a/n: I wrote this with the recent event in mind and I just HAD to write it this way. I wrote it almost manically. Just to clarify, this is fiction lol
Warning: angst. Lots of angst. BTS Jimin as himself, though the timeline is fiction. Unedited because I wrote this almost in a rush. It's a short one, anyway.
Summary: In the midst of a secret, one-year-long relationship with BTS Jimin, you find yourself haunted by insecurity when a rumor threatens the fragile world you’ve built. Choosing distance in a desperate attempt to protect him, you drift apart, each of you suffering in silence across months and continents. Six months of longing, missed chances, and quiet heartbreak follow, until fate brings you face-to-face again at the airport; brief, careful, and charged with everything left unsaid.
Pairing: Park Jimin x you
Tags: BTS Jimin! Romance, slow-burn angst, romance, established relationship. Hurt-comfort.
Word count: 6k
The headlines still burn in your mind even though you told yourself you wouldn’t look.
“BTS Jimin, Actress Dahlia, in a home date video”.
You hate how easy it is for the world to shake you, how fast your chest tightens when you scroll through strangers’ comments both for and against the video that has been circulating social media for the past week. You couldn’t tear your eyes away reading through how people speculate that the two have been dating on and off again. Sometimes you laugh to yourself at the incredulity of it all but most times you sit there, staring at the screen, questioning the one year of loving him in the dark.
The first day Jimin’s name and picture splashed all over the tabloids, you had been in the middle of class, instructing your students on the homework of the day. When the bell rang, you had retrieved your phone from your desk to find ten missed calls from Jimin and about five text messages to ask you to call him as soon as possible. But neither of you had been lucky because the article from wowKorea had somehow become a notification from X, a banner sitting at the top of his missed calls, a flashing sign as to what the conversation you’d have with him would be about.
“It’s not real,” was his first words when he answered the call on the first ring. You had assured him that you’re okay, that he doesn’t have to worry about anything, but now you think that that might have been the first time you lied to him.
You’re not okay.
The phone on your nightstand buzzes again for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. His name lights up the screen, face flashing along with it. You remember that photo; taken on that night he first said “I love you”, face half hidden behind a mask, the cap on his head pushed down low. But his eyes though; they had been burning with emotion as he stared deep into yours as if words alone were not enough to convey how much he felt for you. Now, you look at the picture and flip the phone over face down, unable to answer and face him. Not yet, anyway.
After that initial call, you start to withdraw. Calls that you had always been excited to get would be left to ring for a long time before you could muster the courage to answer. Texts that you waited on would be left unread or replied late. You gave excuses that sounded weak even to your own ears. Busy schedules seemed insignificant compared to him but Jimin, if he had been suspicious, did not question you. Guilt tightened in your chest and the longer you build the silence, the harder it gets to talk to him.
Today, you’ve let the phone rang unanswered, texts unopened.
When you startled awake at the sound of pounding on your front door, it almost seemed like you expected it. You glance at the clock as you pass by it to the entrance, checking the doorbell camera anyway as if you didn’t know who it was at this late hour. You open the door to a breathless Jimin, the mask hanging from one ear, hoodie up over his head. He doesn’t wait for you to let him in, barrelling past you into your apartment like he’s angry.
He is, hands in fists on his side as he whirls around to face you. His face is distraught, eyes red and glassy. “Please.” His voice is low but you hear the hurt in it and it twists your heart. You finally take him in: hair a little damp, his shirt sweat-soaked and still in the shoes he only wears for dance practice. He looks like he ran all the way here right after rehearsal. “Please, don’t do this to me.”
You feign ignorance. “Jimin, what are you doing here? It’s two in the morning.”
Jimin shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t- Why are you doing this?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why are you pushing me away?” he grits his teeth and you watch his jaw grinds.
You lick your drying lips. “I told you. I…I just need some space.”
“Oh, god,” he whispers, hands flying to his head, pushing his hair back in exasperation. His voice shakes and your chest squeezes at the sound of it.
“For what?” The words hit like a plea as he looks up again, the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks anytime now. You swallow the lump in your throat, wanting nothing more than to cross the gap between the two of you and take him in your arms like you’ve done so many times in the past. But something holds you back. Jimin’s eyes search yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away. “Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me what I have to do to fix it. I’ll do it. Just- don’t push me away.”
You sigh heavily, heart so worn out. You plop down on one of the dining room chairs, head in between your hands. “It’s…it’s not you, Jimin. It’s me.” For a moment, he doesn’t speak, waiting; giving you a moment to explain further. “I…I don’t know if I can do this.”
“What do you mean?” he prompts.
You look up at him, torn between wanting him to understand and yet accepting that you’re both stuck between a rock and a hard place. “I know I said I could. In the beginning. I thought I could. But…” you pause, sighing, the words heavy on your lips. “It’s hard.”
Jimin looks at you imploringly, still standing in the middle of your tiny kitchen and dining area. His presence alone somewhat feels too big for this place, like he doesn’t belong, as if he hasn’t sat down at that same dining table eating your home-cooked food or lounged on your secondhand sofa playing video games with you or slept in your narrow queen-sized bed on some weekends.
“That video-” you start but he cuts you off.
“No,” he says, his voice hardening. “I told you the video meant nothing. She was just someone I knew. Someone I thought I could trust back then. I told you this.” His tone changed to a bit like pleading rather than chastising at the end.
“I know,” you agree, nodding but not believing. “But that video…it made me question things.” You avoid his gaze, unable to look him in the eye. What a coward you are. When he doesn’t say anything, you continue. “Out of all the people you could have, why me? Why would you be with me when-”
Don’t you ever-” His voice is hoarse, breaking. “Don’t you ever say that again. I chose you. I choose you every day. Do you understand?”
You wrap your arms around yourself, nails digging into your skin. You purse your lips together to keep them from trembling, looking at anywhere but him. Frustrated, Jimin crosses the space between you, the physical one, and sinks onto his knees at your feet. He takes your hands in his and presses them to his lips, one knuckle at a time. Your eyes sting from holding back tears.
Shaking your head as if denying him, you tell him the honest truth. “I’m not enough, Jimin.”
He flinches like you stabbed him. His forehead presses against your knuckles, his breath uneven. “Tell me what you need, baby. Tell me what you need me to do to convince you that you are. More than enough.” He looks up then, cheeks wet. “I can’t lose you.”
You gasp in air to breathe, your chest feeling like suffocating instead. “Time,” you choke out. “I need time. Give me time, Jimin.”
The hand on the clock ticks on relentlessly in the silence. Then, he finally answers. “Okay. Okay, if that’s what you need.” He presses his forehead in your lap. “I’ll wait for however long it takes.”
The room feels too small for how much it hurts. You swallow hard, reaching to brush your fingers through his hair, remembering how he loves you playing with it. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s memorizing it. “Just promise me one thing,” he adds, bringing his eyes up to you. “That you come find me when you’re ready.”
You nod your head, lips trembling through the smile you give him as reassurance.
He leans up slowly, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead; a promise carved into skin. His arms wrap around you one last time, pulling you against his chest, and for a moment, you want to beg him to stay, to take back your words and just forget about everything. It would’ve been easy but it wouldn’t have been right either.
So you let go first.
He steps back, eyes glassy, lips trembling like he’s holding back words that would break both of you. He gives a shaky nod, turns, and leaves.
The door clicks shut.
You slide down against it, knees pulled to your chest, and finally let yourself break, the sobs tearing free in the quiet you once thought was safe.
And on the other side of the wall, in the elevator descending into the night, Jimin staggers on his feet, shoulders shaking. His eyes are red, his lips pressed tight, but nothing can stop the way his heart trembles as if it’s shattering inside his chest.
~~~
Exactly one year and six months ago, your friend had dragged you to a housewarming party.
“She works for BTS,” Maya had said, like it was supposed to convince you.
And it had, somehow.
The apartment had been packed wall-to-wall with people laughing too loudly, clinking glasses, taking selfies in every corner. You remember feeling out of place, hovering near the edge of the room, clutching your drink like it could anchor you. Your friend had disappeared to the kitchen to help out the host, leaving you to fend for yourself among a crowd of strangers who all seemed to know each other. The language barrier also didn’t help to make it easy for you to integrate into any of the conversations, your Korean still rusty.
And then you saw him.
Park Jimin. Not on a stage, not on a screen. Just… him. Standing a little off to the side, listening politely as someone spoke to him, sipping quietly at a drink. Three seconds: that was how long you let yourself stare before moving away. You thought you’d keep your distance. He was untouchable, after all.
Yet somehow, fifteen minutes later, as you stood on the balcony feeling the cool wind against your cheeks, the balcony door had opened and closed almost too quickly. Jimin stood there next to you, leaning against the railing, breathing a sigh of relief. You started to leave, deciding to give him the space to decompress but he stopped you.
“You don’t look like you want to be in there either,” he’d said softly. “Stay. I can share the balcony if you promise not to tell.”
There was a playfulness to his tone and just like that, the night stopped being unbearable. You found yourself tucked away with him on that balcony, talking quietly while the party roared on inside. The topics were ordinary: the weather, your job, how he secretly hated crowded rooms. He didn’t feel larger than life then. He just felt human, a man only a couple of years younger than you.
When you went home later, you thought that was it. A random, fleeting conversation you’d keep in your pocket as a funny memory and a great anecdote to tell at the next dinner party. But when you emptied your bag later that night, a folded slip of paper fluttered out: his number with the initials PJM under it.
It’s a prank, you told yourself, convinced that it was your friend who had put that paper there. She had seen you coming back into the room with him, laughing quietly together and had sidled over to ask. She didn’t say much, only smiled knowingly.
So, you called the number without hesitance, ready to catch your friend in the act. It was answered after the third ring. “Ha-ha,” you had said sarcastically. “Nice try, Maya. Did you think I wouldn’t know it’s you?”
There was a pause and a man’s voice answered. “Um, I think you’re mistaken.”
Instantly, your heart flipped. You recognise that voice anywhere.
After a few back and forth, you explaining what you meant with that opening line and him clarifying that it was indeed him who put his number into her bag, the conversation concluded that his intention was to get some private English tutoring.
You almost laughed at how transparent it was, but you said yes anyway. And for weeks, it was just that: sitting across from him, books between you, his cheeks pink when he stumbled over words. But then there were the small things. The jokes that lingered, the coffee runs that stretched too long, the way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. You realized you were looking forward to his mistakes just to hear him laugh at himself.
It bloomed slowly, quietly, until one day his hand brushed yours and neither of you pulled back.
From there, the world changed. Secret dates. Late-night walks in empty streets, hoodies pulled low, hands hidden in pockets but fingers still finding each other’s. Stolen moments in between busy schedules. Whispered laughter in the dark. Happiness that always had to be hidden.
You told yourself it was worth it. That secrecy was the price of having him. That being invisible was fine as long as he was yours. You told yourself it didn’t matter if no one knew, because he knew, and you knew. That was enough.
Until now.
Now, with one rumor, one careless headline, the fragile world you’d protected feels like it’s crumbling. You’ve given everything to keep your love private, quiet, safe. And yet someone else could walk freely into the spotlight and stand beside him without fear, real or not.
It makes you feel small. Invisible. Replaceable.
And maybe that’s what terrifies you the most. Because you love him; you love him so much it aches, but maybe love isn’t enough. Maybe you aren’t enough.
These days, all you think about is that he deserves the world and you can’t give it to him. You don’t know if you ever could. The differences between you and him look so stark then, the large gap between your statuses in society looming over you like a maw ready to swallow you whole.
That’s why you’re pulling away. Not because you want to. But because you’re not sure if you’re strong enough to stay.
Meanwhile, miles away, Jimin is unraveling in your silence. For the first time in his life, he understands why people write songs about love like it’s oxygen, why losing it feels like suffocating. Because somewhere between those “innocent” tutoring sessions and the laughter that spilled past midnight, he found it. He found you.
And now, just when he knows you’re the one, he’s about to lose you.
~~~
It’s half past three in the morning when Namjoon hears the rapid ringing of his doorbell being pressed in succession.
Having been at his desk, writing, he immediately heads to the door, frowning, wondering who it is at this hour, cursing all the way. He forgot to check the doorbell camera, flinging the door wide open, only to stall, the irritation bleeding out at the sight in front of him.
“Hyung…”
Jimin stands there, swaying slightly, the sharp smell of whiskey clinging to him. His eyes are bloodshot, lips trembling, face pale under the hallway light.
Namjoon’s chest tightened. Without a word, he steps aside, allowing the younger man to stumble in. The moment the door closes, Jimin collapses onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shake once, twice, before a ragged sound tears out of him.
“Hyung, I think I lost her.”
Namjoon didn’t ask who. He already knows. He moves quietly, fetching a glass of water, setting it on the table. “Talk to me.”
And Jimin does.
The words spill out in broken fragments, tripping over each other, a flood he can’t stop even if he wants to. He tells Namjoon everything: the beginning at the party where they’d met, the little slip of paper in her bag, the tutoring that wasn’t tutoring, the late-night dates, the hidden kisses, the laughter that no one else got to hear. He talks about how careful they’d been, how hard she tried to keep it private, how guilty he felt for letting her shoulder the weight of secrecy.
And then he breaks, confessing how much he hates himself for the rumor, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. How her silence is eating him alive. How the look on her face tonight when she said she wasn’t enough made him feel like he was the one crumbling, not her.
“I can’t lose her, hyung,” Jimin whispers, voice cracking. His hands clench in his lap until his knuckles turn white. “I- she’s it. She’s the one. I didn’t even know what love was until her, and now I can’t-” His voice fails him, the sob that follows ripping out of his chest like it had been waiting for hours.
Namjoon sits there, watching the strongest parts of Jimin unravel. He’d seen him tired, stressed, frustrated, but never this. Never undone.
“You love her,” Namjoon says quietly. Not a question. A truth.
Jimin nods desperately, tears streaking down his face. “More than anything. And she thinks she’s not enough. But she’s everything. How do I make her believe that? How do I-” His voice breaks again, collapsing into silence.
Namjoon exhales, heavy and long. He doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. But one thing was clear: Jimin wasn’t just hurting. He was drowning.
The next few days are pure torture for Namjoon to watch. At practice, Jimin’s movements are sharp but empty, his focus scattered. During interviews, his smile barely reaches his eyes, sometimes not even listening to questions and the other members had to step up. In meetings, he drifts away, staring blankly until someone nudges him back. He doesn’t touch his food and when Taehyung and Jungkook crack jokes, Jimin doesn’t laugh.
The others start to notice. They didn’t ask, not directly. But the way Hoseok watches him with quiet worry, the way Yoongi lingers after rehearsals, the way Taehyung presses a water bottle into his hand without a word; they all know. Though they never met you, they’ve heard of you: in casual conversations Jimin would drop and through photos that, after much insistence, he would show, beaming softly when they called him lucky because you were way too beautiful for him. Now, there are no longer whispered phone calls or him smiling quietly at a text, or disappearing in the night.
Something must have happened.
Namjoon carries the weight of knowing the full truth, keeping it to himself as he feels it isn’t his story to tell. The image of Jimin on his couch at 3AM, shaking, broken, whispering she’s the one is burned into his chest. He knows he has to do something because if he doesn’t, Jimin isn’t going to just lose you. He’s going to lose himself.
The first weeks nearly destroy him.
Everyone can see it; the way Jimin drags himself into practice, moving on instinct alone, his eyes hollow no matter how bright the lights are. He stares at his phone too often, thumb hovering over your name like he could will you to appear. He never presses it. He never calls.
The shared apartment, the one they choose to stay at when their schedules are full, feels heavier when he’s inside it. Quieter, even when Hoseok tries to fill the silence with laughter.
The others don’t ask outright, but they try. Jin leaves food at his door, pretending it’s nothing. Yoongi mutters, “Your timing’s off,” during rehearsal, his voice sharp because concern doesn’t suit him any other way. Taehyung takes him on long drives at night, windows down, music loud, just to make him breathe again. Hoseok even takes him home to his parents in Gwangju because Jimin is looking gaunt. He barely eats these days.
Namjoon says the least. But he watches the most. He watches the way Jimin’s grip tightens on his phone whenever it buzzes, the way his smile flickers out too quickly, like a candle in the wind. He watches the way Jimin’s body slumps the moment no one is looking.
One night after practice, Yoongi corners him. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says bluntly. “If you’re waiting, then wait. But stop killing yourself in the meantime.”
The words hit hard. But they anchor him.
So Jimin does what he promised. He waits.
Days turn into weeks. Weeks bleed into months.
Six months.
Onstage, he is fine. He smiles, he laughs, he delivers. The world sees perfection and believes it. But in the quiet of his apartment, he is unraveling.
Nights are the worst. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling until the walls close in, until his chest aches with everything he’s not saying. Sometimes he sits hunched over his phone, scrolling through your social media with trembling hands.
There you are, through his phone. He watches all your instastories; the coffee pictures, the random photos of sidewalk flowers, your students’ arts and crafts, the one time you walked down the beach at night, making him wonder if you had been thinking of him and that night that he had drove you to a beach just like that and you two had sat on a picnic mat under the stars, counting constellations, fingers laced together.
Each post slices him open. Each picture without him is proof you don’t need him anymore. Proof he’s outside of your world now. He dies a little each time, whispering to himself, If she’s fine without me, I should let her go.
But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because he loves you. And he promised that he’ll wait.
Across the city, you’re drowning too.
Morning feels impossible. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, body heavy with the weight of absence. Even moving hurts. Nights are worse, the hours stretching endless, your chest clenching until tears slip silently into the pillow. The worst part is the memories in your head. You could delete the texts and the photos and contact number but you couldn’t erase the images in your head; the way Jimin throws back his head when he laughs, his eyes crinkling, the softness in the way he says your name like it’s a secret he wants to keep only for himself, the I love you’s he would whisper in the quiet moments you shared like an oath.
You think about calling him more times than you can count. You hold the phone, thumb hovering over his name, heart begging to hear his voice. Just once. But you always stop. You always put the phone down.
Because the thought repeats itself like poison: If I give him enough time, he’ll move on. He’ll realize he deserves better. He’ll prove me right; that I don’t belong in his life.
So you let the silence stand. Even if it kills you. Even if it means swallowing your pain until it feels like your ribs are cracking under the weight of it, unknowing that he’s breaking in the same way, that he’s awake at the same hours, scrolling, aching, whispering promises to himself in the dark.
And the cruelest part is this: both of you believe you’re protecting the other when all you’re really doing… is destroying yourselves.
Ego is truly a killer.
~~~
The summer was supposed to help.
That’s what you told yourself when you packed your bags and flew home. Distance, new air, a different sky; maybe if you put oceans between you and the memories, it would hurt less. But grief doesn’t obey geography. Jimin still found you in every quiet moment, every empty room.
Your parents didn’t pry, though you caught the way they studied you sometimes, like they could see the cracks you tried to hide. You were thankful for their silence. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. For some odd reason, your mother didn’t even ask if you were going to attend the BTS encore concert back in Korea. It was as if she knew by some motherly instinct that it’s related.
And for the most part, you managed to keep away from anything and everything Jimin. You deleted social media, every last one of them, in an attempt to drown out the noise. You did great; you met up with friends, caught up on their lives while you remained vague, took your parents to dinner every weekend and hung out at the beach with a book instead of scrolling through your phone. You were fine.
Until now.
You land back in Seoul, weary from travel, and drag your suitcase through the sliding doors toward arrivals. The airport is alive with chatter and movement, the tide of travelers spilling in all directions. You adjust the strap of your bag, adjust your mask because you couldn’t be bothered with make up today, not when you had spent seven hours on a plane and your only goal is to get to your bed at home.
Then you see him.
You stop. Your body forgets how to breathe.
Jimin.
He’s only a few steps ahead, flanked by the other members, staff weaving around them, the whole group moving as one toward the final gate. His hair falls in soft waves around his face, cap pulled low, mask in place but you’d know him anywhere. You’d know the tilt of his shoulders, the way he carries his tiredness, the quiet heaviness pressed into his frame.
And then his gaze lifts and finds you.
The noise of the airport fades. The ground feels unsteady.
You expect him to look away, to let this moment pass like a stranger’s glance but he doesn’t. He changes direction, just slightly, and suddenly he’s walking toward you.
Your throat closes. You grip your suitcase handle tighter to keep from shaking.
“Hey,” he says when he’s close enough. His voice is low, soft, hesitant. Careful.
“Hey,” you whisper back, the word scraping out of you like it had been waiting there all along.
There’s a pause, heavy, stretching. His eyes trace over you, quick but consuming as if checking if you’re real, if you’re whole. As if memorizing you all over again.
“How are you?” he asks, and it’s too ordinary for what it costs him to say it.
You force a smile, though your lips tremble. “I’m… okay. You?”
He huffs a laugh; small, humorless. “Busy. Tired.”
“Tour?” you ask as if you didn’t know.
“Mm.” He nods. His gaze flicks briefly to the floor, then back to you, and it’s like gravity pulling you under.
It should be simple. It should end there. But neither of you moves.
You shift your weight, your fingers brushing against your suitcase handle and for a second, his hand twitches, like he almost reaches out before stopping himself. The restraint is louder than if he’d touched you.
There are words unspoken between you, loud and desperate, pressing against the thin walls you’ve both built. How are you really? Did you miss me? Do you still love me? But you both swallow them down. It’s safer that way.
Someone calls his name, probably a staff. His members glance back, waiting. Their watchful eyes are trained on you, on him. Namjoon lingers closer almost as if he’s prepared to catch Jimin should he fall. He doesn’t look too steady on his feet at the moment.
Jimin hasn't moved yet. His eyes are locked on yours like he can’t quite make himself leave. His lips part like he’s about to say something more, something real, but he closes them again, jaw tightening.
“I should go,” he says finally.
“Yeah,” you manage. Your chest aches. “Take care.”
He nods slowly. “You too.”
And then, just before he turns, before he walks back toward the waiting chaos, he hesitates again. His fingers graze yours. Barely. Accidental enough to deny, deliberate enough that you feel it down to your bones. It lasts less than a heartbeat. Enough to ruin you all over again.
Then he’s gone.
You stand there, frozen, the echo of his touch still burning in your skin. You watch him disappear through the glass doors, swallowed by the roar of fans and cameras.
You turn away, dragging your suitcase toward the trains. The crowd swallows you too, but the ache stays, the spark he left behind flickering recklessly in your chest.
And you know. You know in a way that terrifies you.
This isn’t over. Not for him. Not for you.
~~~
The final night of the tour feels different from the start. Seoul hums with an electricity that even the members can’t ignore. Three nights back-to-back, but tonight is the finale. The encore. The last curtain call before months of silence.
Jimin stands in the green room surrounded by mirrors and noise: stylists rushing, staff calling, the others quietly hyping each other up, but all he can hear is his own heartbeat. He stares at himself under the sharp glow of the vanity bulbs, his reflection hollow-eyed despite the makeup covering it. His lips move before he realizes it: If she were here, I’d find her. I always did.
The show begins. The roar of the stadium swallows him whole, and for three hours he gives everything: his voice, his body, his smile. Every lyric, every step, every laugh he throws into the crowd feels like it’s meant for her. He scans the faces, thousands upon thousands, lights waving like purple stars; but no matter how hard he wills it, no matter how many times he tells himself just one more look, maybe she’s there, he never finds her.
And then the end-ment comes, the one before they go back to prepare for the final encore.
Backstage, it’s just as loud as the staff and production team run around calling out time. He drags his body into the changing room with the others, muscles aching, throat raw, heart heavier than ever. The staff offer words of motivation. It’s the last spurt, the last three songs before the curtains finally close for good, ending this chapter in their career.
Jimin is fixing the accessories he had chosen to wear together with the merch outfits. There’s an ache in his chest. As he looks into the mirror one last time, the staff calling out cue time once again, he sees you through the reflection. A backstage pass hangs around your neck, and in your arms is a bouquet of Rose of Sharon, blooms soft and trembling under the fluorescent lights. His favorite.
For a second, Jimin thinks he’s hallucinating. He blinks once, twice, but you don’t vanish. You’re really there, looking at him with a weak, nervous smile that makes his chest ache.
The others notice too, though they pretend not to. Namjoon lingers a little longer nearby, shooting you an appreciative smile that you had actually come, the pass around your neck a gift from him. Yoongi fiddles with his hand by the doorway, Taehyung drapes a towel over his neck and studies the floor. They hover, protective but distant, ready to step in if this shatters Jimin further.
But they don’t need to.
Because Jimin takes one step forward. Then another. And another.
So do you.
Time fractures. Sound dulls. The world narrows to just you.
Jimin doesn’t remember moving, only that you’re suddenly closer, close enough for him to see the way your hands tremble around the flowers, close enough to see your eyes shine with tears you’re trying to hold back.
Jimin opens his mouth, breath shaky, ready to beg, ready to confess, ready to fall to his knees if he has to. But you beat him to it.
“I’m sorry.”
Two words. That’s all.
And his world breaks.
The flowers tumble between you as he crashes forward, falling into your arms like he’s been falling all along, only now, finally, finally, you catch him. His face presses into your shoulder, sobs ripping through him, raw and unrestrained. Your arms circle him, tight, trembling, desperate.
For the first time in months, he can breathe. For the first time in months, he isn’t alone.
The world outside can wait. The cameras, the fans, the stage, the noise; none of it matters. Because you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s enough.
More than enough.
He steps back, eyes never leaving yours, but the staff is desperate now; gesturing, urging, their voice strained as they beg the members to return. The encore is about to begin.
“Go,” you whisper, but Jimin doesn’t move. His body leans toward you like a magnet, stubborn, unwilling. And as if you can hear the words he doesn’t say, you add softly, with a trembling smile, “I’ll be backstage after the show. I promise. Go.”
The word promise makes his chest tighten, because for the first time in months, it doesn’t sound like goodbye.
He finally lets out a shaky breath, squeezing your hands so tightly as if trying to memorize the warmth of your skin, trying to prove to himself that you’re real. Then, with a reverence that makes your throat burn, he presses his lips to yours—a long, lingering kiss that speaks all the words he hasn’t managed to say.
When he pulls away, he jogs after Jungkook, but not without glancing back once, then twice, eyes desperate to keep you in his sight until the very last possible second. You lift your hand in a small wave, your heart swelling, and he breaks into the faintest smile before vanishing into the blinding stage lights.
The encore begins, and for the first time in countless nights, Jimin sings without the weight that has been dragging him down. His voice carries differently; lighter, freer, alive. The members notice it instantly: the looseness in his shoulders, the way his eyes no longer search the crowd in vain, the way his voice doesn’t crack under the strain of grief but rises steady, clear, full.
That night, Jimin sings for the fans; for the love and devotion that brought him here, for the bruises and sacrifices of a world tour finally reaching its end. But above all, he sings for you.
For the one who has always been both his wound and his cure.
For the heart he thought he had lost but has now found again, waiting just beyond the stage.
And with every note, with every word, his soul whispers the truth he can no longer hide:
He is whole again.
Full of hope.
Full of you.
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