Nettles - JJK
summary - Jungkook and YN were two haunted kids in a town that asked them to bury their softness. He carried bruises like armor. She carried silence like a prayer. They met in secret—by the creek, beneath the gardenias, between the pages of unsent letters. Their love was quiet and doomed, stitched together with stolen glances and bleeding palms. pairing - jeon jungkook x reader genre / warnings - preacher's daughter! au , smalltown jungkook , angst , mentions of domestic violence , self harm , your father does hit jungkook word count - 13.2k (say bye to the original 9k that got deleted) notes - this was rlly sad to write and there will be a p2 big thanks to ethel cain for making music that makes me feel
Dust clouds rise and take over different parts of your small town annually. Townsfolk are seen with cloths covering the bottom halves of their faces-- obscured, desolate, and empty. That time of year starts now.
Paint peels off the Church at the center of the town. All the dirt roads lead to it. Doesn’t matter where you start.
Greenery is found in every direction you turn to. Lines the roads like a persistent suitor. Your street, for example, is full of the livery. Lavender, gardenias, and nettles are everywhere if you take the gravel road North towards your home. White and faded from years of dust bowl damage.
It’s quiet out here. Can hear sounds of buckshot from miles away, feels like. The only noise pollution you’re exposed to, save for a few random car motors, is the trains that pass through the train tracks at the very end of your street every so often. S’nothing cross that until you hit a few miles out. That’s where he lives.
You don’t think about him often. Don’t allow yourself to slip into that stupor. Not anymore. Not since then.
The nettles behind your house had begun to grow tall again. You’d been watching them every day since you were twelve-- since the preacher’s voice started turning your stomach sick, and your prayers started sounding more like apologies. Their sting, you learned, is worse when you expect it. Worse when you deserve it.
The very first time you pressed your wrists into them, you didn’t cry. You closed your eyes and pictured the hem of an altar cloth. Blood and wine. Forgiveness, maybe.
The sun was warm on your skin in the field of flowers behind your home. Momma told you that you could stay out until the lights on the street poles start waking up, till then? The field’s yours. You liked going out there and getting soil covered, and unearthing living things from beneath big rocks. You tested your luck a bit that day, walking further along the sun-kissed leaves and past the dirtied train tracks beyond them. Your father, the town preacher, would have had your hide if he knew you’d crossed ‘em. But you were 12. You felt grown.
You kept walking, head held high, and shoes long forgotten on the porch of your house. The cicadas were singing deep in the fields, fueling your need to go further and beyond. Felt like they were cheering you on. Go ahead, you can make it, they were telling you. And you listened. ‘Course you did. Teetered over into the greenery and abandoned the gravel and dirt behind you.
The sound of water and frogs brought a smile to your face some odd time later. You followed the chorus of moving water and ribbits, excitement bubbling as the small creek finally came into view. The water wasn’t the cleanest you’d seen, but you were invincible as you dipped your toes in, giggles bursting through chapped lips as cool water met sun-soaked flesh.
The sun was still directly overhead, probably ‘cookin’ your scalp’ as your momma would say-- but the light had changed from pure blue daylight to a golden simmer-- stretching long shadows across the small crack of water in front of you. The water continued to eat away at the mud caking your feet, not quite reaching your upper ankles. Your legs, bare beneath the hem of your hand-me-down dress, already had a few scratch nicks peppered in the fabric from pushing through brambles and scattered branches. You hadn’t expected it to be that sharp.
Hadn’t meant to walk this far.
Those tracks were a silent boundary. A sentinel at the end of your road. Your pa’s words echoed in the back of your noggin: You don’t cross them tracks, hear? Nothin’ out there for you but boys and bad luck. I mean it, darlin’.
But the cicadas sent a humming through your chest. A pull that you followed barefoot and eager. Clutchin’ your tattered notebook and a pen with chewed plastic. You were seeking something out. Maybe quiet. A quiet that didn’t ache.
And you thought you’d found it there.
Tucked between overgrown pines and white dogwood. Cut like a whisper through the woods. Clear, cool, running over smooth stones. A place that felt like it held secrets-- both yours and its own. You crouched low, slipping your fingers into the water, a soft hiss from your lips passing into the open air around you as the cold greeted you with a fervor.
Then--
“You’re not from over here.”
You jumped.
Standing across you on the other side of the creek, a boy, half-shadowed by a sycamore.
He looked older, but skinnier. Lankier. Wearing a faded tee and jeans torn at both knees. His hair was damp like he’d been sweating or maybe swimming. His hands were shoved into patchy pockets, but he wasn’t trying to be scary. Just… amused. Curious?
“You lost?” He added after a pregnant silence.
You stood slowly, tucking a curl of hair behind your ear. Your voice barely made it across the water.
“No.”
“You look it.”
“I’m not.”
“Alright then. What’re you doin’ on my side of the woods?”
“Didn’t know it was yours.”
“Guess now you do.”
A pause.
Then--without another word-- he hopped into the creek. Barefoot. Careless. Bold.
The current splashed around his ankles as he waded halfway and crouched to pick up a smooth gray stone.
“See this one?” He asks, stone held high enough for you to see. “This one skips perfect. Watch.”
He tossed it and it bounced four times before sinking. You counted.
“Your turn,” he said.
“I don’t know how,” you bristled. You wanted to know how.
He grinned again, crooked and warm. Then he crossed the rest of the creek and held out a flat pebble, offering it palm-up like a peace treaty.
“I’ll show you.”
You hesitated and then stepped forward, careful not to slip on the algae on the stones under you. When your fingers brushed his, something sparked--not fireworks, not lightning. Just something small and sudden. Like: I’ve been looking for you, and here you are.
“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he said, tossing you another wide grin. “Jeon Jungkook. But don’t tell anybody you met me. I’m real mysterious.”
You giggled, just barely.
“I’m YN.”
“YN,” he repeated, letting it settle on his tongue like a word he’d want to say again. “Alright then, YN. Lesson one: Hold it like this. Real flat. Then flick it from the wrist-- don’t throw it like a baseball.”
You nodded, trying to copy him. Your first attempt plunked into the water with a pathetic splash.
“Tragic,” Jungkook laughed. “You’re a menace to stones everywhere.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, which made him grin wider.
And just like that, the evening stretched longer. You skipped more stones. You wrote your names in your notebook. He chased the frogs. You stayed too long, and neither of you minded. The sun began to fall, and the sky turned soft like the inside of a peach.
By the time you parted--Jungkook waving a dramatic farewell and calling out, “Same time tomorrow?”-- You knew you’d be back.
Even if you had to cross every track and break every rule to get there, and you did. For a whole year.
It was overcast. The light was soft, almost gray. The air buzzed around you, but no rain had hit yet. Just the feeling of something coming.
You walked through the trees towards the creek with practiced ease-- barefoot, familiar with every twig and stone. You were humming under your breath, notebook in your hands. The day felt like it wanted to be remembered, inked on paper or skin.
But when you reached the edge of the creek, he was already there.
He sat slouched on your usual rock. Shoes kicked off. Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. He didn’t hear you at first.
You slowed, watching him. He looked… different. Folded in on himself. Not angry. Not loud. Just small in a way you’d never seen him. Reminded you of the hurt baby deer you’d seen months before.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He lifted his head. His eyes were red. Not from crying-- looked like how yours looked when your daddy yelled at you in front of the townsfolk and you looked in the mirror at home hours later. Red from holding the tears in.
“Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here yet.”
“I always come here. You know that,” you told him gently, lowering yourself onto the stone beside him. Not touching. Just there. “Bad day?”
“My dad threw a beer bottle at me.”
You went still. He just shrugged, like it was no big bother.
“Didn’t hit me,” he reasoned. “I moved fast.”
“S’not the point,” you shook your head.
He rubbed his face, jaw tight.
“Everything I do just pisses him off. I breathe wrong, and it’s a sin. I stay out late, and he says I’m trying to be like my mother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means she ran. He hates that. That she left him,” he snickered. “That she didn’t come back for me.”
You didn’t speak. Instead, you took your notebook carefully out of your bag and tore a blank page from the back. You pulled out a pen.
“What’re you doin’?”
“Makin’ you a permission slip. Like in school. To exist.”
He laughed a little, “You’re weird.”
“So’re you.” You shrugged, pressing the paper into his hand after scribbling on it. “It says: You’re allowed to have bad days. You’re allowed to exist. Signed: someone who exists too.”
He stared at the paper. It wasn’t much. But it was what a 13-year-old with a heavy heart could offer. Ink and quiet and care.
“Thanks,” he whispered against your shoulder as he rested his head against you.
“S’nothing,” you told him, ignoring the kicking of your heart.
Golden shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves up above you. The smell of summer grass and damp earth wafted in waves around you both. Your shoes had been discarded long ago, tossed to the side while you skimmed your toes across the surface of the water.
Jungkook was a few feet away, crouched near the bank, skipping rocks across the water with absent focus. There, but not really there. It’d been that way for a while. Since the bottle incident.
Just under a year had passed since your first meeting, and oftentimes, the meetings were quiet. Casual. Nothing said out loud. Just skipped rocks and shared thoughts.
That day didn’t feel any different.
Until it did.
Jungkook tossed another stone, and then sighed when it didn’t pass two skips.
“That one didn’t go that far.”
“Maybe it knew better,” you smiled, looking down at the water again.
You chewed at your cheek when he laughed under his breath, soft and real, like you had said something smarter than he’d expected you to.
And then you looked at him.
And something stirred deep.
Maybe it was the way the light cut across his cheekbones.
Or how the wind played with the ends of his hair.
Or maybe it was the fact that he looked like he belonged there, like he was a part of the wildness and stillness you craved.
And for a second you’d imagined him not just as your friend, not just as the boy from the wrong side of your parents’ doctrine-- or the train tracks--
But as yours.
Truly yours.
A thought entered you like a whisper:
Why can’t he be?
Your heartbeat flew away from you, and you looked away fast.
“I should head back soon.”
“Yeah, me too.” He nodded.
But you didn’t move. Neither of you.
A dragonfly was hovering above the water, and it felt like everything was still.
And that told you all you needed to know at the ripe age of 13.
‘Cause it wasn’t the dragonfly that slowed time, or the creek, or the sunlight dancing across shadows. It was him.
The creek glittered under golden light. Soft wind danced through the trees and brush around you.
You were standing barefoot in the shallows, jeans rolled up and sleeves pushed back. You had a small wildflower tucked behind your ear and dirt on your palms. Jungkook sat nearby on a flat stone, watching you with the kind of focus you hadn’t seen him give anything else. Your chest bubbled and your face warmed, not from the sun.
“You ever heard of nettles?” You asked him, palming the water to scrub the dirt off your hands.
He wrinkled his nose, watching, “The plants that sting?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, “people say they’re useless. Just weeds. They’re not.”
You clambered out of the creek, kneeling next to a patch by the creek’s edge-- green and soft-looking, but dangerous if you don’t know better.
“They hurt when they touch you. But they can be healin’, too. If you boil ‘em right, they help with your blood. With pain.”
“Sounds like a metaphor,” he smirked. Big word for a big mind.
“Everything’s a metaphor when your daddy’s a preacher,” you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
He watched as your fingers hovered right over the leaves.
“You ever touch ‘em on purpose?”
You didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes I think that hurtin’ is the only thing that makes me feel real.”
Jungkook went still, you caught it from the corner of your eye.
“Don’t say that like it’s okay,” he whispered.
You shrugged, eyes on the plant. Then, turning, you pulled a white flower from your bag. A little crushed, but still whole.
“Gardenia. My momma’s favorite. She says it smells like Heaven.” You smiled, offering the flower to him. He took it, analyzing the white petals with exceptional care. “Nettles sting. Gardenias bloom. You need both, I think. One keeps you careful. The other reminds you what soft feels like.”
He raised the flower gently and smelled it.
“What do you need me for, then?”
You looked at him, something trembling behind your ribs.
“To remember that I’m not the only thing in the world that’s scared and still choosing to stay.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You are,” you smiled, “so am I. That’s why we both come here. To pretend like we’re not.”
He leaned closer to you, then, and for a moment, it was just the hush of water and breath between you.
“I think I could be brave, if you asked me to be.”
“Then be brave.”
“I’ll try.”
You rested your head against his shoulder, sitting like that until the sky began to turn, tangled in the ache of wanting something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. A crush. Love. Whatever it was or begged to be.
The creek was low, trickling lazily around moss-covered stones. You sat on the bank, pulling blades of grass apart one by one. Jungkook was lying on his back nearby, one arm over his eyes to block out the sun.
It was quiet and comfortable. So serene.
And then he spoke.
“There’s this girl in my class. She’s… funny. Loud. Not in a bad way.”
You stiffened slightly, though you kept your gaze on the grass in your lap.
“Oh?”
He didn’t notice your change in tone. Or if he did, he didn’t mention it.
“Her name’s Hannah. She talks too much but… I dunno, it’s kind of nice. She gets me to laugh at stupid stuff.”
Your hands stilled, and you picked at your thumbnail as you felt your heart cooling. Aching.
“You like her?”
“I guess. I mean… not like like, I just-- Maybe a little? She’s different.”
You nodded once. Sharp and quick like the whip your pa had used once on cattle he’d been paid to help herd-- you cried a lot that day.
“Different how?”
“Just… free, I think. Not all wrapped up in other stuff. She says what she wants.”
You swallowed. His words had hit somewhere deeper than they should.
“So, you want loud. Wild.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but y’meant it.”
He sat up a little then, frowning. His button-up crinkled from the movement, and his eyes momentarily blinded by the different angle the sun hit him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothin’. Just funny, is all.”
You stood before he could ask anything else, brushing the grass from your skirt. Your head was tilted just high enough to keep from cracking under his gaze.
“I should go. Momma’s expectin’ I help with dinner.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. It’s fine. Hannah sounds… great.”
You didn’t wait for him to respond.
You walked away with your back too straight and your stomach twisted in something sharp and unfamiliar.
And for the first time in your life, you hated how small the town was. Because you knew exactly who Hannah was, and you knew exactly how different you were.
Jungkook sat cross-legged on the large flat stone near the bank, tossing pebbles into the water. You stood near the trees, arms folded, tense. The shadows grew longer than they were even a week prior. The leaves were curling and brown at the edges. The creek ran quieter than it used to.
You hadn’t shown up over the few days before. Not since hearing about him and Hannah at school. You almost didn’t go that day. You wished you hadn’t by the time you left.
“You’ve been weird lately.”
“I’ve been busy,” you’d answered. Robotic and cold.
“No, that’s not it. You’ve been… not you.”
You shrugged, eyes on the trees, “Maybe I’m just growin’ up.”
“So am I. Doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.”
You flinched at the word. Friends.
“Is this about Hannah?” He asked.
“You’re dating Hannah.”
“I mean, we’ve been hanging out, yeah. S’not serious.”
“Still,” you shook your head, walking away from the stone and trees towards the water. He followed.
“What? I can’t see her and still meet you?”
“It’s not about rules, Jungkook. It’s… It just doesn’t feel right anymore.”
He stared at you sideways, genuinely confused: “Did something happen? Ever since I mentioned her, you’ve been different.”
You looked at him, and you could tell it was all in your eyes-- the pain, the knowing, the resentment you’d been ashamed of, and the longing you couldn’t name.
You responded dryly, “She’s nice. Pretty. I’m sure she suits you.”
It’d stung in a way you didn’t mean it to. Or maybe you did. But you had delivered it so evenly, so effortlessly, he couldn’t find the wound to apply pressure to.
“You know you don’t have to pull away just because I’m seein’ someone.”
“I’m not pulling away.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Maybe we’re just growing apart,” you told him, jaw tightened.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” You had asked with eyes clear and unreadable, and you watched him deflate. Watched him look at you like you were a stranger all over again.
“What do you mean by that? Hm?”
“I think we should stop meeting here for a bit.” You told him, voice soft and final.
“YN--” Quiet, almost pleading. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Really.” A pause. And then you’d walked off before he could say more.
Your footsteps had crunched, and you didn’t look back. Not even once.
The creek kept flowing behind you, but something between you had gone deathly still.
The air was thick with humidity and hymns. Ceiling fans spin, but they never help. Everyone was in their Sunday best-- pressed cotton, sweat-slicked skin, hollow devotion.
You sat beside your mother in the second pew, notebook tucked into her purse like contraband. Your dress itched at the collar. Your father’s voice rised from the pulpit like thunder wrapped in honey.
“The wages of sin is death. But the gift of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
You didn’t flinch. You’d gotten good at pretending over the years.
From the fourth pew on the opposite side, Jungkook sat beside his grandmother and father, spine straight and eyes down. He was wearing a borrowed button-up and slacks that didn’t quite fit. His hair was still damp from an early rinse. He never sang the hymns. Never said amen.
You dared a glance across the aisle.
So did he. The boy you hadn’t seen in a month, but for some reason showed up at Church that day.
Your eyes met-- just for a second. That second said more than a thousand sermons.
I miss you.
I know.
Be still.
You both looked away.
After the service, the congregation spilled out onto the sun-bleached steps. Parents chatted, children played tag near the gravestones.
You stood beside your father as he shook hands with everyone.
Jungkook walked past.
You smelled the soap on him as he passed. He didn’t look at you. Not once. But his hand did brush yours--just barely-- like a secret written in braille.
I see you.
I miss you.
Tomorrow.
The creek.
You stepped carefully down the slope towards the familiar clearing and the creek. Felt like you could breathe easier for the first time in a month.
Felt like forever.
You’d told yourself it wouldn’t hurt to come back. But it did a bit.
You paused at the edge of the water. The place was the same-- quiet, still, untouched-- but it felt like a ghost.
And then you heard the stone skipping across the water. You turned. And he was already there. You knew he’d be there, but seeing him took the air from you.
He sat on the flat rock where he usually did. Like he’d never left. Like you’d never fractured.
He watched you. Stood up.
Neither of you spoke at first.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come back.” He smiled awkwardly.
“Didn’t think you’d actually be here.” You countered.
A long pause. You looked down, toeing the dirt.
“I’ve been coming by. Just in case.”
You glanced at him, uncertain and guarded. “Why?”
He shrugged, emotion tight behind doe-eyes.
“Dunno. Habit maybe. Or hope.”
You didn’t reply to that. He picked up a rock and turned it in his hand. “Hannah and I broke up.”
“Oh.” You tried to sound unaffected.
Failed.
“Wasn’t crazy or anything. Just stopped makin’ sense. Didn’t fit together… I thought she’d make things easier. You know? Less complicated. Less… well, you know how everything can be.”
“Did she?”
He shook his head, didn’t look at you.
“Nah.”
The creek gurgled softly between you.
“I didn’t come here to talk about her, by the way.”
“Didn’t think you did.”
“I guess I missed this. The quiet,” he breathed. “I should head back soon. Just wanted to see if the place still felt the same.”
“Does it?” You asked, looking up at him.
“Almost,” he told you.
“Well… maybe it will again.”
He nodded once. Started to turn, then paused. “You coming back tomorrow?”
You didn’t answer right away.
“Maybe.”
He smiled a little but didn’t push. “I’ll be here either way.”
He walked off quietly. You stayed. Listening to the water, not sure what you were feeling. Only that it wasn’t gone. Not yet.
The sky was bruised. The same as his cheek.
Jungkook leaned against the base of a tree near the creek. Shoulders slouched, a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. One knuckle was raw. His hoodie was zipped, but it did nothing to hide the defeat that radiated off of him.
You found him after school-- he didn’t show up again. You walked towards him slowly. No anger, no alarm. Just knowing. You always knew.
He didn’t look at you when you sat beside him. Didn’t flinch when your hand had grazed his.
The silence was tender, but too full.
“Your dad again?”
He nodded, just barely.
“What was it this time…?”
“He said real men don’t run from hard things. I told him I wasn’t running. He didn’t believe me.”
You swallowed, your jaw clenched.
“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll be better than him.”
Jungkook let out a bitter breath at that. Not a laugh. Just pressure escaping tight muscles.
“Everyone wants me to fight. Be tough. Go off, serve the country, make something of myself. But what if I want to stay?”
You turned then, really looked at him.
“Then you stay.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why?”
“Can’t explain why I’d stay for nothing.”
“I’m not nothin’.”
That made him look at you. Finally.
Your eyes were glassy, but dry.
“You’re not the only one bleedin’ in secret. You think I don’t carry shame? Prayers and nettles and ink that says our names?”
He looked guilty at that. You looked guilty for saying it.
“Listen… I don’t want you to fight. Or leave. Or be a man someone else made you into. Just want you to stay.”
The wind moved through the trees. He didn’t answer.
And you knew he wanted to. He just didn’t know how.
The sky was a pale lavender, storm clouds rolling in like slow waves.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, not close and not far. Just there-- a hum in the background. A warning.
You sat beside Jungkook on the porch swing, bare legs tucked beneath you, a blanket over both of you. The porch light was off. Fireflies floated through the air above your yard.
Jungkook sipped at a bottle of warm soda, quiet.
You watched the road.
“I used to think thunder meant God was angry,” you tell him.
He glances over as you continue, “but I think maybe it’s just Him sighing. Tired of watching everyone pretend they’re somethin’ they’re not.”
He hummed in agreement. The swing creaked.
“Would you still love me if I was somethin’ wicked?” You asked him, and he blanched. “Not like that. Just like-- as a friend. And I wouldn’t be bad. Just bent. Marked. Like I came out wrong. Like all this good-girl skin I’ve been wearing is stretched over a fire I can’t put out.”
You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just stared into the rising wind.
He answered slowly: “I don’t think love works if it only applies to the parts you’re proud of.”
“So… yes?”
“Yes.”
You exhaled, heart lighter. “I think I’m scared I’m more wicked than I know. I’m probably already burnin’.”
He reached over and gently threaded his fingers through yours.
“Then we burn slow. Together.”
The thunder rolled again, and you believed him.
The light was gone, but the air still held the heat of the day. Crickets sang in the grass. Fireflies flashed over the water like tiny prayers. You sat side by side with Jungkook on your favorite flat stone. Your shoulders barely touched. You were holding your newest notebook in your lap, but it’d been closed for a while.
The silence between the two of you wasn’t awkward. Hadn’t ever been awkward. It was heavy. Meaningful.
Jungkook skipped a stone. It sank after one bounce. He sighed. You were still deep in thought. Thinking about the drive home you had with your momma after your dad’s sermon. You’d just passed the general goods store when you saw it-- a couple, ‘round your age, standing next to the worn buildings in an embrace. Lips resting against each other. Hands raised and clutching hair or clothes.
“I can’t sleep anymore,” Jungkook told you, pulling you from sinful thoughts. “Not really.”
“Why?”
“Every time I close my eyes lately, I feel like something’s about to end.”
“Maybe somethin’ already did,” you shrugged.
“What?”
“Childhood. Home. I don’t know. That feelin’ you have when there’s still time for you to do what you want.”
“I thought we wanted to grow up. Racing for it, even.”
“We do. We were.” You told him honestly. “Just weren’t ever told how hard it is.”
You fell into a long silence at that. Not empty-- just full of everything you didn’t know how to say yet.
“Sometimes I think about running.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just somewhere else. Someplace that doesn’t smell like beer and church pews.”
“You’d hate it,” you told him, hoping to convince him that he would hate it. That he’d hate it the way your stomach and heart hated hearing him say he’d pictured running away. “You’d miss the way the trees bend when the wind picks up. Or the way the frogs sound after it rains. You’d miss me.”
He smiled, but it was sad. Didn’t meet his eyes.
“I’d ask you to come with me, but you wouldn’t.” He told you.
“You’re right.”
“Why?”
“Because staying means something. Means I can be brave, too.”
“You can be.”
You nodded, but your hands tightened in your lap, messed with the edges of your notebook.
“Can I say something that might be stupid?”
“Always,” he answered immediately, big brown eyes landing on yours. “I say stupid things all the time. You’re safe.”
You took a deep breath, looked down at your hands, “I’ve never kissed anyone.”
He was quiet for a beat.
“Okay.”
“I want to. Just once. Before--before everything gets harder. Before I forget how it feels to choose something for myself.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. Your eyes glistened, but you weren’t crying.
“I want it to be you. I trust you.”
He’s breath caught. You remember the sound.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” a whisper.
“You don’t owe me--”
“I’m not doin’ it because I owe you or you owe me. I’m doin’ it because it’s you.”
He nodded slowly. Then he turned to face you.
You were shaking. He noticed-- you saw the way he eyed your hands-- but he didn’t comment. His hand reached out a brushed a leaf from your hair. You let your eyes fall closed.
Then--
He kissed you.
Slow. Gentle. Almost shy. But real. Honest.
A quiet kiss at the edge of a world that doesn’t want you to have one.
When you pulled apart, your eyes were still closed.
“Now I’ve done it,” you groaned in a whisper, “I’m ruined.”
“You’re not ruined. You’re just real now.”
You laughed at that, soft and sad.
“My momma would say I’ve given a piece of my soul away.”
“Guess I better take good care of it, then.”
You sat for a while longer, holding the moment between the two of you like something fragile. Then you leaned your head against his shoulder.
“I should go.”
“I know.”
You stood, brushing your hands on your jeans. Slung your backpack over a sunburnt shoulder.
“YN?” He called when you were at the clearing’s edge and near the trees.
You turned, eyes lit by moonlight and soul singing, even if part of it lived elsewhere.
“Thanks for choosing me.”
You didn’t answer, just gave him the smallest of smiles before disappearing into the trees.
Smelled so much like Summer you smiled. You sat on the stone, knees pulled to your chest, hair loose around your shoulders. There’s a red mark on your ankle where the nettles brushed you the other day.
Jungkook arrived late, breathless from running. Hoodie tied around his waist. His cheeks were flushed, curls messy from the wind.
“Thought you’d have given up on me,” he smiled.
“Almost did,” you smirk back.
He plopped down next to you, smelling like soap and pine and something warm clinging to his skin. You didn’t touch, but you didn’t need to. The silence was sweet between the two of you then.
He watched the water.
“Been thinkin’ about last week.”
You went rod straight. Cheeks flushed.
“Me too.”
“Didn’t regret it. Not for a second.”
Your heart tripped in your chest. “I keep playin’ it in my head. Like if I remember it right, maybe I won’t forget it later.”
He smiled, “You won’t.”
Another pause. He shifted closer, elbows were brushing then. A stillness settled. Thick with unspoken longing.
“Can I…?”
You nodded before he could finish.
He leaned in slowly. That time, there was no hesitation, no breath held. It was deeper than the first kiss. Slower. Sweeter. He kissed you like a promise. Like he was memorizing you.
Your hand found his neck, tentative but certain, and he pulled you closer gently by the waist. It was clumsy in parts, unfamiliar still-- but it felt like everything you’d ever wanted.
And that scared you. Because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a beginning. And beginnings always led to something breaking.
When you parted, your lips were swollen and your eyes were glassy. You couldn’t catch your breath, but it wasn’t from the kiss. It was from knowing.
He leaned his forehead against yours, smiling softly.
“You ok?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered. So quiet then and now.
You hadn’t meant to say it. Your eyes had widened big as saucers. But he didn’t laugh at you. He didn’t look away.
He’d only smiled, quiet and sure, and then whispered back: “good.”
And you cried before you could stop yourself. Because that made it real.
And real was always the most terrifying thing of all.
The house was dead quiet when you returned. The porch light was off. Those were the first signs.
The third was the way the screen door creaked just a little too loud as you pushed it open, cringing at the noise. Your heart pounded as you slid your shoes off next to the door and tiptoed over the creaky floorboards. Mud stained the knees of your jeans, your socks were balled somewhere in your backpack, and your notebook was tucked beneath your arm like a secret.
You were almost to the stairs when--
A click.
The lamp in the living room switched on, and your father sat rigid in his armchair. You’d seen him like that during sermons before. Repent repent repent. He’d had his bible in one hand, glasses on the bridge of his nose, fury beneath the calm. Your momma stood by the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.
“Where have you been?” She asked you, her concerned gaze betraying a rigid posture.
You froze.
“I was-- I headed down to the library. Studying.”
“Library closes at 8,” your dad snapped.
You looked down.
“You smell like dirt. You think we’re stupid? You missed dinner. Missed curfew. Missed Wednesday service.”
The last one hit the hardest.
You flinched, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, eyes on anything but your pa.
“Been sneaking around for weeks, haven’t you?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
“What is it? Hm? Drugs? A boy?”
You looked up, eyes meeting your pa’s burning gaze. “No,” you said, too quietly.
“Don’t lie in this house. Not under this roof.”
He stood. Not yelling, not even raising his voice-- but he didn’t have to. His height alone felt like judgment. Like God’s shadow.
“Who is he?”
You didn’t answer.
“Is he from the Church?”
You didn’t answer again. Jungkook hadn’t been to the sermons. Not his dad either. They hadn’t gone since they lost his grandma.
Your mother took a sharp breath at your silence. Like confirmation of the worst.
“What did we say about keeping yourself pure? What did we say about temptation?”
Your throat closed up. Your nails dug into your palms. You wanted to scream--but screaming would have proven them right. So you stayed still.
“You think this world out there has anything for you, girl?” Your pa had asked. “You think some boy who doesn’t even sit in pews will give you what we give you here?”
“He doesn’t want anything from me.”
“That’s what they always say! Till you come back crying with nothing left to give.” Your mom spat.
Silence. You stared at the floor, voice smaller than it’d ever been: “He listens to me.”
Your father slammed his Bible shut.
“Pack up that notebook. You won’t need it anymore. And you are not to leave this house unless it’s for school or service.”
“And you’ll pray tonight. Until you remember who you are. Until you’re saved.” Your mother had added.
“Go on now.”
You stood frozen for a second longer, tears burned behind your eyes-- but you didn’t cry. You just nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
You turned and walked up the stairs, every step echoed like a funeral bell. Your notebook pressed against your chest like a heartbeat. Like proof.
Moments later you’d been locked in your room, knelt beside your bed like they’d taught you. And you cried-- not for forgiveness. Not even from shame.
You cried because you didn’t want to be saved.
Hours later and the house was silent, lights all off. Your parents had gone to bed.
You slipped out the back door barefoot, the screen door eased shut behind you with the softest of creaks as if apologizing for its earlier noise.
The moon was high. The yard dew-slick. The nettles grew behind the toolshed, tall and overgrown, clustered like they’d been waiting for you. You walked towards them like you’d done it before. And truth be told, you had. In tinier doses. But that time? It was different.
Memories flooded your system.
Lips brushing against yours.
Your father’s voice: “Your body is a temple.”
Your mother's warning: “One moment of sin, and you can’t take it back.”
The way you’d whispered “yes” anyway.
You knelt beside the nettles, hands hovered over them, fingers trembled.
You told yourself you were sorry and then pressed sin-covered wrists into the nettles.
You hissed through your teeth as the sting spread up your arm.
And then you did it again. And again. Until your skin was red and raw, a map of guilt bloomed beneath moonlight.
You didn’t cry.
You just felt-- finally. Fully. And you told yourself: this is what forgiveness costs.
Right before dawn broke, you were curled at your desk. Your wrist had been bandaged in gauze you found in the bathroom. Your window was cracked open, the wind smelled like honeysuckle and dust.
You opened a notebook. Not the one with poems you’d drafted next to Jungkook on random rocks near the creek-- this had been a new one. Plain. Blank. A secret.
You turned to the first page. Picked up your pen.
And you wrote.
Jungkook,
I know I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore. I know I’m supposed to hate what we did. But I don’t. Not really.
I keep hearing my momma’s voice saying kisses ruin you. But the only thing that felt ruined was the part of me that had to pretend I didn’t like it.
You were soft and you were safe.
And I said yes.
I think I’ll go to Hell for it.
But I’d do it again.
Love,
YN
You closed the notebook after that and tucked it under the floorboard beneath your bed, along with the poetry notebook. No one could know. Not about the kiss. Not about the nettles. Not about the way his name made you feel both like a sin and song.
And still, you pressed your palm to the rawness beneath your sleeve and whispered a final word before sleep: please.
It was overcast again-- not storming, just heavy. The air was full of damp leaves and silence. The kind that settled over everything like a warning or omen.
Jungkook waited by the creek, kicking rocks into the water. His hair had been growing out, so it blows in the wind more. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked tired, like the nights had been colder for him.
His eyes glanced up as you skirted into the clearing of the creek.
You approached slowly at first. Smiling, soft-- but it faded when you stopped a few feet away instead of settling beside him like you usually had.
“Hey,” a beat. “You okay?”
You nodded once, then shook your head.
“No, not really.”
He tilted his head in return, “Talk to me.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Felt the nerves bubble up and your heart wither.
“We can’t keep doin’ this.”
“Doing what?”
“This. Meeting. Talking. Kissing. Pretending like it doesn’t cost somethin’.”
“It doesn’t have to. No one has to know. We can keep it--”
“But I know.”
He walked towards you then, confused and clearly shaken, and your heart shattered. His voice was low, like he was trying not to spook you and it reminded you so much of the first day he found you in the creek that your chest nearly caved in.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No. That’s the problem. You didn’t.”
“Then what is this?”
You looked down, clutching your sleeves tighter. He stepped closer, reaching at your wrist, and shit, that hurt. And he saw it.
“YN…”
The flinch-- too late. Your sleeve rode up just enough for him to see the angry, red welted rash along your inner arm, faint now but unmistakable. His eyes drifted towards the patch of nettles you’d shown him so long ago.
He stilled.
“What is that?”
“Nothin’. It’s fine.”
“That’s not nothing.”
He stared at you-- shocked, scared, heartbroken.
“Did someone hurt you?”
“I did.” So quiet he almost didn’t catch it.
“Why?”
You blinked back tears. Your voice broke.
“Because I was supposed to say no. Because I’m supposed to be better than what I feel. Because I liked kissing you and I wasn’t supposed to.”
“You hurt yourself because of me?”
“No. Because of me.”
It all hit you then. The years of servitude and solitude. The years of having to be perfect. The years before Jungkook.
“This isn’t me. I’m not this.” You hissed. “So we have to stop.”
“That’s it?”
“Has to be,” you answered.
He swallowed hard. Looked like he might have cried-- but he didn’t. You’d have folded were it otherwise.
“You said you trusted me,” he breathed.
“I do. That’s why I’m walkin’ away now.”
“If this is about your parents, I can--”
“You can’t.” You spat.
“You were the only part of this place that felt right,” he told you softly. So softly.
“I’ll still write to you.”
A hopeful glance, and then: “Letters?”
“In my notebooks,” you told him quietly. “You won’t see them.”
He closed his eyes at that, nodding robotically.
You stepped away from him, retreating into the trees like a ghost before he could ask you to stay.
You wrote him that night:
Jungkook,
I wish you had gotten mad at me. I wish you had yelled. It would’ve been easier than that look you gave me.
I said goodbye today, but my body didn’t believe me. My heart didn’t either.
I hope you don’t hate me. I hope you don’t wait for me. But I kind of hope you do, too.
I’m trying to be good. I don’t know if I’m meant for good.
I miss you.
God, I miss you.
Love,
YN
Hymns rose like smoke. Soft voices. Wooden pews. Dust swam in the light from the tall stained-glass windows. The air smelled like wax and old wood and faded perfume.
You sat in your usual spot with your mother. Second row of pews. Your dress was pale yellow. Nails bitten short. A small bruise bloomed beneath the sleeve of your blouse-- faint, from a nettle stem you pressed too hard against your skin three nights before.
Your father’s voice was muffled under the swell of the guilt in your ears. You glanced across the sanctuary again.
He still wasn’t there.
Second pew from the back. Right side. Where he always sat with his head bowed and hands folded after that first time he’d shown up, even when he hated every second of it.
But he wasn’t there.
Hadn’t been since you told him goodbye.
You thought it was a coincidence at first. Thought maybe he was sick. Or visiting family. Overslept.
But after that…
You knew. He wasn’t coming back.
Because you told him goodbye. Because you made it look like none of it meant anything.
You shifted in the pew, palms sweaty. The words from the pulpit a blur in your ears.
“...and we must cast out temptation, for the wages of sin is death…”
Your chest tightened. Fingernails dug into your thighs beneath the Bible on your lap.
The choir rose. You didn’t.
You stared at the back of the church and saw the echo of him sitting there.
Head bowed. Shoulders tense.
A boy who once kissed you like you were the only thing that made him believe in anything holy.
And you told him you couldn’t do anything anymore.
And then… he didn’t even come back to a fading church to pretend.
Jungkook,
My mother made me wear pink today.
She said it makes me look soft. Said it’s a color men like. That I should smile more. That I should try.
He was nice. That’s the worst part.
Polite, clean-cut, asked if I like poetry-- though I don’t think he’s ever read a line of it in his life. He bought me a rose. Not wildflowers. Not weeds pressed between pages. Just a grocery store rose with a barcode still on the plastic.
He sat across from me like he was already halfway gone. Already thinking about whether I could cook or pray loud enough. He asked me what my father preaches about on Sundays and didn’t blink when I said “submission.”
You never asked me to fold.
He walked me home. My mother watched from the window. When he left, she said I did well. That he might be “a real option.” I nodded.
Then I locked my door and sat on the floor and cried until my ribs ached.
Because the whole time I was thinking about the first time you looked at me like I was made of something worth burning for.
You didn’t wear nice clothes.
You didn’t bring flowers.
You just showed up, barefoot, hands in your pockets, and gave me a place to be quiet without being invisible.
And I ruined it.
I walked away, and I haven’t stopped feeling the hole it left.
I hate how easily people forget. I hate how the world keeps turning like we were never carved into it. But most of all, I hate that you might be forgetting me too.
Do you still go to the creek?
Do you still look for me in the wind?
Do you ever wish I stayed?
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
But I was so afraid of becoming everything they warned me about that I became something worse.
Absent.
I don’t want him.
I want you.
But wanting you still feels like a sin, and I still don’t know how to carry both at once.
Wherever you are, I hope your heart is quieter than mine.
I love you.
I never stopped.
Love,
YN
The light was blue.
That strange color between day and night, when everything softens but nothing feels safe.
Jungkook walked through the brush alone.
No notebook in his hand. No smile on his face.
Just that same worn-out hoodie, hands shoved into the pockets like he’d been holding himself together.
The creek murmured ahead-- still flowing, still indifferent to the storm that’d been inside of him and the differences surrounding his revisiting.
He reached the flat stone where you’d always sat with him. Dropped down to it without grace. Just folded.
And then he stared at the water.
You laughing as you skipped a stone.
Your head resting on his shoulder.
Your voice whispering, “I trust you.”
The way you flinched when he touched your wrist.
Years later and it had still hurt the same, if not more.
He exhaled hard through his nose. Rubbed his palms over his face. He didn’t cry. Not quite. But his throat was thick with everything he couldn’t say.
He plucked a stone from the ground and tossed it. It skipped once. Sank.
“Would’ve waited. Still might.” He whispered.
Silence. The trees rustled. The wind picked up.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Then the trees silenced. Stilled. The kind of still that doesn’t come from peace-- but from something being gone.
The silence isn’t quiet. It’s empty.
The water kept moving. Everything did, except for him.
He ran his thumb along the edge of the stone, smooth from all of your sitting. Or maybe it was always that way. Maybe he only noticed when it wasn’t pressing into your thigh beside his.
His hoodie smelled like smoke and pine and time. The cuffs were frayed where you once fidgeted with them while talking about books and pain and gardenias. Your voice wasn’t there anymore. Not even the echo of it. Made Jungkook feel sick.
His gaze drifted to the far bank. The spot where you showed him the nettles. The ones that made you bleed in the name of forgiveness. The word forgiveness had twisted in his gut like something sour.
He remembered your wrist.
The way you flinched when he noticed.
The way you looked when you told him you trusted him-- then left anyway.
His heart felt bruised. Not broken.
Breaking meant something shatters and is done. Kaput.
This was slower. Sicker. Like a fever that hadn’t broken.
His chest was full of words he never got to say. Letters he’ll never read. Futures he only got to imagine for a time.
He picked up another stone. Smooth. Flat. Cold.
He held it.
Wondered how long a person can sit in a place full of memories before the memories stop recognizing them. Or they stop recognizing the memories.
He flicked the stone across the water and it didn’t skip. Just sank. Like everything else. He leaned back, pressed his palms to the cold stone. Closed his eyes.
And for the first time since you said goodbye two years prior--
He let the ache stretch wide enough to fill him.
No fight. No resistance. Just grief, the knowledge that he stayed and you didn’t. That maybe you couldn’t. That maybe he shouldn’t either. And somewhere beneath the steady pulse of the water and the weight of the air, the idea surfaced…
Leave.
Not because he didn’t love you.
Because staying had hurt more than the unknown.
Enlist.
Let them cut his hair. Strip him down. Turn him into something harder than this soft, raw thing he’d been left with.
Maybe pain and purpose would feel better than this one.
Maybe if he disappears, the ache will too.
So he does.
Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains in the kitchen. The table was set. Smell of burnt toast and lemon cleaner wafted through the room. It was a Sunday-- church shoes still rested by the door.
You sat on the counter, buttering a piece of toast with mechanical precision. Your hair was pulled back, face clean, dress simple. You were quiet. Not sulking, not present. Just there.
Your mother stood by the sink, drying dishes. Your father flipped through the town bulletin, coffee steamed in the mug next to him.
“Did you hear? That Jeon boy-- what was his name? Jungkook?” Your mom began.
Your heart stopped. Lurched over a cliff. Breathing was automatically labored. Your hand had frozen mid-spread.
“Mmm,” your father had nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Jeon Jungkook. Yeah, he went and enlisted. Army, I heard.”
You didn’t breathe.
“Hmph. Can’t say I’m surprised. That boy was always wandering. One foot out the door since they moved here.”
“Maybe it’ll straighten him out,” your dad reasoned. “Boys like that need structure. Discipline. Might be the best thing for him.”
Your stomach turned.
“That family’s always been… off. Drunk father, no real direction. That kind of upbringing breeds trouble. You can’t plant in bad soil and expect roses.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, you set the knife down on your plate. Your toast went uneaten.
“You ever talk to him at school?” Your father asked you.
“Makes no difference now. He’s gone.” Your mother answered.
You pushed your plate away, chair making a soft screech as you stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Just… out.” You hiss.
You walked quickly. No shoes. No coat. Stepped out onto the porch like you were sleepwalking.
The air was hot. Too hot. Your breath felt wrong in your chest.
He was gone.
He really did it.
And you weren’t there to tell him not to.
You thought of the creek. Of the rocks. The place you used to pretend was untouched by time.
You imagined him walking away from it, without a goodbye, carrying nothing but what you left behind in him.
You ran.
Barefoot. Heart beating too hard. Like it wanted to chase the road, like maybe if you had moved fast enough, you’d find him still there, waiting at the edge of leaving.
But the trees didn’t whisper his name anymore.
Only yours.
And you didn’t answer.
The woods hadn’t changed. Everything else, though…
You stepped through the trees like you were afraid they wouldn’t let you in anymore. Like the air would still remember how it smelled when he was there. You hadn’t been back since saying goodbye years prior.
The path was still worn from where their feet used to press it down-- barefoot, laughing, hiding.
But it was overgrown now. And your heart sputtered to a messy stop.
The green was thicker, like it was trying to forget you were ever there.
You reached the clearing.
The stone was still there. The one you always sat on. Flat. Cool. Waiting.
You didn’t sit right away. Just looked.
The creek hummed softly-- the same, but crueler. Because it was still moving. And he wasn’t in it.
You walked to the edge of the water.
Knelt.
Touched the surface. It was cold.
Then you lowered yourself onto the stone. Folded your knees up to your chest.
Everything was quiet. Even the birds didn’t sing.
You pulled something from your pocket-- a crumpled piece of notebook paper, torn from the back of a letter you never finished.
There was no salutation. No “Jungkook.” Just a single sentence, scrawled in ink stained with fingerprints.
You could’ve convinced me to go with you if I’d only been brave.
You pressed the note beneath a flat rock beside the tree where he once carved your initials with a pocket knife. The mark was faded then. Worn down by time. Still there.
Like you.
You rested back in the grass.
Let the weight of everything fall on top of you.
Let the sky see you.
Let the wind move through your hair like maybe it was him, come back one last time to say goodbye.
A breeze stirred the leaves. A crow cried far off. The sun began to dip below the branches.
You closed your eyes and whispered into nothing.
Come back.
And you knew he wouldn’t.
The light in your room was pale and gold. Slipped and spilled through the cracks in the curtains and kissed your bare arms where they lay atop the covers. The house was still quiet- your parents were still gone.
You stared at the ceiling. Blank-eyed. Awake too early.
You didn’t move, instead, you drifted--
The room was bathed in soft morning.
White curtains were swaying gently from an open window. A gardenia plant on the sill-- its petals just beginning to open.
There was a cup of coffee on the table. A half-read book. The smell of something warm in the kitchen… cinnamon or honey, maybe.
And him.
Jungkook, barefoot, hair damp, wearing an old linen shirt you swore you’d never seen before, but felt like home. He hummed something under his breath. Not a song--just comfort. It was instinct.
You walked past him, shoulders brushing. He kissed your temple without thinking. No rush. No hiding. Just quiet and allowed.
There was no shame there. No sin. Just a life you built from bones and sunlight.
You spoke, he laughed.
Not bitter. Not weary. Just full.
You could almost feel it.
You blinked once.
Twice.
You were still in your childhood bed.
Still in a dress your mom picked for a date your mom arranged.
Still aching.
The room smelled like dust and church and every version of yourself you tried to bury.
There were no white curtains.
No gardenias.
Just the ghost of a boy who’s not dead, but already started fading.
You turned on your side. Buried your face in your pillow.
And for the first time--
You let yourself grieve him.
Like a funeral with no name. No shame.
The stars were high and hard. The kind of sky that didn’t blink. The house was dark.
You were barefoot again.
Your nightgown clung to your legs in the warm wind. Your hands were dirty, nails cracked and bloodied.
You were behind the toolshed, where the nettles used to grow.
Because you dug ‘em up.
Fists clawed at the earth when the shovel didn’t feel visceral enough. You tore at roots, ripped up stalks long since withered, the ghosts of stings still lingered on your skin.
You dug until the patch was bare and wide and dark with disturbed soil.
Then you rested down in it.
A grave for the pain you chose.
The dirt was cool. Damp. You pressed your palms flat against it. Closed your eyes and listened to the earth breathe around you.
It didn’t comfort you.
But it also didn’t lie.
Some time later, and your fingers were still smudged with soil.
You opened your notebook. One of the secret ones.
The first one you filled with letters to Jungkook. The boy who once waited for you at the creek. The one you kissed beneath the trees. The one you let leave. You wrote like you were writing a dead man.
Jungkook,
Today I buried the nettles. I thought maybe if I put the pain in the ground, I could leave it there, too.
But I laid down in it, and all I felt was the weight of everything I never gave you.
You’re not dead.
But the version of you that was mine is.
So I’ll mourn you like I would a boy in a box, white shirt and folded hands, too quiet to say goodbye.
You didn’t sign that one, just closed the notebook. But the dream hadn’t left you yet.
White ribbons fluttered from branches. A veil caught in the breeze. Jungkook waited at the alter-- soft-eyed, the sun on his cheeks.
You walked through the petals.
You kissed.
The world held its breath and then exhaled…
White curtains. A garden heavy with bees.
Children’s laughter in the distance.
A baby’s cry.
His laugh.
Sunday dinners where no one prays to ease their desire.
A life without shame.
A love without hiding.
Your hands reached toward nothing.
And in your mind…
It all catches fire. The veil melted to ash. The house cracked. The children vanish. Jungkook turned to smoke. Gardenia petals burn black. You watched it all go up in flames. And you didn’t scream. Just pressed your hand to your chest and breathed deeply.
Amen.
The summer Jungkook almost died, the gardenias along the fields bloomed too early.
They fell in heavy white clumps along the fence lines, petals browning before the heat had time to settle. You noticed them one morning after church, arms wrapped in a white cardigan despite the sweat. You bent to pick one up and pricked your thumb on a wasp that had died there.
The sting stayed with you all week.
So did the image of Jungkook in a hospital bed halfway across the world. Pale as linen sheets, a tube down his throat and gauze around his chest. They said he had been grazed by a sniper rifle. His dad’d heard the news first and in a small town like Hickory, news traveled fast. You’d been beyond yourself when it greeted you at the kitchen table. Your mom’s tone was hushed, and prayers were recited with inflated emotion that night.
It was the kind of injury only God could cure, your dad had said.
You hadn’t seen him in so long. Your letters still sat unsent in the floorboard beneath your bed. In notebooks that were only growing companions. You could still hear his voice sometimes-- deep, low, slightly slurred when he was too comfortable or sleep-addled.
You were angry. With the world. Yourself. Him. But especially yourself.
You’d been raised in the same church, had sat under the same stained glass since you could walk, had listened to the same hymns-- yet you only noticed him after that day in the creek. And when your body had started aching for something no sermon could explain, you told no one. Not even him.
You nodded when your dad asked again if you were alright, conversation with your mom paused. You excused yourself from dinner early and snuck to the creek again. The second time since your goodbye.
You took the long way that night, a patch of nettles behind the parsonage-- jagged, wild, almost humming with a kind of judgment. The first time you’d brushed your legs against them, it’d been an accident-- you were 7 and simply didn’t look at where your feet were going. This time, it was not.
Every time you thought of Jungkook’s lips, you went back.
Every time you woke from dreams of white picket fences and sweat-slicked skin in his old Chevy he’d been fixing up for the last months you’d talked, you went back.
And he was dying. Or maybe he was already gone. You had no way of knowing.
You pressed a gardenia against your chest and thought of all the things you never got to say.
You’re alone for the night. Your pa is at the hospital visiting your mother. Borrowed time, they told you. No amount of prayer.
You’d tried to find solace in the stars, but everything feels like it’s laughing at you lately. Mockery. Deception. Betrayal. It all hurts too hard and laughs too loud.
The porch light is out and the house settles. Crickets buzz somewhere far off.
You stand in the hallway, hair tied back and sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-empty mug of coffee in your hand. You’d been sitting with the quiet all evening. Your boyfriend, a sweet and noble man from town, was understanding of your leaving. You needed to be with family, he understood that. So he left you with a kiss on the cheek and a promise of seeing you in a few days after a work trip. You’d moved in with him not too long back, now. Much to the dismay of your parents. But time had wisened you up; you didn’t owe them your life or your happiness. So you moved out, and gave them a choice. Stay in your life and accept your decisions, or spurn your life and be ejected from it. They decided after a week of deliberation.
Matthew’s a good guy. Doesn’t push too hard, doesn’t argue… Just supports you. Helps you.
It’s not love, but it’s not deceptive either.
There’s compassion. There’s attraction. There’s… something.
And the sex isn’t abysmal, though you're limited in experience.
You shake your head as if to clear it, trying to sit in the quiet of the evening. You’d listened to your mother breathe through machines all day.
Then… a knock.
Three soft taps. No urgency. No warning.
You open the door, wincing at the creak it emits.
And there he is.
Jungkook.
Older now. More shadow than boy. His face is leaner, jaw stronger. Eyes the same, but quieter. Worn. His hands hang stiff at his sides. He doesn’t speak right away.
Neither do you.
You just look.
And it feels like someone cleaved the world in two.
You take a deep breath and crack the door open more, leading him to the living room.
He sits. You sit. You breathe.
“I heard about your dad.”
He nods, doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t mention the funeral.
“I’m sorry,” you add.
“I heard about your mom.”
You look down at your mug. It’s gone cold.
“Thought I’d stop by. I don’t know. Thought maybe it’d matter.”
“It does,” you exhale through lips that remember the feeling of his.
Silence follows. Not comfortable. Not cruel. Heavy.
“I’m engaged.”
You don’t flinch. Just press your thumb against the handle of your mug.
“She good to you?”
“Yeah,” a beat, “it’s different.”
You nod once, curt.
“You’re the only person who ever saw me.”
Your breath catches. Not dramatically. Just slightly-- like something inside you remembered how to ache.
You stand, cross the room, and pull an old Bible from the shelf. You open it to the middle-- pressed between the pages, delicate and browned with age:
A dried gardenia.
You hold it out to him. Don’t say a word.
He looks at it for a long time.
And he doesn’t grab it.
Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he knows: somethings are meant to stay buried in books and years of silence.
He stands: “I should go home.”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
He moves to the door and stops once, hand hovering over the knob. You don’t say anything else. He nods to himself, and then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
The air still holds him. His scent. His weight. The echo of the words both spoken and unspoken left behind.
You stand frozen in the middle of the room, the Bible still heavy in your hands. The dried gardenia rests between your fingers-- fragile, papery. You stare at it like it might whisper what to do.
Your throat tightens. Your chest swells.
You move--slowly-- back to the couch.
Sit.
The silence returns.
The familiar, suffocating silence that used to follow your secrets. You blink hard, like you’re trying to stay put, to stay still, to be good.
But you just can’t do it.
Like those many years ago when you raced across the tracks and into the unknown, you’re up and the Bible thuds to the floor.
You rush for the door, barefoot, night air rushing in.
And he’s halfway down the driveway, headed for a sleek car that sits at the end of it. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s walking away from something heavy and final. And you want anything but that.
“Jungkook,” you gasp out.
He stops. Turns. Your eyes lock across the dark lawn.
For one second-- nothing moves.
Then you run.
Across the grass, through the humid night, wind tangling in your hair and nightgown. He doesn’t move first, just watches. Breath shallow.
But when you reach him--
You collide.
Hands in hair, lips crashing, years unraveling all at once.
The kiss is frantic, deep, trembling. Not clean. Not poetic.
It’s everything unsaid over the past years.
All the letters. All of the almosts. All of the aching.
He kisses you like he’s remembering what it meant to belong. To be allowed to exist.
You kiss him like he never left.
Your fingers curled in his hoodie at the creek.
Your first kiss under the trees at the creek.
Would you still love me if I was something wicked?
Then we burn slow. Together.
The taste of longing. Of never. Of now.
You part just enough to breathe. Your foreheads touch. Neither of you speaks a single word. There’s nothing left to say.
This isn’t a beginning.
S’just the flood.
And come morning--
It’ll all recede…
And you didn’t mean for it to happen like this.
Not after all the years of unsent letters, of promises you’d made to other people.
But after meeting at the edge of the driveway-- after the kiss under the moonlight-- after everything tells you to run--
You don’t.
With his hand in yours, you walk back up to the porch.
Open the door.
Step inside.
He follows.
And the house is so quiet.
The space between you hums. Tired and holy.
And you move like you’ve dreamed of this a thousand times-- and maybe you have.
No rush. No words, at first. Just touches that ask permission and eyes that say yes.
In your childhood bedroom, surrounded by who you used to be, you make love.
It’s slow. Careful. Like you’re stitching old wounds shut. Like you’re remembering who you were, and choosing, just for tonight, to believe in that version again.
He traces the scar on your wrist without asking. You kiss the bruise near his collarbone without needing an explanation.
And after-- bare skin beneath flannel sheets and stormlight leaking in through the blinds-- you whisper what you never said back then:
I never stopped waiting.
If the world were different…
If I asked you to stay… would you?
Yes. Yes, I would.
But it doesn’t last.
The front door slams. Heavy boots. Your father’s voice-- coarse, commanding.
He wasn’t s’posed to be back till Sunday.
The door bursts open. There’s shouting.
Your father’s face is red with rage, betrayal, and shame.
And Jungkook…
He doesn’t run.
Doesn’t hide.
He stands in front of you, trying to shield you even as the first blow comes. First of a few.
You scream and try to stop it. But your father has already decided what kind of girl you are and what kind of boy Jungkook is.
You finally pull Jungkook with you out the front door, sounds of your father’s anger leak through the wooden door.
Whore.
Trash.
Get out before I kill you.
Sinners.
Unclean.
Jungkook is silent for a long time.
“Come with me.”
You turn to him. Blink hard. You don’t understand at first.
“I mean it. We’ll leave tonight. Right now. I’ve got gas. Just say the word.”
Your lips part, and no sound comes out.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says quieter, “I’ll get another job. You can finish school somewhere else. We don’t need anyone. We never did.”
You stare at him. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears. Your mom in her hospital bed flashes in your mind.
“Jungkook…”
He steps closer, one foot between you now. “Please. Before you change your mind. Before you go back in there and pretend what happened didn’t just happen. Just-- please.”
You open your mouth again. Close it.
And the moment lingers. Heavy and bare. Like something divine is being choked out. You look towards the door and back toward him. You don’t move. Why can’t you move?
“That’s your answer, huh?”
You don’t cry, but your throat moves like you’re swallowing glass.
“I’m-- I’m sorry.” You whisper, barely audible.
“Don’t be.”
His voice is empty. Detached now.
He steps back, wipes his bloodied mouth with the back of his hand again.
“Guess I was the fool for thinkin’ we could ever get out of this place.”
“I wanted to,” you whisper, choked.
“You wanted to want to. That’s not the same thing.”
And he steps off the porch. Walks into the night.
You stay frozen. Cotton nightgown catching in the wind. Standing in the threshold of the only life you’ve ever known and watching the one you wanted disappear again.
And you let him go.
Again.
The night doesn’t end in tenderness, but in bruises and sirens of the soul.
The sky is still dark. A deep slate blue bleeding slowly into the morning. There’s no music. No headlights from behind.
Jungkook drives in complete silence.
Hands clenched tight around the wheel, knuckles white, a pulse hammering in his jaw. The windows are down. The wind rushes in like it’s trying to hold him back, or keep him going.
His mouth is still swollen from the kiss. From what came after.
He tastes you--
On his lips,
On the air,
In every breath he takes that feels like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
He doesn’t know where he’s going.
He just knows he has to go.
Tears spill, silent. He doesn’t make a sound. Because he knows if he opens his mouth, he’ll break apart completely.
You chasing after him. Barefoot. Reckless.
The kiss-- like worship, like drowning.
After-- your skin so soft and warm under him. The gasps and moans. The taste of your tongue. Of you.
Then… your fingers tangled in his shirt like you were trying to keep him from disappearing. His dried blood was dirtying your sweater. And you couldn’t keep him with you. Not with your father’s shouts coming from up the stairs.
He asked you to go with him. You hesitated. Still. Even after all these years.
His grip on the wheel tightens. He presses his foot down harder, not out of anger--
But because if he slows down, he’ll turn around. He wants to turn around.
Don’t turn around.
The road stretches ahead, empty. No signs. No lights. Just distance.
His tears fall steadily now. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Like rain hitting a tin roof.
Like the kind that comes when the storm’s passed, and everything is too quiet.
Behind him: your porch, your quiet, your gardenias, your ghost, your nettles. You.
Ahead of him: everything, nothing certain, nothing safe.
But he drives anyway.
And somewhere down the road, with the last of your salt on his tongue, he finally lets himself fall apart. Lets himself cry for the life he’ll never have.
It’s pale and grey outside when you finally rise off the porch and go back inside. You’ve cried all you can cry. Your heart aches something deadly and you’re so numb.
The living room is dim. A lamp glows near the Bible on the coffee table. Your father stands in the kitchen, arms crossed and knuckles still red. He doesn’t look at you when you enter.
“You could have killed him,” you spit.
“He had no right being here. Defiling this house.”
“This house was defiled long before he touched me.”
He turned then, furious, “Watch your mouth.”
“No.”
“That boy ruined you.”
“No, you did that.”
Silence. The kind that cuts deep.
He steps towards you, but you don’t flinch this time.
“I loved someone, and you treated that like a sin. All you do is control and punish.”
He says nothing.
“I’m not your child anymore.”
You turn and walk away.
Your room is stripped of him now-- but not of what you shared. Not of what you’ve become.
You change into clothes, shove your arms into your jacket, grab your keys, and race for the nearby city.
The room smells like bleach and fading flowers.
A rosary dangles from an IV pole.
One hand is wrapped around your mother’s frail fingers, the other gripping the edge of a half-read devotional you can’t bring yourself to finish. Monitors beep softly. Steady but slow.
Your mom-- her skin is pale, papery. Lips dry and chapped. Her breath rattles faintly in her chest.
Age and sickness overwhelm you.
She’s awake. Just enough. Her voice is thin but lucid.
“Your father isn’t with you?”
“He won’t. Not today.”
It’s quiet for a second, and your mother blinks slowly, watching you. “Good.”
You look up, surprised. She exhales, painfully, like letting that word out took something with it.
“You’ve hardly said ten words,” she adds.
“You weren’t there last night.”
“Where?”
“The house.” You wince. “He hit him. He hit Jungkook.”
She works the words over for a few moments. “That Jeon boy?”
“He came to see me,” you nod. “We hadn’t seen each other in years.”
She says nothing. You continue.
“I let him in. Into the house. Into my room.” Her breathing stutters but she doesn’t interrupt you. “We didn’t plan it. We didn’t mean for it to happen like that. But we loved each other, momma. Maybe we always did. And he beat him. In my room… in the hallway. Like a dog.”
Your mother turns her face slightly. She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t defend him. She doesn’t say “You shouldn’t have let him in.”
She just waits.
“I didn’t even cry. Not ‘til he left. Because part of me thought I deserved it.”
She flinches. Small, but real.
“You didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?” You look at her, “I broke the rules. I disobeyed. I let a boy in my bed and I felt loved. I felt safe. And then I watched it fall apart like it was supposed to.”
“He hurt you too?”
“No. He protected me.”
That hangs in the air like a sweet, tragic incense.
“And I let him walk away. Because I was too scared to follow him. To go with him.”
Your mother closes her eyes. A few seconds pass before she speaks.
“I never knew it was him. The way you reacted when he enlisted…I should have known.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“Because it’s easier to pretend you don’t know when it comes to your kids. And I was already drownin’.”
Silence. The monitor beeps. A horn honks somewhere in the distance.
“I think I ruined something good.” You whisper.
“Or maybe… You were never given the tools to keep it.”
Your eyes fill with her words.
“I didn’t want to be like you,” you tell her, voice broken.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Then don’t be.”
“It still hurts.”
“Then it mattered, darlin’. I hope if you find him again, you tell him the truth.”
“What if it’s too late?”
“It’s not. It’s never too late.”
“He’s engaged.”
“Do you still love him?” She blinks.
“Momma, I never stopped.”
“Mm.”
“And I’m still seein’ Matthew. He’s good. Kind. He takes faith seriously. Prays before meals. Volunteers at the church. You’d like him.”
“I’m sure I would.”
“He reminds me of dad.” The silence chills. She turns her head slowly.
“Is that supposed to be a comfort?”
“I don’t know…” You whisper, “he never raises his voice. Never touches me in anger. But… sometimes I feel like I’m back in that house. Tiptoeing. Shrinking. Trying to be small enough to be loved.”
She exhales slowly and shakily, then looks away, ashamed.
“I used to think that kind of man was safe. Quiet. Controlled. But control is just fear wearing its Sunday best.” She whispers.
You close your eyes, and a tear slips.
“He never asks about my past. Doesn’t want to know. Says it’s ‘between me and God.’ But sometimes I wish he’d ask. Just once.”
“Someone who won’t hold your story can’t carry your heart.”
You look at her, startled, “where was this version of you when I was sixteen?”
“Buried. Like a seed that never got the sun. Don’t settle.” She reaches out, fingers shaking, and takes your hand in her own. “Don’t marry someone because they’re good on paper. Or because they won’t hurt you. That’s the bare minimum. Don’t stay in wreckage because it’s familiar. Don’t love quietly to keep the peace. You deserve to love loud. To be seen. Even the ugly parts. Especially there.”
“I thought bein’ loved would fix those.”
“No, baby. Being loved right just gives you the strength to fix it yourself… Don’t live a life that feels like waiting. You’ve waited long enough.”
You lean your head against the edge of the bed, sobbing silently.
“If he’s the wound, let him go. But if he’s the balm-- you better run before someone else marries him. And for what it’s worth? I think he was the balm.”
“Me too,” you cry, collapsing against hospital sheets and your mom, religious mask slipping and a heavy ache taking its place.
