beyond infantile.
You stumble home from school one day after a trying afternoon of exams, and find your pain in your heart standing in the living room, looking a little amazed to be there himself. It’s not like he’s never been here before. Maybe he’s forgotten.
“Jungkook, what the hell are you doing here? Who let you in?” You demand, yanking him toward you by his sleeve to get his attention.
“I told Jungkook you’d be home soon, so I let him in!” Your mom calls from her office upstairs. “I hope you don’t mind!”
“Like hell I don’t mind,” you mumble bitterly, “Alright, whatever. You must have something to tell me, so let’s go upstairs.” You may as well be comfortable as he proceeds to tear your tenuously rebuilt heart to shreds again, right?
Like a kicked puppy, or a man walking to his own execution, he grabs a blue plate covered in carefully arranged slices of fruit and cheese, and a stack of crackers in the middle and trails after you up the stairs. Of course, the snack looks perfect.
You settle onto your bed, and he takes your desk chair, pulling it to sit opposite you, a careful distance away, not too close. Once upon a time, you would have ached to pull him close and banish the devastation etched into his face. He looks tired, drained, almost older. He’s been thinking about this, a lot.
With deep breath, he begins speaking, stopping and starting like an old car in need of repair, nervous, too emotional to properly communicate. You breathe shallowly, afraid to hope, afraid to hear, filled with apprehension. “______, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said all those mean things to you, shouldn’t have been so cold. I just-- I didn’t know what I was feeling. I didn’t know how to handle you. You’re-- You’re intelligent, beautiful, compassionate, forgiving, funny. You make me want to be better.
I didn’t know how someone like you could possibly like someone like me, so I pushed you away. I pushed you away because I thought you only pitied me. The new kid, no friends, no clubs, shy, quiet, boring, bookish. But I still wanted to be your friend. Do you see all your friends? They gravitate toward you, drawn by your irresistible charisma. When I’m around, when they’re around you, we’re always laughing, and I feel like I’ve finally found a place that I’m comfortable in. And I found people I could be comfortable with. But then there’s you, in the center of it all.
God, I wish I could take my words back, take my actions back. I’ve been thinking about how they came off to you, and for leading you on, I’m so sorry. I wish you’ give me another chance, now that I know what I’ve lost. You know what they say, you never know a good thing til it’s gone, and the past two months, I’ve never felt a loss quite so acute. ______, please. I—I love you.”
This must be what irony feels like, physically. Your heart slams double-time in your chest, skipping beats and making your blood pound in your ears. You grip a pillow, white-knuckled, to keep yourself from screaming aloud. Tears prick, hot and dangerous, in the corners of your eyes. “Jungkook!” You scream, but no sound comes out. You throw a pillow at him with all your might, and he, bereft, just lets it smash him in the chest. It falls to the floor, drooping sadly against one leg of your chair.
“No!” only one words torrents through your mind, one after another, all the same, all equally carrying the weight of the past two months, of your loss, of your journey back up to the light, and now, your rage. No. No, no , no, no, no….
“I can’t. No. No, Jungkook. You can’t just do that to me. One day, when I’m waiting for you, you say ‘oh no, I’m not interested. Kindly fuck off.’ And another day, you come back all ‘no come back, give me another chance, I love you now.’
We both want this too much, but we did at different times, and now I know it will only destroy us. Once, I wanted you, but you didn’t want me. And now, you want me, but I know that if I let myself want you again, I can’t let go. Can’t you see? This will only turn out for the worse. There’s only one way we’ll eventually go, and that’s apart. We’ll only end up with more loss and more pain. Please. Let’s not do this anymore.
Maybe we’re better off as friends. Jungkook, can you do this for me? For both of us? We’re better off this way. I’m sorry, I guess. I’m sorry you feel this way.”
With a sigh of defeat, he drags himself up with apparent effort out of your chair and out your door. The door closes with a sigh. You house feels empty, and so does your heart.
