(a detailed angst-to-comfort story with Yoongi)
The fight started with something small—so stupid it’s hard to even remember what sparked it. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was the way he brushed off your words earlier, the way you felt like you were talking to a wall. Maybe it was how you snapped without meaning to, just needing some kind of emotional reaction from him—anything.
“You don’t even care about what I feel, Yoongi!” you had yelled, fists clenched at your sides.
Yoongi stood across from you in the shared dorm room you were staying in temporarily, jaw tense, eyes dark. “Are you serious right now? You think I don’t care because I don’t blow up the way you do?”
“No, I think you don’t care because you shut down and walk away every time I try to talk to you! You just sit there, like nothing matters!”
“Because every time I say something, you twist it! You hear what you want to hear, not what I’m actually saying!”
“You make me feel like I’m the only one fighting for this relationship!”
That was the line that did it. You saw something flicker in his eyes—anger, yes, but hurt, too. A deep, quiet kind that twisted your stomach the moment you saw it.
He scoffed under his breath and grabbed his hoodie. “I need space. I’m not doing this right now.”
“Of course you’re not,” you snapped. “You never do.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just stormed out and slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing louder than it should’ve. Like it cracked something open inside your chest.
You didn’t leave the room after that. Not when the members knocked to check on you. Not when Jungkook gently asked if you needed water. Not when the hours dragged and your heart stubbornly refused to soften.
You went to bed angry. Furious. But underneath it was a layer of sadness so thick it made your bones ache.
Sometime deep in the night, sleep finally took you—and with it came the dream.
You were on the phone, trying to call him. He wasn’t answering. Everything was blurry and loud, sirens screeching, people shouting. Then someone said it—“there was an accident.”
The moment you saw the white sheet over his face, you collapsed. You couldn’t breathe. You screamed and screamed but no sound came out. Just that gut-deep, helpless panic—like drowning while the world kept moving.
You jolted awake, soaked in sweat, gasping, your entire body trembling. The tears were already falling. You didn’t even try to stop them. You stumbled out of bed, heart in your throat, legs barely carrying you as you flung open the door and rushed into the living room.
Yoongi was there. Sitting on the floor in sweatpants and a loose shirt, hair pushed back. A movie was playing—Taehyung and Jimin were next to him, laughing quietly at something on-screen.
When they saw you, they all froze.
But Yoongi… Yoongi was already halfway off the floor before you even made a sound.
The second your eyes met his, the dam broke.
“Yoongi—” you choked out.
He was in front of you in a second, arms wrapping around you so tightly it was like he knew. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You gripped him—no, clung to him—like your life depended on it. Sobs wracked your body, raw and heavy and unstoppable.
“You died,” you cried into his chest, voice cracked and breathless. “You got into a crash and—and I couldn’t do anything—I couldn’t breathe—I—”
“Shh,” he whispered, holding the back of your head, pressing his lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m right here, baby. I’ve got you.”
“I love you,” you cried harder. “Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”
He didn’t say a word—just picked you up like you weighed nothing and carried you back into the room. The others didn’t say anything either, just watched with quiet, stunned eyes.
Once you were back in bed, he tucked you under the blanket and laid beside you, pulling you into him so your face was pressed to his neck and his hand rested firm and protective on your back.
Your voice was hoarse, shaking as you whispered, “I’m sorry, Yoongi. I shouldn’t have said those things earlier. I didn’t mean it. I was just mad, and scared and—”
He gently shushed you, lips brushing your forehead. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Not tonight.”
He didn’t say “it’s okay.”
He didn’t say “I forgive you.”
He didn’t say “I love you too.”
The silence swallowed you whole.
You stopped talking, rolled over slowly, biting your lip to keep from crying again. You tried to breathe through it—tried not to spiral. But the panic crept back in.
And even though his body was warm behind you, you felt cold. Your tears came back quietly this time. You curled inward, trying to be small.
“Hey…” he said softly, turning you back over to face him.
The moment he saw your tear-streaked face, something in him cracked. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.
“Baby,” he whispered. “You think I don’t love you?”
You broke again, voice shaking. “I thought you were dead. And then you didn’t say anything. And I just… I love you so much, but I feel like you hate me now. I feel like you’re gonna leave.”
He leaned in and kissed you—hard, but slow. Like he needed you to feel every ounce of what he couldn’t find words for. His hand slid to the back of your neck, anchoring you to him as he pressed his forehead against yours.
“I love you more than anything in the world,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not later. Not after a fight. Not after a dream. Not after anything.”
You let out a sob, nodding against him, your hands gripping his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
“I know,” he whispered back. “Me too. But we’re tired, and it was a big fight, and we need sleep. We’ll fix it tomorrow. I promise.”
And for the first time all night, you believed him.
You nodded and curled into his chest, his heartbeat grounding you, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it was like he was trying to protect you from your own mind.
He didn’t let go. Not for a second.
And eventually, you slept—curled into the man you loved, safe in the warmth of the one who never really left.
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
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