dear me | 13
lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader
SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.
The end. Except it isn't.
One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.
But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?
estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?
TWs: mental health struggles, intrusive thoughts, emotional distress, identity crisis, implied trauma, existential themes, dissociation, self-neglect, alcoholism (past), parental neglect (implied), mentions of financial instability, subtle childhood trauma, emotional vulnerability, light cursing, anxiety, family issues, intrusive thoughts, mentions of loneliness, complex family dynamics, implied dysfunctional household, emotional repression, mentions of miscarriage, grief, angst, self-doubt
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wc: 5,9k // date: 30th of July 2025
CHAPTER THIRTEEN — LEFT UNSAID happy reading my gummies...
AN: wassup everyone!! dear me is back, who's excited? (the correct answer is all of you. even if you're crying. especially if you're crying.) anyways, i wanna thank everyone who chose to stick with this fic and i want to thank you for your kindness and enormous support i've received after all the hate. y’all really said “we ride at dawn” and i’m forever grateful for it.
second of all… drumroll please… whew. new character introduced?? plus a new character lurking in the shadows of my google docs ready to make their entrance?? yes. yes indeed. i've planned this arc since dinosaurs roamed the earth so i'm not gonna spoil anything but just know: chaos is coming. and tears. but like sexy emotional tears.
anyway, note goal for this chapter is 530 notes!! let’s see if we can reach it (we're unhinged and insane, i know we can. manifest with me. scream with me. sob in the tags and asks with me.)
You think that when grief comes — real grief, the kind that fractures time itself — the world will stop. That the sky will split open, that the ground will crack beneath your feet. That traffic will pause mid-intersection, that people will freeze mid-conversation, sensing something sacred and unbearable has occurred. But nothing stops.
The world, cruelly, keeps spinning.
You still brush your teeth. Answer emails. Pour your morning coffee. You laugh at something stupid on the internet and hate yourself for it. The ache doesn’t announce itself with sirens — it seeps in slowly, through cracks you didn’t know you had.
You think of Nina and Jungkook. The weight they carry. The loss that hollowed them out. Not loudly, not all at once — but in pieces, day by day, until even joy began to taste bitter. And though it isn’t your pain, it lingers in you like smoke. It presses on your chest when you remember how his voice broke when he said the word miscarriage. It tightens around your ribs when you see the forced steadiness in her eyes — the kind of steadiness only people who’ve known loss learn to wear.
You want to wrap them in something warm. Something impenetrable. Shield them from the world and all its cruelties. But you can’t. It’s not your burden to carry, and even if it were — you wouldn’t know how.
So the world keeps turning. The clock keeps ticking. You keep moving. They do, too.
Quietly, painfully, bravely.
But the sad, little fact is — grief has a way of making things clearer. Sharper. It peels back the layers. And standing there, watching the weight of loss curve Jungkook’s spine and hollow out his eyes, you felt it. Not only sympathy. Not even just helplessness. You felt distance. A chasm you didn’t know existed until that moment — wide, cold, final.
It wasn’t the kind of moment that made you ask “what's going on?” No, it was crueler than that. It was the kind of moment that froze you mid-step, like a sudden downpour in the dead of winter. You were drenched before you even realized it — soaked in something heavy and unnameable.
You know how this sounds. How selfish it is to look at someone else's pain and make it about you. You know that Jungkook doesn’t owe you softness. He doesn’t owe you clarity or closure. And yet, part of you — the part that still dreams in stolen glances and unfinished sentences — had hoped.
A quiet, desperate kind of hope. The one that blooms in silence and hides in the dark. The kind you never admit out loud because naming it makes it real. The kind that makes your heart leap when he remembers the smallest things, or says your name like it means something.
But now, standing on the outside of their tragedy, you see it for what it is. The shape of the truth is jagged, but unmistakable. Jungkook loved her. Loves her. Maybe not in the way people write songs about — maybe deeper than that.
In a way that lingers.
In a way that survives.
And you… you were never a contender. You were a side character in a story already written, a footnote in a fate that had no space for you. That kind of love — the soul-bending, universe-stopping kind — it was never meant for you. It was always hers.
And somehow, you understand.
You even admire it.
But God, it still breaks you.
Yet here you are, cooking lunch for Ms. Kim. The same lasagnas she’s adored for years, layered with the spices you could measure out blindfolded, with hands that move from memory rather than thought. And as the sauce simmers, as the smell of basil curls into the air, you wonder — truly, achingly wonder:
Outside of Jungkook, outside of work… who are you?
Because your life has always lived in two neat halves.
One: Jungkook and you — always together, always best friends, two halves of a shared language.
And after that:
Two: Your work, where your hands do what your mind can’t — create, feel, breathe.
And when Jungkook and you reconciled, it was a mix of both.
But there’s nothing in the spaces between.
No great love — not even Chris, not even when he tried, not even when you swore he might be it — could make you feel it all at once.
No remarkable friendships — except Yoongi, but he was less a new discovery and more a thread that’s just been there, quietly holding everything together.
No thrilling strangers.
No accidental passions for a while.
Not since you discovered how cooking makes you feel.
No spark of a new hobby that makes you feel more alive than tired.
So who are you, really? Are you even a whole person — or just a reflection, a supporting role? A silhouette molded by proximity?
Because it’s always someone else, isn’t it?
Vicky’s sister.
Jungkook’s best friend.
Yoongi’s secret-keeper.
Taehyung’s late-night call, warm body, nothing more.
Always someone’s something — but never your own.
What if you’ve only ever existed in relation to others?
What if no one’s ever looked at you and thought ‘mine’ the way you crave to be claimed?
What if you’re just a ghost moving through other people’s stories, haunting pages that were never written for you?
And what if that’s all you’ll ever be?
But you can’t find peace in that. Not really. Because you’re tired of being no one. Or someone’s something.
Isn’t it the same thing in the end?
You hate how pathetic it feels — this quiet, humiliating hope you nursed during all those years of silence. The way you still believed, even after everything, that the two of you might find your way back to each other. That maybe, somehow, he'd reach for you.
And he did reach for you again — just not in the way your younger self prayed for.
And you hate it even more — how much of your world has revolved around him. How you’ve let your edges blur until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. As if you don’t begin unless he’s there.
But you do. You have to.
Because if you don’t step outside of this — this aching, stunted version of a life — you’ll never get to live one that’s yours.
Discovering the depth of Jungkook and Nina’s grief showed you something you hadn’t fully understood before: life doesn’t wait. It crashes in, uninvited, and it takes. It always takes. And if you keep standing still, it’ll take the things you haven’t even dared to reach for yet.
So now you know — you have to move. You have to live. Not just for others. Not just to orbit someone else. But for you.
You close your eyes and inhale the scent of mixed spices curling in the warm kitchen air. Your heartbeat slows just a touch. For a moment — a single, fleeting second — everything fades. The noise in your mind, the gnawing thoughts that haven’t let you rest in days, all of it slips away.
Then you hear it.
It starts quiet — the soft scrape of slippers against the wooden floor, a few sleepy mutters slipping out as Ms. Kim shuffles down the hallway, pulled too soon from her afternoon nap by the sharp chime of the doorbell. You don’t stop what you’re doing — you keep stuffing the lasagna shells with sauce, hands moving on instinct. Probably a delivery. Or someone trying to sell something. You don’t think much of it.
Until you hear her voice.
“Oh my God!” Ms. Kim’s words ring through the apartment, bright and bubbling with joy. “Haeun!” she calls out, and something shifts in your chest — realization blooming.
Her daughter’s home.
“Surprise, Mom,” comes the reply, soft and teasing, and you can picture the exact moment — Ms. Kim throwing her arms around her daughter, laughter echoing off the walls.
You’ve never met Haeun.
You’ve cooked for her brother a few times, exchanged polite small talk at Ms. Kim's place. But Haeun was always the distant one, the rare visitor. So your paths never crossed.
Still, the smile that tugs at your lips feels genuine. Ms. Kim talks about her constantly — the kind of love that fills rooms even when the person isn’t there. She misses her all the time.
And now, for once, she doesn’t have to.
Something about that warms you.
It doesn’t take long before you hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps again — this time faster, more urgent. The sound of Ms. Kim’s slippers echo against the hallway tiles, but it’s different now, lighter somehow, hurried with excitement. You glance up from the tray just as she bursts into the kitchen, practically towing someone behind her.
A girl — younger, pretty, dressed in one of those oversized sweaters that make it hard to tell whether she’s just visiting from somewhere colder or simply hiding in something soft. Her dark hair is pulled half-up, her cheeks tinged with the faintest flush from the sudden heat or maybe from the way her mother is dragging her around like an old teddy bear rediscovered in an attic.
“Come, come, you have to meet my amazing chef!” Ms. Kim exclaims, her voice as bright as the kitchen lights she always forgets to turn off. She gestures toward you like you’re some kind of secret ingredient she’s been saving to impress guests with — her pride clear in the way she says it, in the urgency of her hand waving toward you.
You blink, pausing for a beat, before offering the girl a smile — polite but warm, the kind you give someone you know you’ll be seeing again. Haeun’s eyes land on yours, and there’s a flicker of something — recognition, curiosity, a trace of surprise that you’re not quite sure what to do with. Still, she smiles back, and it’s enough to soften the edges of your instinctive caution.
She steps forward, slower than her mother, more reserved. She’s not shy, not exactly, but she carries herself with the kind of grace that comes from being slightly out of place, the way visitors do in houses that used to be theirs but feel like someone else’s now. Haeun steps forward, brushing windblown strands of hair behind her ear. “Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Haeun.”
“Y/N,” you return, giving her a quick shake before wiping your fingers on a nearby dish towel. “Nice to meet you. You really caught us off guard.”
“I was going for the full effect,” Haeun admits with a small grin, casting a look at her mother. “I’m staying here for a while. Figured it’d be nice to surprise her. Though I didn’t think I’d get ambushed in a kitchen on day one.”
“You chose the most dangerous battlefield,” you tease lightly, gesturing to the flour-dusted counter and half-finished lasagna. “It’s war in here from four to seven.”
“She’s not joking,” Ms. Kim mutters dramatically as she begins rifling through the cabinet for plates. “This one runs a tighter ship than anyone who has worked for me. But she’s a genius, so I let it slide.”
Haeun’s eyes light up with curiosity as she leans closer to examine the dish. “Is that lasagna?”
“Kind of,” you say, glancing at the slightly experimental layer of roasted vegetables beneath the cheese. “I’ve been messing around with the recipe. Your mom likes it when I go off-script.”
“She sends me photos sometimes,” Haeun confesses. “Usually around lunch when I’m stuck eating convenience store food at my desk.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Tactical guilt-tripping. That’s very her.”
“Right?” Haeun chuckles, clearly amused. “So I guess I owe you a thanks. You’ve apparently kept her from starving.”
You smile, a little softer now. There’s something calm about her energy — present, but not overwhelming. She feels easy to talk to, like someone who notices more than she says. “Dinner’s almost done. You have to try it!”
“Of course she's gonna try it," Ms. Kim says before Haeun can answer, already reaching for silverware with a decisive nod.
“I’d love to,” Haeun says, still looking at you. And this time, there’s something steadier in her voice. “If it’s okay with you.”
You nod, your grin returning. “Of course. Anyone who eats without complaining earns bonus points.”
She laughs, and somehow, just like that, it doesn’t feel like a first meeting anymore.
Haeun settles onto a kitchen stool, watching you as you work at the counter, carefully layering the lasagna. Ms. Kim moves around nearby, humming softly, clearly delighted by her daughter’s unexpected arrival.
“So, you’re here for a while?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.
Haeun nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, I wanted to surprise my mom. Needed a break from everything back home.”
Ms. Kim beams at her daughter, her eyes shining with joy. “Well, this is the best surprise of my life.”
You laugh. “You’ve definitely made your mom super happy.”
Haeun shrugs, looking around the kitchen with a hint of admiration. “This place feels like home already. Feels different than my apartment — quieter, but in a good way.”
You nod, flipping a tray into the oven. “That’s the thing about this house — it holds a lot of memories. Good ones, mostly.”
Ms. Kim comes over to the counter, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Y/N’s been taking good care of me. You’re lucky she’s here.”
Haeun smiles warmly. “I can see why. It smells amazing in here.”
You grin, shrugging modestly. “It’s my job to keep the house fed.”
Haeun’s eyes meet yours, a flicker of something like gratitude or connection passing between you.
“So,” you say, “what do you usually do when you need to escape all the noise?”
She thinks for a moment. “I guess… I just disappear. Leave my phone off, stay off social media. Go for long walks. It helps me clear my head.”
You smile, “Walking can be pretty therapeutic.”
Ms. Kim calls from across the room, “Dinner will be ready soon! You two keep talking, I’ll just set the table.”
The three of you settle into an easy rhythm — you cooking, them chatting — and in this quiet domestic bubble, a gentle friendship begins to bloom.
When you finally come home, you don’t feel tired anymore. Not really. There’s a lightness in your chest that hasn’t been there in weeks, maybe months — the kind that doesn’t come from rest or sleep or even peace, but from something simpler. Today was a good day. Uneventful, in the best kind of way. And maybe that shouldn’t feel so novel, but it does.
You met someone new — and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel exhausting. No expectations, no history weighing down your shoulders, no need to explain yourself or brace for questions you don’t know how to answer. Just two strangers making conversation, finding common ground in silence and shared space.
It wasn’t profound. But maybe that’s exactly why it mattered. Talking to someone who doesn’t already know all the wrong things about you — it felt… safe. Honest. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally released. There were no conversations tiptoeing around heartbreak, no sharp turns into grief or guilt. Just a moment. A quiet one. And you didn’t even realize how much you needed it.
You almost don’t think about Jungkook. Almost. About how off things have been lately. How every conversation with him feels like you’re both performing a version of yourselves from before. Before you knew about Nina’s miscarriage. Before everything started to slip. He won’t talk about it anymore, and you haven’t pressed him, because you understand. Or at least, you tell yourself that you do. But the silence between you both keeps growing, and now it’s starting to feel like even the smallest things are being swallowed by it.
That’s why today felt different. Being around someone new — someone without all the memories, all the weight — it reminded you of what it’s like to just be. And it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like betrayal.
It felt like breathing.
It felt like you made a new friend.
So, you let the remnants of the day settle into your bones like dust—slow, quiet, inescapable. The sleeves of your hoodie are still damp from dishwater, your hair smells faintly like garlic and thyme, and your feet ache from standing too long in one place. You collapse onto the couch like your body’s been waiting for this all day—sprawled out, boneless, exhausted in that oddly satisfying kind of way.
The apartment hums with low light and comfort. You click on Ginny and Georgia, something mindless and familiar, the kind of show that feels like white noise for your thoughts. Your laptop warms your thighs, your fingers moving without urgency as you open your inbox. Just routine. Just the usual.
Until you see it.
There it is. Bolded. Titled like a slap.
The email.
Same sender. Same subject line format. Same exact minute, same day of the week, like clockwork. You could recite the timing in your sleep. It’s been two months now. And yet every time, it still punches the air from your lungs in that subtle, sickening way.
You grit your teeth. Sip your lukewarm green tea even though it tastes like nothing. You tell yourself not to care—just delete it, just close it, it’s not that deep—but you’re already leaning closer, already reaching for it. Your heart clenches, your stomach dips. And still, you click.
Every single week, you hope this one won’t hurt. That it’ll be light. Some dumb memory from high school. A fight with Vicky and Leah over the last pancake. A night out with Nina where someone got a nosebleed and no one remembers why. Something stupid.
But that hope is thin.
And the second the subject line loads, your heart sinks.
Because you already know this one isn’t stupid.
It’s not light.
It’s not harmless.
It’s the day something almost happened.
“Dear me,
WHAT THE FUUUCK??”
You exhale a laugh through your nose. Of course. Of course she’d start like this. You already know you’re in for it.
“NO BECAUSE WHY DID I THINK HE WAS GOING TO KISS ME?????? WHAT IN THE TWILIGHT-ESQUE MAIN CHARACTER SYNDROME AM I ON. But also like… he almost did?? I think?? Did he??? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT LOOK. WHAT WAS THAT TENSION. I’m going INSANE.”
You pause, blinking slowly at the screen. You remember the night. You remember the heat of it, the closeness, the way the world had gone quiet around the two of you, like it was holding its breath. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move forward either. And you… you didn’t push. You didn’t ask. Because you weren’t sure.
Not then.
Not ever.
“We were watching Friends — and the IRONY, because apparently that show makes people fall in love or whatever. I was in my ugliest pajama pants and I had literally just cried like an hour ago?? But then there we were. On the couch. Shoulder to shoulder. Breathing the same air. Laughing at the dumbest shit. AND THEN HE LOOKED AT ME. LIKE LOOKED. AT. ME. With that look.”
You wince. It’s embarrassing. Not the pajama pants or the crying. But how clear it all still is. You remember the episode that was playing. You remember what it felt like, to be seen by someone like that — or at least to think you were. But you also remember how your chest tightened with doubt, how it all felt just one degree off. Like you were playing pretend.
“AND THEN I LOOKED BACK. BECAUSE I’M STUPID AND HOPELESS AND I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS GONNA HAPPEN. AND HE DIDN’T MOVE. AND I DIDN’T MOVE. AND IT WAS SO QUIET. Like so quiet. I could hear the fucking fridge humming. Our knees were touching. And he just… sat there.”
You close your eyes for a second. You remember telling yourself it was nothing. Just a close moment between friends. Nothing worth dissecting.
But then why did you have to write about it?
“I THINK HE WANTED TO. I DEFINITELY WANTED HIM TO. BUT ALSO WHAT IF I’M WRONG AND I’M JUST DELULU????? What if he didn’t want that at all and I was about to ruin everything??”
You inhale deeply. The question echoes louder now than it did then. Because things did change. Not from that night, maybe — not only because of that night — but the shift began somewhere. And sometimes, you wonder if it began with silence.
With a kiss that never happened.
With the things you were too scared to ask.
“God I’m never telling ANYONE about this ever. I’m going to bury it in my mind forever and if anyone brings it up I’ll just start screaming and running in the other direction. Not even Nina gets to know. This is going with me to the GRAVE.”
You let out a small, breathy laugh. Too late, sweetheart. You just hit send. And here you are, a decade and more later, reading it like a ghost story. Like a secret that still smells like mint tea and late night reruns and almosts.
You close your laptop with a bitter chuckle, the glow from the screen flickering like a memory you wish you could forget. That scared, desperate girl from years ago — she’s still here, trapped in the corners of your mind, screaming with all the “what ifs” and “almosts” that never turned into anything real.
God, that night. The way your heart slammed against your ribs, the silence that screamed louder than words, and the question that never got asked — did he want it, or was it just you hoping? You almost crossed the line, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because sometimes wanting isn’t enough, and sometimes the fear of ruining what you had was louder than the desire to risk it all.
It hurts. It still hurts to think about that almost. But you know—deep down—that it’s nothing but a shadow now. A ghost that needs to stay in the past where it belongs, buried under layers of time and silence.
You’re not that girl anymore. And maybe that’s the hardest part — accepting that some parts of you will always ache, but they can’t dictate who you are now.
The past is a wound that doesn’t always heal cleanly, but it doesn’t have to bleed forever. It’s okay to carry it without letting it drag you down.
You set your jaw, swallow the lump in your throat, and whisper to yourself, “It’s over. Let it stay over.”
Because some stories aren’t meant to be rewritten — they’re just meant to be survived.
You lean back, the weight of the years settling around your shoulders like a heavy coat you’ve worn too long. The past doesn’t just fade away; it lingers in the quiet moments, in the spaces between words, in the corners of your mind where you thought you’d locked it up tight.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe holding onto the ache in small doses means you’re still alive, still human.
You tell yourself that you don’t regret that night — because regret would mean wishing you did something different, but you didn’t. You respected the unspoken boundary, the hesitation.
Sometimes love isn’t about what happens, but about what you don’t force.
And so you breathe out the tension you’ve held for so long, letting it go piece by piece, like leaves falling in slow motion.
The past is a chapter you’ve read enough times to know by heart. Now it’s time to write the next one — not with the shadows of “what if,” but with the quiet strength of someone who’s still here.
You close your eyes, feeling the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, peace is waiting for you right on the other side of that letting go.
You sit there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around you like a balm. Just as you begin to close your laptop, your phone buzzes sharply against the coffee table, jolting you from your thoughts.
You stare at the screen for a few seconds, the unfamiliar number blinking back at you like a tiny interrogation. Who even calls these days? You don’t hand out your number like candy, so this definitely wasn’t some random. For a moment, you debate ignoring it — maybe it’s a telemarketer or some weird spam. But then, a tiny voice in your brain — the one that likes to stir the pot — nudges you: Answer it. See what happens.
You swipe and answer.
“Hi?” you say cautiously.
The voice on the other end sounds almost familiar but also kind of nervous. “Uh, hey, it’s Haeun.”
“Haeun?” You blink. “Wait, how do you have my number?”
There’s a little chuckle. “I got it from my mom. Yeah, I know, kind of weird, right?”
You smirk, already liking this girl’s straightforward vibe.
“No, not weird at all. Totally normal... I guess?”
She laughs. “Phew, thought I’d be the weird stalker or something. So, I was kinda debating whether to call or text because texting feels so impersonal, but calling feels like too much pressure. So here we are.”
You grin, leaning back against your couch. “I get that. Texting’s like sending a note in a bottle. Calling is more like, ‘Hey, I’m here, please don’t make this awkward.’”
“Exactly!” Her voice is light, like you’re both sharing a secret. “So, I was wondering... would you want to go shopping with me tomorrow? I mean, I don’t really have any friends here yet, and shopping is a good excuse to avoid being a responsible adult for a bit.”
You laugh out loud. “Shopping to avoid adulting? That’s basically my life motto.”
She giggles. “Okay, great, you’re officially my partner in crime.”
You roll your eyes, though it feels good to say that out loud. “Alright, partner. Where and when are we doing this?”
“Mid-morning? Before your work. I figure we can caffeinate first. And if you’re lucky, I’ll maybe let you pick the playlist... Okay, that’s a lie, I need to pick the music.”
You smirk. “Is it gonna be pop or ’80s rock?”
“Oh, it’s a surprise. Could be both. Could be neither. I’m a mystery wrapped in a salad.”
You can’t help but laugh. “Salad, huh? Healthy choice.”
She laughs, and there’s a pause, like she’s gathering courage for something.
“Oh, and my brother’s coming into town tomorrow morning,” she says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Namjoon?”
Her voice perks up. “Wait, you know him?”
“Yeah, I met him when he came to visit your mom. Really chill dude. Kinda a big softie underneath all that brainiac energy.”
She laughs. “That’s him. Honestly, he’s kind of a loner. Would it be weird if he tagged along? I think he could use some company, and he likes quiet, low-key stuff.”
You think about it, picturing Namjoon awkwardly lurking in the background during your shopping spree.
“Nah, he’s totally welcome. The more the merrier. As long as he promises not to judge my questionable snack choices.”
She snorts. “Deal! He’ll love you.”
You grin to yourself, warmth bubbling up in your chest. Maybe this shopping trip isn’t just about killing time. Maybe it’s the start of something good.
“You’re seriously cool for this, by the way,” Haeun says after a small pause. “I mean, we literally met like six hours ago, and I’m already asking you to hang out like a clingy NPC in a roleplaying game.”
You laugh, surprised at how easy she is to talk to. “Honestly, I respect that. I wish I had the guts to ask people to hang out that fast. I usually wait until I’ve overanalyzed every interaction and rehearsed how I’ll ask for like, a week minimum.”
She hums. “Yeah, no, see—I don’t believe in internal monologues. Everything just… comes out.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t also say the wrong thing out loud and then spend six hours apologizing for it in my head.”
“Okay, so we are the same,” she says. “But no judgment. I once apologized to a door for bumping into it and then thanked it for not judging me.”
You let out a choked laugh. “You thanked the door?”
“I panicked!”
You’re grinning now. “This is gonna be fun.”
“I hope so,” she says genuinely. “I haven’t really had… girl friends in a while. Like actual ‘go to the store and talk shit about weird packaging’ kind of friends.”
“I got you. Tomorrow, we slander every brand that puts glitter in lip gloss and calls it ‘hydrating.’”
“Yay! You’re officially the best.”
“I mean, I try,” you joke, even though something in your stomach flips slightly when you remember you’ll be hanging out with Namjoon as well tomorrow. Not in a bad way—just… unexpected.
“Okay,” she chirps, “See you tomorrow then! I’ll text you the details. Also, if I forget to show up, I either overslept or spontaneously combusted from social anxiety.”
“Same. I’ll bring snacks in case of emotional emergencies.”
“Perfect. You’re hired as my emotional support human.”
“Can’t wait. Goodnight, Haeun.”
“Night!”
You hang up and stare at your screen for a beat too long, then sigh—half-laughing at yourself, half-weirdly nervous. This wasn’t supposed to be anything. But now it feels like maybe, just maybe, it could be the start of something.
Even if it’s just slandering overpriced skincare with a near-stranger and her mysterious, introverted brother.
And suddenly, you’re not even thinking about the email. Or at least… not that much. Your mind isn’t spinning with worst-case scenarios or playing back every word like a broken tape. Instead, it’s already wandered off to tomorrow — to plans and possibilities and something that feels almost like excitement. Finally, you feel… lighter. Like you can breathe a little.
So, you shower.
When you step out, you’re wearing your oversized grey hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands, and a pair of those soft, cottony grey jorts you only wear when no one’s watching. Your slippers shuffle against the floor as you move through your apartment in lazy zigzags — rinsing out your mug, pushing the scattered chaos of your day back into something that resembles order. You don’t even mind the mess tonight.
You’re just getting everything ready for tomorrow.
And everything tomorrow might bring.
You're about to turn off the last light when your phone starts buzzing on the kitchen counter. Again. You almost chuckle, thinking it must be Haeun with some wild last minute idea.
It’s not.
Instead, it’s Jungkook.
Your thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Not because you don’t want to pick up — but because it’s late, and you weren’t expecting him. You blink a few times, then swipe.
“Hey,” you say, voice low and a little hoarse from the hour.
“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “Did I wake you?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. I had a weird day and I didn’t really want to go to sleep without hearing your voice.”
Your chest tightens — just a little. You’re not sure what to say to that, so you walk slowly toward the couch, curling into the corner like you always do when you talk to him like this.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, and then quieter, “Just missed you.”
You chew on your bottom lip. “You always get sentimental after 11 p.m.”
“You always pretend like you don’t like it.”
“You wish. Anyways, you almost missed me though. I was just about to go to bed. Like… two seconds away from aggressively cocooning myself into oblivion.”
He chuckles. “Aggressively cocooning. Sounds serious.”
“It is. No mercy.”
There’s a pause. Comfortable.
You can hear him shuffling on the other end.“I couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe hearing your voice would help.”
You snort. “What am I, a lullaby?”
“Something like that,” he says, quieter now.
And it’s weird. The way that sentence knots something in your chest. So you try to untangle it with humor. "So? You gonna start crying and ask me to sing you 'Twinkle Twinkle' or...?"
“I’d rather die.”
“Fair.”
Silence again. But this one feels more delicate.
“So, what’s up? I assume this isn’t a random call to remind me you’re still alive?”
He snorts. “I’m pretty sure Nina would be the first to inform you if I wasn’t.”
“Fair.” You laugh softly, feeling the tension of the day start to melt a bit. You try to push away the heaviness still sitting on your chest, the weight of unspoken things between you two. “So why now? You suddenly feel like chatting with the queen of delayed bedtime routines?”
“Guilty,” he admits. “Nina fell asleep on the couch like a sack of potatoes, and I had to carry her upstairs. Almost got kicked in the ribs for my trouble.”
You chuckle. Of course. Suddenly, your heart breaks for them all over again. You almost say something, but hold back. You don’t want to make things awkward. Or painful. “Serves you right for pretending you’re invincible.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m twenty-six, not twenty-six hundred.”
“You act like you’re still ten most days.”
“Touché.” His laugh is quieter now, fading into a softer sound. And you realize you miss hearing it, more than you want to admit.
Then, just as the playfulness settles, his voice dips into something quieter, heavier. Your stomach tightens. You know this part is coming — the weight you both try to avoid.
“I’m not ten anymore. Maybe that’s why sometimes I forget how much this place still smells like him.”
Your heart clenches without warning. You want to say something comforting, but the words get stuck.
“Not like cologne or anything,” he continues. “More like… the mess he left behind. The scars you can’t see but still feel.”
You don’t interrupt. You wait, sensing he needs to say more, even if it hurts you to hear.
“There’s this scratch on the front door from when he was drunk, trying to get in. Shoved the lock open with his keys. It’s still there.”
You bite your lip, imagining the scene — the desperation, the chaos. How many nights did he stand in that doorway, fighting demons no one else saw?
“Nina’s been trying to fix things—paint over cracks, seal old windows. Like that’ll change how everything feels.”
He breathes out slowly, a sound full of exhaustion. “But I remember where he slammed doors, which cabinets he broke. It’s like the house carries him, even if he’s not around anymore.”
Your throat tightens. You want to say something to fix it, but words don’t come. What could you possibly say to that?
“I used to hate nights like this,” he says after a while.
You shift in your spot, the hoodie now warm from your body heat. “What kind of night is it?”
“Too quiet. You know? Like the kind where even the fridge humming pisses you off because it reminds you you’re not actually alone. You just… feel like it.”
You don’t say anything yet. You’ve never known loneliness in the way he says it. Not quite. Not the version that’s haunted.
"When I was a kid," he continues, "I used to hide under my bed when it got like that. Pretend the creaks upstairs were... I don’t know. The house stretching. Or the wind. Not what they actually were."
You feel your grip tighten on the phone.
He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t have to.
“I’d lie there with my headphones in, playing some dumb song over and over like it could drown it all out. It never worked, though. I knew what was going on. And if I was lucky, I’d just run over to your place.”
You swallow. “And now?”
“Now I just call you, I guess. Kinda same as before.”
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