➴ Warnings: minor character death, grieving, crying
➴ Tags: doctor!reader, emt/paramedic!Jimin, e2l, coworkers, hospitals, h/c, mutual pining that both YN and Jimin refuse to acknowledge but show in petty arguments 🤡
➴ Summary: Park Jimin is the bane of your existence, but also the receiver of your begrudging respect. He’s the one you love to hate, except...maybe he’s not as bad as you thought. Maybe.
➴ A/N: this is the very late commission for @armyadvocates‘ palestine event requested by the darling @lcksndkys ! I’m so sorry this is so late Suzie! I hope YN and Jimin’s adventure makes up for the ridiculous amount of time you had to wait :( there’s also no smut in this rip but dm me and maybe we can work something out! Thank you to the beautiful @eatjeanjin for beta reading this!! You helped this fic shine <33
Do not redistribute or plagiarise on any other platforms (including but not limited to wattpad, youtube, instagram, facebook). I only use tumblr and AO3 as of the time of posting. If I find my work plagiarised or redistributed without consent, I will not hesitate to take legal action.
Most days, you’re too tired to do anything but collapse onto your bed after a hot shower. Oftentimes, your need for sleep massively outweighs any pangs of hunger you may have had. As it were, your largest meal of the day is breakfast, if you have the time to sit down and eat. Unfortunately, more often than not, your colleagues and nurses anxiously watch you sprint down hallway after hallway, a piece of bread dangling precariously from your mouth, hands too busy with donning your white coat to hold your food properly.
As the co-head of the department of emergency medicine, one of the hospital’s best trauma surgeons, and a full-time doctor, it’s a wonder you still find the time to go on dates. Granted, the occasions are few and far between, with many potential relationships fizzling out before they had a chance to begin due to your unavailability, but the point still stood. There are no men that can stay a constant in your busy life; the only exception is the bane of your existence — Park Jimin.
Park Jimin is damn good at his job as an EMT-1. But he is also a shameless flirt in possession of a silver tongue and unshakeable self-confidence, and you hate him with every fibre of your being.
If the mocking smiles he reserves only for you are anything to go by, the feeling is clearly mutual. Nevertheless, the two of you are professionals and always put aside your differences when patients need your attention. But until then, you and Park Jimin get along about as well as electronics and water do.
“Flirting again, EMT Park Jimin?” You remark as you stroll past the EMT’s latest conquest.
“Me? Flirting? Only with you, jagiya,” he replies cheerfully, a knowing twinkle in his eye. Your jaw clenches at the term of faux endearment.
“Stop spewing rubbish, Park Jimin,” you manage through gritted teeth.
“I will when you stop shoving your nose into my personal business, Doctor Y/L/N Y/N.” His smirk deepens, lifting one of his cheeks in a way that makes him look like a misshapen dumpling.
Your only response is to growl at him, grumbling under your breath as you stomp away. There truly is nobody who can get on your nerves like Park Jimin, who you begrudgingly acknowledge as one of the best emergency medical technicians you’ve ever met.
“You forgot your coffee!” he calls after you. Without missing a beat, you make an about face and march back to him, hand reaching out for your ‘lifeblood’, as you like to call it.
Park Jimin holds your precious beverage away from you, shaking his head as he does, grinning at you. “Do I get a kiss today?”
You huff, pawing uselessly at his chest in an attempt to move him out of the way. “In your dreams. Give me my coffee.”
“No? A date, then?”
You don’t deign his second question with an answer, silently reaching past him to barely grab hold of the recycled cup.
“I’ll get you to say yes one of these days!”
You throw a maddeningly smug smirk over your shoulder as you walk away, caffeine fix in your hand. “Sorry, a ‘thank you’ is all you’ll ever get from me.”
You groan as your phone rings for the umpteenth time. It seems that every time you sit down at your desk to review patient files, someone needs you.
“Hello?” You mumble into the speaker, holding your phone between your ear and shoulder as you thumb through the documents on your desk.
“Dr. Y/L/N. It’s Park Jimin. I’m calling to let you know that there was an accident at Incheon Bridge. I’m on my way with the first two patients, but there’s a lot more coming. It’s pretty bad. I’ll tell you more when I get to the hospital, but from my experience, you’ll need at least five doctors for the number of patients.” Park Jimin’s honeyed voice comes crisp and clear through the speaker as he tells you exactly what you need to know to prepare for his arrival.
“Understood. Thank you,” you reply brusquely.
After you hang up, you push your chair back, making sure to grab your white coat as you begin to make calls to the emergency department.
“Excuse me, doctor, could you help me with something?” A frail voice interrupts your thought process as your fingers continue to type another contact you were planning to call to the emergency room. The interruption makes your steps gradually come to a stop. Looking up from your phone, your eyes meet the face of an elderly man, alone and leaning heavily on his cane.
“Of course!” You smile warmly at him, shifting your phone to one hand.
“My granddaughter gave birth a few hours ago and I came to see her, but I don’t know where the maternity ward is…” his voice trails off as he takes in your harried state. “Oh, you must be in a rush. I’m sorry to bother you. Please, go, I can find the ward on my own.”
Your heart aches as a tremor causes his whole body to shake, the cane he is leaning on wobbling precariously. “No, it’s okay! I’d be happy to help you. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
With a friendly pat on his shoulder, you run to the nearest nurse’s station and fetch a wheelchair as you tell the nurses on duty to page your most trusted doctors to the emergency room. If you couldn’t be there when Park Jimin arrived with the first batch of patients, at least someone with enough experience and guts would be able to hold down the fort in your stead.
When you return, the old man is still leaning heavily on his walking stick, the wrinkles around his eyes doing nothing to mask the unbridled, childlike joy that shone as you approached him.
“Harabeonim, I’ll take you to the maternity ward,” you gesture to the wheelchair in front of you with a smile, holding a hand out for the elderly grandfather to grasp as he lowers himself shakily into the chair.
He gives you a gummy smile that showcases his missing teeth and you feel yourself melt at his simple happiness. You walk with him to the maternity ward, asking after his health and his family, making small talk to fill the silence. You learn that though he was lonely at times, his children and grandchildren gave him everything he wanted and more.
After you watch the tearful introduction between the newly appointed great-grandfather and great-grandchild, you bow your head demurely before taking your leave. With each step that took you further away from the maternity ward full of laughs, your own smile fades. Enough distractions, you told yourself. Let’s go save some lives.
The glare Park Jimin gives you for your tardiness is scathing, but fleeting. In less than a second, his personal feelings have been replaced by a carefully crafted neutral, professional expression as he rattles off patient vitals to you. By this point, you have been working together for years, so the two of you put aside your differences to focus on the patients that need you.
You listen quietly with your own blank expression, work mode fully activated. Your petty rivalry with Park Jimin came secondary to patients that were brought to the emergency room, especially on nights like these. When you’re not bickering, you and Park Jimin make a wonderful team.
Hours pass by in the blink of an eye as you bark out orders to nurses, watch residents panic and compose themselves before saving their first patient of the night, and occasionally step in to help with the more severe cases.
Your team had been unofficially dubbed the Nightingales, an ode to both Florence Nightingale and the sheer number of patients you manage to save, no matter their circumstances. Under your guidance, your department rarely loses a patient, in part thanks to your quick thinking and the sense of duty to do everything possible you instill in each resident that comes to the emergency room.
Unfortunately, your rarely tarnished record has a flip side — when you do lose a patient, you remain somber for a while. The emergency room remains a well-oiled machine, operating seamlessly, but there would be a slight drop in the team’s overall morale, as expected. Again, this is largely due to your teaching and morals, believing that each patient came in with almost the same odds of surviving if action was taken quickly enough.
Tonight, however, seems different. Though all the patients from the motor vehicle accident had been stabilised, you have a sense of foreboding that causes the contents of your stomach to churn uncomfortably.
Alternating between leaning against the nurses desk and shifting from foot to foot, you cross your arms again and again, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Park Jimin, the insufferable wretch that he is, notices your discomfort. But to his credit, he doesn’t comment on your restlessness, only sliding you a bottle of water he’d just been about to open.
“What is it, EMT Park Jimin? Can’t open your own water bottle?”
Park Jimin stares at you, deadpan, hand hovering over a pen he’d turned around to grab. “No, I gave it to you to drink. You haven’t had a sip of water in four hours.”
“Aw, you do care,” you coo, ignoring the way your cheeks began to flush at your hasty assumption.
Park Jimin rolls his eyes. “Don’t think too much into it. Hyeoyun would have a difficult time managing the whole department by herself without your help, wouldn’t she?”
He directs the last part of his comment towards one of the head nurses, who blushes and giggles at the sudden attention.
It’s now your turn to roll your eyes at the paramedic’s blatant flirting, and as you turn to check on one of your fellows, a nurse comes bursting in through the door leading to the rest of the hospital.
“Is Dr Y/L/N Y/N here? An elderly man just collapsed in the maternity ward and he’s unresponsive!”
It can’t be, you think to yourself. There’s no way fate can be that cruel. No. Please, no. Please —.
And there it is. The source of the sense of dread that had been building inside your body all night. The other shoe had dropped.
“Harabeonim…”
Your family’s warnings echo in your ears as you stare at the vitals sign monitor. You refuse to comprehend the flat line on the screen and the drawn out, high pitched whine that has been emitting from the machine for over twenty minutes; both indicating the patient’s departure from the world.
You’re too soft hearted. You’re too kind, Y/N-ah. Even if you get used to all the death, each one will still hurt you. Will you be okay? You can choose other departments to help people, you know. Ones that won’t hurt as much. You can’t save everyone, no matter how much you want to.
Everything fades into the background. The only thing that matters is the old man in front of you. The great grandfather who had held his great granddaughter only once. You barely register the tears that leak from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks before falling onto your hands. Frantically, you continue with the chest compressions, biting down on your lower lip to prevent the pained cry from escaping the confines of your throat.
You ignore the quiver of your lips, and shake off the comforting hand that clasps your shoulder despite wanting nothing more than to lean into its warm touch. You don’t have time to be soothed when you have a life to save.
You move from your position on the bed to blow life-giving air into the old man’s mouth, angrily blinking away the tears that obscure your vision.
“Harabeonim, please! Stay with me!” Your cry comes out louder than intended, causing a few pitying looks thrown your way, but you didn’t care. All you need is for the old man to start breathing on his own again, for his heart to start beating again, for him to open his eyes…
The warm hand is on your shoulder again. Angrily, you whip your head around to tell off the owner, cruel words at the tip of your tongue, ready to make someone hurt as much as you are right now, but they fade when you meet Park Jimin’s hardened eyes.
His lips are set in a firm line, jaw visibly clenching as he grinds his teeth together. “Y/N.”
Your name from Park Jimin’s lips is your undoing.
“Dammit,” is all you manage, in the weakest of whispers, before everything comes flooding back. The hustle and bustle of the emergency room, family members talking, the sound of the phone ringing off the hook...and the sound of the great-grandfather’s vitals monitor alerting you that he had passed on long ago, hopefully to a better place with less suffering.
“Dammit,” you repeat, feeling more tears cascade down your cheeks. Your body, previously so full of energy and determination, sags, and you fall backwards, unable to move a muscle to prevent yourself from falling.
You land against a warm chest, arms coming up to steady you as you lean back and close your eyes, mourning quietly. When Park Jimin picks you up bridal style and carries you out of the emergency room, you say nothing. You ignore the curious glances thrown your way, ignore the whispers that start up the second you are out of sight.
All that matters right now is Park Jimin, who has somehow gone from the person you loved to hate to your lifeline, all in the span of a few minutes. He now holds the broken pieces you are made of in his hands, and he does so delicately, as if he knows he’s the only one you trust, despite all the barbs you throw at each other.
You don’t realise where you are until he places you carefully on the sofa in your office, as if you’d shatter into a thousand pieces. You take a moment to look at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the red-rimmed eyelids from one too many all nighters, and the plump lips from which he hurls pointed comments at you. Those lips stay pressed together now, as if he isn’t sure what to say to you.
Suppressing your urge to sarcastically comment how you’d rendered him speechless, you move quietly to his side and sit on his lap, resting your head on his shoulder. One of his hands comes to rest on your back, thumb rubbing soothing patterns on your shoulder blade as his own head offers a comforting weight on yours.
The two of you stay like that for a while, not saying anything. Though the tears didn’t stop, you never once felt alone, thanks to the man you once considered the thorn in your side.
“Why?” He breaks the silence first with two words, his use of jondaemal as a sign of respect not lost on you.
“Why what?” you mumble back, eyelids drooping with exhaustion.
“Why did you choose this profession?” His thumb continues tracing patterns on your back as he voices his question.
You sigh. This question again, you think to yourself. “A hospital is...a scary place for a lot of people. There’s a lot of pain, a lot of death, and traumatic memories being made every second somewhere, but...there’s also a lot of happiness, life, and joyful moments at the same time. I figured if I worked in one of the busiest departments, I could tip the scale in happiness’s favour. I know. I know I should think of each patient as a ‘case’ to make it hurt less, but I can’t. Each woman I save could be a grandmother, a mother, sister, a daughter...I can’t just turn human beings into numbers and cases.”
Silence meets your explanation as he mulls over your words. Fearing that you haven’t explained yourself properly yet, you rush to elaborate: “I know it’s stupid considering the line of work we’re in, but…”
“No,” he murmurs quietly.
“No?” you repeat.
“No,” he confirms. “It’s not dumb in the least. I’m a paramedic for the same reason. There’s a lot of suffering, but by doing what I do, I can help ease it a little.”
You let a small, tired smile grace your lips.
“Jimin-ah.” You feel him stiffen slightly in surprise at your sudden switch to banmal, but you continue as if you hadn’t noticed. “Thank you.”
Jimin relaxes, a light chuckle leaving his lips as he responds in kind. “You’re welcome, Y/N.”
You aren’t sure what would be appropriate to say after such an emotionally charged moment, but wanting to ensure that Jimin isn’t shirking his duties to take care of you, you question his workload. He simply points at the clock that hangs above your doorway.
“It’s three in the morning,” you murmur. “Are you tired? You can sleep in my office if you want. I still have a few patients to attend to.”
Jimin raises one of his eyebrows in a disbelieving expression. “Y/N, everyone knows you’re a responsible doctor who goes above and beyond for patients, but you need to learn when to put yourself first. When’s the last time you sat down to have coffee instead of ordering one to go?”
You stay silent, not liking the answer to his question — you can’t remember. Jimin smiles humourlessly, a single breathy exhale from his nostrils serving as a laugh. Seeing that you’re still torn between needing to care for yourself and your duties as a doctor, Jimin sighs, lifting his head away from yours, and lets his hand fall onto the sofa.
“Y/N,” he begins. You suppress the shiver that threatens to overcome your body at his gentle tone, still unused to the lack of sarcasm that drips from each word when he speaks casually to you. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But please, try to take better care of yourself.”
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m going to tell the nurses that I’m taking the rest of the night off. Will you wait for me?”
Jimin nods with a smile. You extract yourself from his lap, ignoring the way your body protests at the cool air that replaces Jimin’s warmth.
You get up from the sofa slowly, not sure if you were physically tired or emotionally exhausted. Whatever it was, its call was so strong that you had to stop at your door, look back at Jimin, and quietly ask him to come with you. He complies immediately, bouncing up and off your settee before taking your hand, but you don't have an answer for the warmth that spreads throughout your body when his fingers wrap around yours in a comforting gesture.
Several times, you stopped on the short walk back to the emergency room, doubling over in an effort to hide the tears that threatened to well up again. Jimin never let go of your hand, and he always stood close to you, his quiet companionship doing more for you than you ever thought possible. At some point, your fingers locked together so that his fingers were interwoven with yours, offering a much needed anchor to ground yourself to. You looked at him when he initiated it, wanting to thank him, but he’d just smiled at you and dipped his chin in a wordless gesture.
You know what Jimin is doing. Like he said in your office, he’s not going to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. You doubt he’d think less of you if you decided five steps away from the emergency room doorway that you couldn’t do it, that you had to go back to your patients, but knowing he was there helped enough. In his own way, he’s letting you decide what you want to do. Though a shameless flirt, Park Jimin had always been one to respect autonomy.
It takes you twenty minutes to walk from your office to the emergency room where you lost your patient, four times as long as it usually takes. But when you finally show up in the doorway, you realise that you’d been grossly overestimating the nature of your arrival. Instead of the hustle and bustle coming to a grinding stop, everything is just as it normally is. The phone is ringing off the hook at a temporarily abandoned nurse’s station, residents are squirming under their mentors’ watchful gazes, patients are being attended to by the team of doctors you’d brought earlier that night. It’s a controlled sort of chaos, just the way you like it.
You breathe a sigh of relief, having worried that newer staff and patients who had seen your meltdown would look at you differently, but your doubts seem to have been for naught. Jimin squeezes your hand and you turn to look at him, seeing your relaxed self reflected in his eyes.
You finally allow yourself to smile slightly, and Jimin beams at the sight, eyes turning into adorably shaped crescent moons. He still looks like a misshapen dumpling, you think to yourself. But a cute one, you add as an afterthought, the corner of your lips quirking up.
Tearing your gaze away from the overly attractive Park Jimin, you move forward to pick up the phone that’s still waiting for someone to answer. “Yulje Hospital emergency centre, what is the nature of your call?”
You listen carefully as the voice on the other end tells you about a homeless drunk that was found on the streets, keeled over sideways and is now unresponsive. Jotting down the most crucial points on a notepad placed near the phone, you tell the EMT that you’ll prepare for the patient’s arrival. It’s only when you go to hang up the phone that you realise you’re still holding Jimin’s hand, and you shoot him a sheepish smile, which he returns.
One of the head nurses returns, and you give her the incoming patient’s vitals and information before asking if you’re needed. The nurse smiles wryly, replying that you’re always needed as the head of the department, but that it’d be even better if you were to reserve your energy for an emergency that the current doctors on call couldn’t handle. She turns to Jimin next, asking him to take care of you in a thinly veiled threat that has you averting your eyes and trying not to chuckle as his fingers tighten protectively around your hand.
With you finally having asked for an exceedingly rare night off, Jimin finally takes the lead and drags you out of the emergency room, leaving behind the head nurse’s barely constrained laughter, cheeks reddening in embarrassment.
3 months later.
It’s another busy day at Yulje Hospital, and your head is throbbing from caffeine withdrawal, but new patients need you. Nodding in greeting to Jimin and your head nurses, you stop briefly to grab a few medical files before throwing a hand up in a goodbye as you run off.
“You forgot your coffee!” Jimin calls after you. Without missing a beat, you make a u-turn and run back to him, hand reaching out for your caffeine fix.
Jimin holds your precious beverage away from you, shaking his head as he did, grinning at you. “Do I get a kiss today?”
You beam back at him, shifting the files in your arms to free a hand before cupping his face and pressing a gentle peck on his cheek. Jimin blushes adorably, as if he’s still not used to getting his way after teasing you mercilessly over the past several years.
“Thank you for the coffee!” you call out over your shoulder, already on the move again.
“Wait!” Jimin calls after you. You stop in your tracks, throwing a maddeningly faux-innocent look over your shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Go on a date with me?”
You can’t help the smile that takes over your features at the nervousness in his question, as if he didn’t just take you out for dinner the night before.
“Pick me up from the on-call room at seven. I’ll be waiting.” You wink at him, enjoying the way a light pink dusts his jaw as he begins to blush, and raise your coffee in a goodbye, leaving a gleeful team of nurses whispering excitedly behind your back.
You muse over the events that led to today, and you can’t help the shy smile that graces your lips when you realise that you and Jimin have always cared for each other to an extent. The two of you still bicker over the smallest thing, but it’s now laced with playfulness, knowing that you bring out the best in each other. Because three months ago, when you were going through one of the darkest times in your career, you had called for help, and Jimin had responded.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this fic. Please consider reblogging so that others are able to find my work! It gives me a lot of motivation to continue writing.
➻Pairing: Namjoon x reader (she/her)
➻Rating: general/sfw
➻Genre: angst, fluff. non-idol au
➻Words: 3.5k
➻Warnings: broken hearts, some cursing
➻Summary: You’ve always been Namjoon’s best friend. His best dude, even. But when his fiancée suddenly leaves him, will you be able to pick up the pieces?
➻AN: this work is a commission for the beautiful @papillonsgf for the Army Advocates for Palestinian Justice event. Please click here to learn more and consider donating! Shout-out to @taegularities for her edits, which made this 398% better!
“Best Dude?”
“I’m not writing ‘dude’ on a wedding program,” Namjoon argues. “Best Lady?”
“Best Human,” you suggest.
“Somehow that feels like it’s taking it too far.”
“Aish! I thought we were friends!” You slap his shoulder playfully. “The purple one.”
He squints at the reflection in the mirror, holding up two potential ties. “You sure?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I’ve seen her dress and helped choose the flowers. Trust me, bro.”
“Hmmm…. best bro. Are you my Best Bro?”
“I’m all for subverting gender expectations, but I’m no bro,” you say, tucking a stray lock of hair back in. “And neither are you in that suit, sir.”
He breaks into a grin at the word, instantly taking years off his face and making him look just like the boy you first met in school. If someone had told past-you that the clumsy, nerdy kid you were paired with in chemistry class would one day be your dearest friend, you wouldn’t have believed a word of it.
And yet, it happened. Over the year, over shared Bunsen burners and ruined titrations, he wormed his way into your heart and set up shop there as something unbelievably precious. Now there are years and years of shared history: college parties and the accompanying bad choices, the celebratory dinner he treated you to when you landed your first real job, the sympathy flowers he sent you when you had your first real heartbreak.
And more recently, the three of you: you and Namjoon and your baby sister.
Of course they met through you.
She was the one peering through the bannister when you awkwardly attached his boutonnière before senior prom. She was the one who would come rushing over, ears red and nose running from the cold, to greet him when the two of you trundled off the train for winter break. She was the one who filled the empty space when you kindly and gently turned him down when he asked you to go out with him time and time again. Now she’s the one who will be waiting for him at the altar, promises written and rehearsed and perfected, ready to say the words that you can’t help but think, the ones that stick at the back of your throat like sawdust.
The Namjoon in the mirror turns to you. “What are you thinking, sis?”
You swallow down the lump that threatens to rise. “You look so handsome, you almost make me think I made a mistake,” you say.
“Ha!” He reaches out to pull you in for a hug, squishing you against him in a way that can’t possibly be mistaken for anything other than friendly and familial before ducking back into the changing room to strip out of the suit and back into his jeans and hoodie.
“Hey,” you call to him through the curtain. “Wanna grab a bite to eat afterwards and I can tell you all about why you should have let me plan the honeymoon too?”
“Fuck off,” he says with a laugh. “I think Philly will be cool. The Mütter Museum is there! And the Eastern State Penitentiary! Did you know it’s one of the most haunted places in the world?”
“I didn’t think you believed in ghosts.”
“I don’t, but it still sounds cool.” He flings open the curtain and strikes what’s supposed to be a cool pose. “Let’s go. My treat. Let me treat my Best Maid.”
“Oh, I absolutely hate it!”
“Aw, I thought it was cute! Like you’re way better than all the bridesmaids.”
You wrinkle up your nose and make a kkkkkkkk sound of distaste. Not good enough, you think bitterly.
At fifteen minutes before two you’re helping him with his cufflinks and straightening his boutonnière, a tidy thing of purple carnation and violets. He looks down, pulling his chin back to get a better look at your deft hands as they smooth over the lapels of his suit. There’s more of him now than there was the last time you did this, and you try to push that thought away where you can lock it up somewhere safe and dark.
“Let’s go,” you say. The low din of the groomsmen dies down as you take Namjoon’s hand. It’s sweaty. You pull a hankie out of the pocket you had added to your simple black satin dress and give it to him.
“Are you afraid I’m going to cry?” he asks, all false bravado.
“No, dummy. It’s for your gross wet hands. Wipe them, you big baby.”
His chin wobbles a little, but he does as he’s told and dutifully dries his hands off, then gives you back the crumpled handkerchief. You stuff it back into your pocket, even though it’s nasty, and reach for his hand again. It’s better now, only a little clammy, and you give it a reassuring squeeze and then stand on tip-toe to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“You’re gonna do great,” you say and lead him to the door.
A swell of pride fills your chest as you take your place next to him, the groomsmen lined up behind you. Love is a good look on Namjoon, you decide. You give him a gentle nudge with your elbow to get him to turn and face the back of the room as the music changes and the first chords of the song your sister picked fill the room. You prepare to see her sweeping around the corner and entering the hall, brightly colored dress swirling around her.
The music pauses. The musicians regroup and start again, hesitating on the pickup note.
Pause — start — pause — it stutters and loops until someone yells “STOP!”
Someone was you.
You turn to Namjoon, who looks hurt and confused and completely unsure of what to do.
“Wait here,” you say. “I’ll go fetch her for you.”
You step away from the altar, heart beating fast, head buzzing with the whispered hush of the hall. You walk fast to the side exit and then break into a run, high heels clicking and sliding along the marble floor.
When you get to the bride’s room, you find it empty. There’s a dish of bobby-pins in front of the large mirror, a glass of water with a lipstick stain on the rim, and precious little else.
You venture farther into the room, to the bathroom at the back, wondering if a bad case of nerves has her hiding in one of the stalls. Even when you don’t see any feet, you push open each one. Every time a door swings open to reveal an unoccupied toilet, your heart sinks a little more. By the time you reach the end of the row, it feels like it’s in your toes.
You have to tell him, but what? There’s no indication of where she went or why she left. It’s as if she vanished into the ether along with the entire bridal party.
Defeated, you pull your phone out of your pocket and try to call her. It rings and rings. You send a text, but it stays unread.
You sit down on the floor, black satin pooling around you, and pull off your shoes so you can think better without being distracted by how much they pinch. He’s out there waiting for you, counting on you. The love of his life let him down in one of the most spectacular ways possible, but you’re determined to do better.
The crumpled hankie is still in your pocket and you pull it out to dash away the tears of frustration and anger and helplessness that are wetting your cheeks. It won’t do for Namjoon to see you crying. He deserves better and you resolve to be strong for him; a pillar.
Your resolve makes it as far as the front of the hall, shatters when the musicians count in and strike up the hopeful first three chords again before fading into dissonance, then dissolves entirely when you see the look on Namjoon’s face when he realizes that it’s you walking down the aisle toward him, bare feet silent against the cold floor.
A week later your text is still unread. Your extended family had stayed for the reception, shook hands with his, ate the food your sister selected at the tables that she planned, danced somber dances, and went home to speculate and whisper.
Meanwhile, you had practically shoved Namjoon into the limo, shocked and numb, and directed the driver to his apartment.
“I’m fine,” he’d said. “Just want to sleep and not think.”
You’d argued with him, insisted on going in. You’d seen the little touches throughout to welcome her into his space; the embroidered his and hers towels, the teddy bear on one pillow. Her favorite breakfast cereal displayed on the kitchen counter, a sloppy bow tied around it in pink ribbon.
Namjoon had walked directly to the bed, one leaden foot in front of the other, and collapsed face-first, crushing the flowers you’d so carefully arranged on his chest. You’d pulled his shoes off for him, fetched a glass of water to leave on the bedside table for when he’d inevitably wake groggy and cotton-mouthed, and gone to clean up what you could.
You’d done your best to rid his home of any trace of her, stuffing the towels and the teddy bear and the cereal into a trash bag. Following them with pictures of the two of them, smiling stupidly at you from their frames. You’d taken most of them, could remember exactly where and when with crystal-clear vision, each happy moment captured on film as a declaration of their love.
You’d come to the one photo of all three of you — Namjoon in the middle, smiling broadly, eyes shadowed under the brim of a baseball cap, his arms thrown around your sister on his left side and you on his right, hands resting protectively on both of your shoulders. The memory of that day had come flooding back in, moments of joy tinged with the bittersweet regret that took hold when you had realized for the first time how truly happy he was with her. That one hadn’t gone in the trash, but you’d hidden it on his bookshelf, obscured by two thick paperbacks with cracked spines in hopes that he wouldn’t want to re-read them any time soon.
You’d stayed. Silently waiting, bringing him cups of strong, minty tea when he woke up groggy, pretending not to notice his red-rimmed eyes or the way he plucked at the sheets, twisting the blanket into a tight ball in his fist when it looked like he wanted to drive that fist through a wall instead.
You’d stayed, shucking off your dress and helping yourself to a pair of his worn pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, hiding from yourself and the world in the sea of soft cotton.
You’d stayed, quiet as a ghost, floating through his life on waves of broken hope.
You’d stayed until you couldn’t take it any more and you closed the door behind you, telling yourself that the problem wasn’t yours to fix, that you just needed to get some air and escape the stifling sadness.
And then you left him.
Back at your place, you call your sister again and again, not really expecting her to pick up but feeling like you have to keep trying.
You call Namjoon and he picks up, croaking a mumbled “hey” into the phone.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
“It’s not your fault.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry I had to leave. Had to get out. I know you need me but I —”
“It’s okay,” he says sadly. “Thank you for trying.” He sniffs into the phone, wet and gross and broken. “I miss you.”
He isn’t asking if you’ve heard from her.
“You know you can always call me if you need anything,” you say, as if there’s any chance he would. You know him too well to think that; you know he’ll keep it in, bottle it up, wait until he can compartmentalize it and carry on with something like a life.
“Do you think…” Namjoon begins. He cuts himself off, regroups, tries again. “I think she didn’t plan it. Think it was a spur of the moment decision.”
“Why?”
“Why go through the motions if she didn’t plan to follow through? Nevermind that I thought what we had was real — it was a lot of work. A lot of planning. The logistics, you know.”
“I know,” you say, hoping it sounds comforting and not stupid.
“My flowers,” he chokes out. “They’re crushed.”
You start to feel guilty, even though you tell yourself over and over again that it’s not your fault. At first you can’t even tell what you feel guilty about. There’s no reason for you to shoulder the blame of your sister’s betrayal, but you keep replaying every way you could have changed the outcome. Were you not supportive enough of their union? Did you not give her enough attention, focused as you were on Namjoon’s side of planning the whole wedding ordeal? Did you let her down, failing to be the big sister she needed?
The space she normally occupies in your shared apartment is still and uneasy. You’re used to hearing her laughter as she talks to friends on the phone, the clatter of her washing the dishes after you’ve cooked a meal for the two of you to share, the muttered cursing as she roots through her messy closet to find the right pair of shoes for a work event or a date. You’re used to finding your things in her room, borrowed without asking, no return intended.
When you shower, you use her shampoo and wonder when you’ll hear from her; if she’ll eventually reach out to Namjoon and explain herself, or if you’ll be the one on the receiving end of the call and she’ll ask you to tell him something pretty, something to soften the blow. You wonder if you would, or if you’d let your anger and resentment get the better of you, painting her as the villain that she is.
Dressed and dry, you hear the ping of a text and scramble to reach your phone, wondering if Namjoon really is reaching out for help and trying not to ponder just how desperate he would have to be to reach that place.
It’s from her. There’s nothing about where she went or why.
You can barely believe your eyes, because what your villain of a sister sent you is: “If you’re not in his bed by now, I will be shocked.”
You slam the phone down, too furious to respond.
In his bed.
Is that what this is about? Did she think that there was something other than friendship between the two of you — something that wouldn’t wash away with time? You can’t help but wonder what gave her that idea. You certainly never said anything that would make her think that, always careful and considered, choosing your words carefully when you talked about him, always mindful of the potential jealousy if she thought that there was any blurring of the line between deep friendship and romantic feelings.
You kept those secret hopes close to your chest, held tight. The love that had bloomed there was disastrously timed and ill fated, better crushed in private than shared with the expectation of sympathy. By the time you realized that what you felt for your best friend was something more beautiful and delicate than friendship, it was too late.
You have to tell him.
When you get to his place, you let yourself in and wash the dirty dishes piled in his sink, stalling. You straighten the sofa pillows, put in a load of wash, and clean the toilet. Anything to delay the inevitable.
There’s a sound from his bedroom, a thump that reverberates through the apartment. Is she in there? you wonder. Have you been out here playing the maid while they reconcile?
Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you knock on his bedroom door. In response, he says her name, broken and hopeful.
“No,” you answer. “It’s just me. Can I come in? Are you alone?”
“Yeah,” he says, and you really hope it’s the answer to both of your questions.
You push the door open and find him lying on the bed, face-down, just as you left him. At least he’s wearing fresh clothes and seems to have showered.
“What was the thump?” you ask.
“Punched the headboard,” he says into the pillow. “Thought I could stop thinking for a minute if I did something.”
“Did it work?”
“My hand hurts.”
You tiptoe in, stepping around the crushed and wilted flowers on the floor, and sit on the side of the bed.
“Joon,” you say softly. “You have to get up.”
“Why?”
“Have you heard from her? Did she call or text or anything?”
“No, nothing.” He rolls over to face you. “Did you?”
You don’t know what will hurt more, lying to him and saying no, or telling him about the vicious message she sent you.
“Just a text saying she’s alive. She must have gone to the apartment before she left, packed some basics. Her suitcase is gone. And she took my hairbrush.”
“She took my heart.” He curls into himself, looking smaller than should be possible. It’s all you can do to keep from tucking yourself in next to him.
All the possible platitudes run through your mind, all pointless. There’s no use in saying time heals all wounds or better to have loved and lost or, worst of all you’re better off without her.
Instead you give in, slotting yourself in beside him, faces close and knees knocking together, shielding his vulnerable parts as best you can.
He reaches out and lays a hand on your shoulder, heavy and solid, as if you’re the one who needs comforting. You just lie there as his eyes close and his breathing deepens. You wonder when he last slept.
Namjoon worms his way closer to you, pulling you in toward him so your head is tucked under his chin. He mumbles her name and presses his lips to your forehead.
“I'm not her,” you whisper, knowing he won’t hear you.
He wakes up first. When you open your eyes he’s looking at you, examining your face in the dim light of the room.
“I fucked up,” he says.
“Hm?”
“I told her I was having second thoughts.”
“Why?” Everything between them had seemed idyllic, no sign of any trouble brewing.
“Fuck. No. That’s not what I’m trying to say. I mean, she asked if she was always my first choice.”
“Why would she ask that?”
“You. She was worried about you.”
“But I never gave her a reason to be,” you protest.
“Maybe not, but I did.”
You wait for him to continue, not wanting to press. He’s so close, you can see the flecks of gold in his irises, tiny fires of remorse.
“She knew. The whole time. Knew I only looked at her after you shot me down again and again. Knew she was a substitute.”
“Oh no. But why? Why go through with it if that’s how you felt?”
“Because I loved her. Not just as a substitute for you, but really loved her. For all the ways she was different and all the ways you two are the same.”
“How did she know?”
“She’s smart. Like you. She said she always knew, and just tried to forget.” He laughs, a dry, bitter chuckle. “We both did.”
“I’m your ghost?”
He nods and presses his lips to your forehead again. “I’m sorry. You probably hate me now.”
“No, never. I just don’t know what to do next.” You wish there was a script, a map to help you navigate these unknown waters. His confession after all this time is bittersweet, a reminder of years wasted and promises broken.
“Stay with me?” he suggests hopefully.
You’ll tell him later that he’s haunted you ever since he stopped asking for your heart. For now you don’t answer, but wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you always meant it.
