⋆ ˖ ⏱︎.ᐟ five minutes | jjk
✎ summary the night before jungkook leaves for university, you climb through his window like you always do—jokes first, feelings last. but as dawn creeps closer and you get ready to go, all he can think is five more minutes—because if he gets five more minutes with you, he might finally confess.
and when i cry, you're the dam, always ready to make me laugh
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| 5 minuti — alfa
⏱︎ pairing: college student!jeon jungkook x fem!reader
⏱︎ genre: psychological thriller au, hurt-comfort, romance, fluff at times, heavy angst
⏱︎ wc: 5.2k
You never knock anymore.
You used to, back when you still pretended to care about normal entrances. Now you just appear in the frame like the night has handed you a key.
Jungkook hears the latch first—soft metal, careful fingers—then the shift of weight. The blinds tremble. He’s already up before you swing your leg over, crossing the room on instinct. He catches the window frame with one hand so it doesn’t rattle and mutters, “You’re actually insane.”
You grin at him, bright in the streetlight. “Open up then.”
He does. Of course he does. For you, he’d do it a thousand times over. He doesn’t tell you that, though.
You slip in sneakers-first, landing lightly like you’ve practised this. You smell of the outside—cold air, shampoo, mint gum, and the faint sweetness you always carry. Your lower lip is chapped the way it always is in winter, and you keep worrying it with your teeth.
You dump your bag onto his desk chair and flop onto his bed like it’s yours. It’s annoying. It’s also comforting. It makes his chest unclench so fast it pisses him off.
Downstairs, his parents’ TV is still on—laugh track, adverts, the volume too high like noise can keep him in place. Up here, it’s the dull hum through the floorboards and the quiet of a sleeping city. Even the streetlights look tired.
On his floor is a half-packed suitcase. His desk is scattered with university paperwork. The acceptance letter shoved under a hoodie as if hiding it will make it less real.
His parents want him close. He wants to leave. He wants to leave so badly he can taste it. Freedom has a flavour and he’s been swallowing air for months.
You sit up and squint at the suitcase. “That’s pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic,” he says automatically.
“You’ve packed like three T-shirts and a pair of jeans,” you add, scandalised.
“It’s a start.”
“It’s the start of you wearing the same boxers for a week,” you say, then reach for the acceptance letter without asking permission.
His hand shoots out. Your fingers brush. It shouldn’t mean anything.
It does—to him, at least.
You pull the paper free anyway, skim through it, then glance at him. “You’re really going?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“That’s bullshit,” you reply, not angry—just tired. You’ve watched him shrink himself down all year so he doesn’t upset anyone.
“My parents are being weird,” he says.
“You mean your parents are being your parents.”
“They want me to stay close. Commute. Like I’m twelve.”
“You’d jump out of a moving car before you do another year in this house,” you say.
“They’re acting like I’m abandoning them,” he admits, and it comes out raw—a confession he shouldn’t have said out loud.
You don’t flinch. You never do. “You’re not,” you say. “You’re just going to university.”
He wants to believe you. He does. But guilt is sticky. It clings even when the logic is clean. “I just feel like no one gets it,” he says, quieter.
You crawl closer, moving into a space that already belongs to you, and tap his forehead with two fingers. “I get it.” You tap his knee. “One thing at a time,” you say—a rule you invented just for him. “Breathe.”
His throat tightens. He looks away so you won’t see it. “You always do that,” he mutters.
“Do what?”
“Say stuff like that. Like you’re in my head.”
You grin. “I am in your head. I pay rent.”
He snorts. “You don’t pay anything.”
“I pay in emotional labour,” you say. “Which is expensive, by the way. You owe me.”
He rolls his eyes, but his chest loosens. That’s your thing. You build dams with jokes. You hold the water back until he can breathe. He thinks—too sharply—that if you ever stop, he’ll drown.
He doesn’t say it out loud.
You kick your shoes off and curl up in his hoodie, sleeves covering your hands. “Okay. Unpacking intervention.”
“I’m not unpacking.”
“You are,” you say, already reaching for the suitcase. “Because if you show up at uni with three shirts and zero boxers, they’re going to think you’re feral.”
“They’ll survive.”
“They’ll put you down,” you reply seriously.
He laughs in spite of himself. You look pleased.
You yank the suitcase toward you and start rummaging. “Plates?”
He blinks. “Plates?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if he’s stupid. “Have you bought plates?”
“There’s a kitchen.”
“You think they provide plates?” you gasp. “You sweet idiot.”
He sits up. “They don’t?”
“They provide trauma,” you tell him. “And one sponge that’s been there since 2007.”
He laughs again—helpless. It spills out of him.
You beam. You always look like that when he laughs—like you’ve pulled him back from an edge.
“You’re going to meet one loud person who’s wrong about everything,” you announce. “And they’re going to adopt you.”
“I’m not adoptable.”
“You’re very adoptable,” you insist. “You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The please tell me what to do face.”
He scoffs. “I do not.”
You lean forward, squinting at him. “You do. You look like you’d apologise to a chair if you bumped into it.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” you say smugly. “You’re going to start saying lecture unironically and I’m going to bully you.”
He huffs, but there’s a smile stuck in his mouth. “You already bully me.”
“Correct,” you say. “It’s my love language.”
His stomach flips.
You don’t notice, because you’re still rummaging through his life. Or maybe you notice and choose not to touch it, the way you always do when something is too sharp.
Outside, the city is asleep. No cars. No people. Even the streetlights look bored. The clock reads 02:13, blue and cold. He keeps glancing at it. He blinks. Looks away. Looks back. 02:13 again—the clock mocking him for believing in forward motion.
You catch him looking. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you anxious?” you ask, softening instantly. It makes his chest ache.
He shrugs like he doesn’t care—like he isn’t made of nerves tonight.
You tilt your head. “Okay. Talk to me. What’s the thing?”
He wants to say: you. You’re the thing. You’re the only person who listens when he feels like he’s collapsing. You’re the only person who can make the world stop long enough for him to breathe. Instead he says, “My parents are acting like I’m committing a crime.”
You scoot closer and bump your shoulder into his. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
He stares at his hands. “It feels like I am.”
You go quiet for a moment, then say, “Do you ever think they’re scared you’ll become your own person?”
He looks at you.
“They love you,” you add. “They just… love you in the only way they know how to.”
He swallows. “It’s suffocating.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He wants to tell you that the way you say that—I know—is the difference between him spiralling and him surviving.
You don’t push. You just sit with him in it. That’s another thing you do—you make space.
At some point you pull his hoodie tighter around you and yawn, the sky at the window has started to pale. The moon is still hanging there, stubborn, even as morning edges in—the night has forgotten to leave. Jungkook watches the light change and feels something in him tense, like dawn is a deadline.
You sit up. “Okay,” you say, stretching. “I’m going.”
His body reacts before his brain catches up. “Home?” he asks, too casual.
You blink. “Home?”
He nods.
You smile like he’s missed something obvious. “Oh. I’m not going home.”
His stomach drops.
“I’m going to the beach,” you say. “I want to watch the sunrise.”
“It’s… four in the morning,” he says.
“That’s the point.”
“You’re insane.”
“Correct,” you say, pleased. You check your phone and grin. “I got my licence and suddenly I’m unstoppable.”
He snorts. “You’re literally stoppable. With one pothole.”
“Fuck you,” you laugh.
Driving. Dawn. You leaving alone. Something tightens in his chest. He can’t name it—it’s just a brief, irrational squeeze.
You grab your bag and zip it with quick competence. Then you look at him. “You wanna come?” you ask.
He sees it instantly—the two of you in your car, the city asleep behind you, the road empty and the world quiet for once. Your hands on the wheel. His head against the window. A sunrise that doesn’t ask anything of him.
He knows what happens if he goes. The thing he’s been swallowing for years until it’s become part of him. He’s in love with you. He can’t say it tonight. Not when he’s leaving. Not when he could ruin the safe shape of what you are to each other.
He forces his face into something easy. “Nah,” he says. “I’m tired.”
You pull a face. “You’re always tired.”
“I’ve been packing.”
“You’ve been procrastinating.”
He shrugs, trying to keep it light. “Text me when you get there.”
“Okay, mum,” you say, rolling your eyes.
You head to the window like it’s nothing. Like you aren’t the only thing that makes him feel understood.
You swing a leg over the sill. Then you pause. You look back at him and smile. It lands in him like a bruise. “See you later,” you say.
He smiles back because it’s easier than the truth. “Drive safe.”
You disappear.
The room is suddenly too quiet. He lies back and stares at the ceiling, listening to the sleeping city, a lullaby he doesn’t deserve.
He realises he never set an alarm. He hasn’t needed one in weeks. The thought lands late—too late—as if the room only just remembered it has teeth.
The alarm goes off.
The alarm goes off like it’s angry at him.
Jungkook jerks upright, breath sharp. The first thing he does is look at the clock. 02:13. He stares until his eyes sting, waiting for the numbers to shift—they don’t.
A soft knock hits the window.
His body goes cold.
Another knock, familiar and impatient.
He turns his head slowly, terrified of what he’ll see. You appear in the window frame like you always do. Alive. Bright. Casual.
He hears himself say it—flat and automatic. “You’re actually insane.” The sound comes a half-second late.
You grin. “Open up then.”
He opens the window. The blinds rattle in the exact same way. You swing in, drop your bag and flop onto his bed. It’s identical. The night is forcing you both into positions.
He stands there too long.
You squint up at him. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Are you okay?”
He forces air into his lungs. “Yeah.”
You don’t buy it. You glance at the suitcase. “That’s pathetic.”
Normally he’d snap back. Normally he’d laugh. His throat is tight and empty. You start talking anyway—about uni, about his parents, about the cafe—and the night plays you back with the confidence of something that thinks it owns you.
When you mention your licence again, he flinches.
“I got my licence and suddenly I’m unstoppable,” you say, smiling.
It hits him like a line read off a script. He interrupts too early, too sharp. “What road are you taking?”
You blink, confused. “What?”
“To the beach,” he says quickly. “Which road?”
You stare at him. “The… normal one?”
He tries to fix it—tries to drag himself back into normal. “Just text me when you get there.”
“Okay, mum,” you tease, smiling. It would be cute if it didn’t feel like a knife. When the light in the window starts to change again, you sit up and say, “Right. The beach.”
He stands too fast. “Wait.”
You pause, brows lifting. “What?”
He scrambles for normal. “Nothing. I just—”
You stare. “You’re being weird.”
He can’t explain. He doesn’t have language for the sensation crawling under his skin.
You soften. “Hey. One thing at a time. Breathe.”
The phrase is familiar. It’s what you say when his thoughts start racing. You say it like you’ve said it a hundred times, reminding him where the ground is. It’s you being you. The part of you that holds.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
You watch him for a second. Then your mouth quirks. You go to the window. He stands.
You look back and smile. “See you later,” you say.
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. “Drive safe,” he manages.
You disappear.
For a second, in the silence, he hears something that doesn’t belong in his room.
Waves. A radio bleeding into a frequency it shouldn’t.
Then the alarm goes off.
Jungkook is already shaking.
This time, when you appear at the window, he opens it too fast. The blinds rattle. You laugh like it’s funny. For a moment, your face doesn’t match your smile.
“You’re actually insane,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s saying it to himself.
You grin. “Open up then.”
You swing in—and Jungkook catches your wrist.
Your eyes drop to his hand. Then lift to his face. “Uh,” you say. “Hi?”
He lets go like he’s been burned. “Sorry. I thought you were going to—fall.”
“I never fall,” you say, proud, and you grin.
His chest aches.
You sit on his bed. “Okay. If you’ve been possessed, blink twice.”
He can’t laugh.
Your smile falters. You don’t like when he doesn’t laugh. You don’t like when you can’t fix him. “You’re stressed,” you say softly, and press the back of your fingers to his forehead, checking for fever.
He swallows. Your touch is warm, grounding.
Then you pull your hand away and immediately try to ruin the tenderness you just created, because you’re allergic to being serious for too long. “If you die of stress tonight, I’m telling your mum you had weak genetics,” you add.
He huffs a laugh, brief. You keep tossing jokes at him, but you’re also watching him now, careful.
He keeps asking questions that don’t belong. “What time are you leaving?” he asks, too intent.
You blink. “Why are you obsessed with time?”
“Just answer.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wow. Bossy.” You soften anyway. “After we talk and you stop being weird.”
He swallows, eyes darting to the clock. “What road are you taking?” he asks again.
You stare. “The normal one. Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because—” He stops.
You tilt your head. “Jungkook.”
He looks at you like he’s about to beg and he hates himself for it. “Don’t go,” he says.
You blink. “Where? The beach?”
“Yes.”
You snort, offended. “You’re not my dad.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like it,” you say, then soften when his face tightens. “Talk to me.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again.
You squint. “Are you about to say something emotional?”
He scoffs. “No.”
“Liar,” you say immediately.
He looks at you and the words almost break free—I’m in love with you. I’m terrified. I don’t know how to let you go. Instead he bargains, because it’s easier than the truth. “Stay five more minutes,” he says.
You blink. “Why?”
“Just—stay.”
Your expression softens. You always soften. You’re too kind. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Five more minutes.” Then you try to pretend it isn’t tender. “Happy? You’ve trapped me. You’re officially a villain.”
He almost laughs.
You lean back on your hands. “You know why I like sunrise drives?”
He blinks. “Because you’re a weirdo?”
“Correct,” you say, then your voice shifts, honest for a second. “And also because it’s the only quiet time.”
His throat tightens. He knows what you mean without you having to explain. The day is loud. People expect things from you. You have to be someone. At sunrise, nobody wants anything. The world isn’t looking at you yet.
“It feels like… cheating,” you add, a half-smile. “Like you’re getting a peaceful life for free before reality clocks in.”
He stares at you.
You realise you’ve said too much. “Also,” you add, bright, “the beach is the only place where my thoughts shut up. So if you try to stop me, you’re basically anti-mental health.”
The confession sits in Jungkook’s throat like a splinter. He’s in love with you. If you stay five more minutes, he’ll say it.
He starts, “I—”
A thin whine rises in the room. He freezes.
You hear it too. Your eyes flick to the clock. “What is that?”
02:13.
It’s always 02:13.
The alarm explodes into full volume.
This time, Jungkook is furious.
Furious at the clock. Furious at the night. Furious at himself.
The sleeping city. The same time. The knock. He can taste metal before anything metal happens. When you appear in the window frame again, he doesn’t bother pretending he’s annoyed.
He just looks at you like he’s starving. “You’re actually insane,” he mutters, but his voice is cracked.
You grin automatically, then falter when you see his face. “Okay. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He opens the window. You swing in. You drop your bag on the chair. You go to flop onto the bed—
He stops you with a hand on your forearm.
You blink at him. “Hi?”
He says your name like it hurts, then stops himself.
Your brows knit. “Jungkook.”
He swallows hard. His hands shake. He goes for the one thing he can control. “Keys,” he says. “Give me your keys.”
Your eyes widen. “What?”
“Please.” The word comes out wrong. Too raw. Too exposed.
You stare at him like you’re trying to decide whether he’s joking. You don’t like tenderness. You don’t like seriousness without warning. You deflect. It’s your reflex. “So you’ve finally decided to become my dad,” you say, trying to make it light. “Congrats. What’s your first rule? Bedtime at nine?”
It doesn’t land. He doesn’t laugh. Your humour cracks in the air and drops.
Your face shifts. “Hey,” you say quietly. “One thing at a time. Breathe.”
That phrase again. His throat closes.
You reach into your bag slowly, careful now, and place the keys in his palm like you’re offering him something sacred.
He grips them so hard the metal bites.
“What’s going on?” you whisper.
He wants to say it cleanly. He wants to say it like a normal person. Instead it spills out raw. “I keep having this dream,” he says. “Same night. Same time. Same you. You come here. We talk. You leave for the beach. I don’t go. You go alone and then—I wake up.”
You stare at him, breath held. “And then what?” you whisper.
He can’t say die. Instead he says, “You don’t come back.”
Your face goes blank. Then you scoff, because fear makes you sharp. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He hates that it sounds like control. He hates that it sounds like he’s trying to scare you into staying. He hates that it sounds like he’s making you smaller so he can keep you. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, voice breaking. “But I know it. I can feel it.”
You swallow hard. “You’re scaring me.”
The words hit him like a punch. He loosens his grip on your keys immediately, like space might fix it. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to—I just—” He looks at you and realises he’s done running. If he’s going to lose you anyway, he’s not doing it with his mouth full of silence. “I love you,” he says.
Silence.
Your breath catches. You stare at him like the world has tilted. “Jungkook,” you whisper.
He laughs once, broken. “There. That’s the stupid thing.”
“No,” you say immediately, too fast. “No, it’s not stupid.”
His chest aches. He watches you fight with yourself.
You attempt humour anyway, voice shaky. “If this is your way of telling me you’ll miss me at uni, you’re doing it terribly.”
It’s almost funny. It’s not.
He whispers, “I’m serious.”
You stop. Your eyes shine. “You love me,” you say, like you’re testing the shape of it.
He nods because he can’t trust his voice.
You swallow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because he thought he had time. Because later felt safer. Because he didn’t want to ruin this. Because he didn’t want to be rejected. Because he thought he could be brave tomorrow.
He can’t say any of it without hating himself. He says, hoarse, “I didn’t want to ruin it.”
Your voice cracks. “Ruin what?”
“This,” he says. “Us. Whatever we are.”
You stare at him like you’re about to cry, like you’re about to laugh, like you’re about to do both and you don’t know which one will keep you alive.
The alarm whines. Thin. Sharp. A warning.
His eyes snap to the clock. 02:13.
You hear it too. You glance at the clock, confused. “What is that?”
He grabs your wrist—too tight, then loosens it instantly. “Don’t go,” he says. “Please.”
“I wasn’t going,” you whisper, shaken.
“You will,” he says, voice cracking. “You always do.”
You stare at him, tears rising fast. “What do you mean always?”
He can’t answer without collapsing.
You whisper, raw, “Do you want me to stay?”
He nods.
You step forward and wrap your arms around him. You—his dam—holding him when he starts to flood. You bury your face against his shoulder and whisper, “Okay. Okay. I’ll stay.”
He exhales, shaking, like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Then you pull back just enough to look at him. “Happy?” you whisper. “You’ve officially kidnapped me. Should I scream?”
He lets out a broken laugh that sounds like it hurts.
Your eyes soften. “Hey. One thing at a time. Breathe.”
The alarm screams.
He moves in front of you on instinct, shielding you from sound like his body believes it can protect you from everything if it tries hard enough.
You look up at him, eyes wet. Your mouth moves.
The sound eats it.
The alarm screams.
It takes up the room. It fills the corners, climbs the walls, drills straight through his skull—a punishment with a speaker.
Jungkook wakes up sobbing and doesn’t realise until his face is wet. 02:13. The air smells faintly of smoke that isn’t there. He sits up, shaking, and presses his palms to his eyes like he can wipe the night out of his skull.
He can’t. The knock comes again.
One. Two. He can’t do this again.
Three.
He swings his legs out of bed so hard he nearly trips. He crosses the room and yanks the window open before the next knock lands.
You blink at him, surprised by the aggression, but you’re still smiling. Still alive. Still you.
“You’re actually insane,” he says, but it’s not teasing. It’s grief.
You climb in, slower this time, watching his face. “Okay,” you say carefully. “What is happening?”
He doesn’t answer. He steps in front of the window and locks it behind you.
Your brows shoot up. “What the—”
“Sit,” he says.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Please,” he adds, and it comes out wrecked.
You stare at him. “You’ve finally lost it,” you say, but your voice is quiet. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve joined the cult and I have to escape?”
He doesn’t laugh.
Your face changes. Concern, real and immediate. You nod once and sit on the bed.
He sits too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
Your eyes search his face. “Okay,” you say gently. “What do you need?”
He opens his mouth. The truth sits there like a blade. He can’t say you die. He can’t.
So he says something else. Something that still hurts, but doesn’t name the worst. “Just stay,” he whispers. “Just… don’t leave yet.”
You watch him. Your expression softens in a way that makes his chest ache. “Okay,” you say. You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Did you have a nightmare?”
He laughs once, ugly. “Yeah.”
“About what?” you ask softly.
He can’t answer. You don’t press—you never press when it’s too sharp. You sit with him.
He tries something else. He tries to stall you like a normal person would, not like a man begging the universe. “Do you want noodles?” he blurts.
You blink. “Noodles?”
He nods fast. “Yeah. Instant. We can—we can eat. And talk. And then…”
And then what? Then you’ll leave. And then you’ll die. And then he’ll wake up. He can’t say any of that.
You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Then your mouth quirks. “You’re offering me noodles at four in the morning,” you say, amused despite yourself. “You’re romantic.”
He can’t even pretend.
You soften again, the humour fading. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll have noodles.”
Relief hits him so hard his vision blurs. He stands too quickly, like if he moves fast enough he can outrun fate. He goes to the small stash of instant noodles he keeps for emergencies—because his parents don’t cook at midnight and sometimes his stomach is louder than his guilt.
He boils water as quietly as he can and brings the noodles over. Two cups. He sits beside you. You eat slowly, blowing on the steam. He barely tastes anything. He’s watching the clock out of the corner of his eye like it’s a loaded gun.
You notice. “Stop looking at it,” you say quietly.
He jolts. “What?”
“The clock,” you say. “You’re making it weird.”
He laughs once, strained. “I’m making it weird?”
You stare at him. Your smile fades. “Jungkook,” you whisper. “What is going on?”
He opens his mouth. The confession and the truth collide in his throat.
He says, hoarse, “I love you.”
Silence. You stop chewing. He watches your face change in real time—surprise first, then something softer, something dangerous.
You swallow. “You picked now,” you say, voice shaky. “Four a.m. noodles. Are you trying to make this a coming-of-age film?”
His mouth doesn’t move.
You stop pretending. Your eyes shine. “Jungkook,” you whisper again, and this time you don’t joke. “You have feelings for me?”
He nods. He can’t trust his voice.
You stare at him for a long moment. Then you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years. “I love you too,” you say.
It hits him like a punch—relief, grief, everything at once—and his chest caves like it’s been waiting to collapse. He reaches for you without thinking. His hand cups your cheek. Your skin is warm.
You lean into his touch like it’s natural. Like you’ve been waiting for it.
He almost laughs. Almost cries. He can’t pick one.
He presses his forehead to yours. For a moment, the night feels soft. Like it’s letting him have it. Like it’s giving him mercy.
Then you pull back and glance toward the window, toward the paling sky. “I need to go,” you say quietly.
He goes rigid and shakes his head hard. “Don’t go.”
You swallow. “Why?”
He can’t answer.
You stare at him, tears starting. “Jungkook. Please. Tell me.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. He whispers, broken, “If you leave, you don’t come back.”
You reach up and cup his face with both hands, like you’re anchoring him. “Hey,” you whisper. “One thing at a time. Breathe.”
He laughs once, shattered. “You keep saying that like it fixes it.”
“It does,” you whisper. “It fixes you.”
His throat closes.
You whisper, “I don’t know why you’re scared, but I’m here.”
He stares at you. He wants to beg you to stay forever. He wants to be selfish. He wants to lock the window and hide the keys and keep you here until the sun rises and sets and rises again and nothing bad ever happens. Instead he whispers, “Stay five more minutes, please.”
You nod. “Okay.”
You sit on the bed together, your shoulder pressed against his, your keys cold in your palm. Outside, the city is still asleep. The world is quiet. It’s the only quiet time.
The whine starts. He freezes.
You hear it too. You lift your head, confused. “What is that?”
Jungkook’s eyes snap to the clock. 02:13.
It hasn’t moved. It never moves. The alarm detonates.
When he wakes up, it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like losing the only place the world let him keep you alive.
Jungkook opens his eyes in a different room. A different ceiling. Different air. His rented studio. A radiator that never works properly. A life built around the shape you left. It smells of detergent and stale coffee. Not your shampoo. Not cold night. Not mint gum.
The window is locked in the way adult windows lock—no latch to flick quietly, no easy way in. Just glass and metal and the expectation that nobody is coming through it at four in the morning.
The city outside is awake. He hears it immediately. Cars. Someone laughing. A door shutting. Life continuing like it isn’t a betrayal.
His phone is on the bedside table, scratched and old. His hands grab it before he even thinks. No new messages. Your name is there in his chat list. The thread is still there. A scar he can still tap. He opens it. His last message is sitting there like a joke he doesn’t get.
Text me when you get there.
Under it there is nothing. No reply. No photo of the sunrise. No stupid meme. No okay, mum. Just silence that has gone on long enough to become a wall.
He scrolls anyway. Because grief makes you stupid. Because some part of him believes if he digs deep enough he’ll find you hiding.
He can’t.
He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his hands. They’re older. He flexes his fingers. No key marks. No proof. No warmth lingering.
He gets up and walks to the window. His reflection looks wrong without you in it. He presses his forehead to the glass and looks down at the street. People move with their lives intact.
His phone buzzes. He flinches so hard it nearly slips out of his hand. It’s not you. It’s a reminder he set and forgot about. The anniversary of your death. There’s a screenshot buried in his camera roll—a police number, a missed call, a voicemail he’s never played again.
His throat closes. He stares at it until his eyes blur, then he turns it off with his thumb.
He whispers, “Five more minutes.” The words come out like a prayer. Like a bargain. Like something he’s been saying for years without realising he’s been saying it.
He shuts his eyes.
His mind betrays him with an image. A stretch of road. A guardrail. The wrong kind of stillness. You—somewhere you shouldn’t be.
He inhales and it feels like his lungs don’t have enough space.
He opens his eyes again. His voice cracks when he says it again. “Please.”
Five more minutes.
⏱︎ main masterlist | divider by @uzmacchiato
and now that you're not here, we talk in my dreams. let me sleep in peace for five more minutes
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| 5 minuti — alfa
a/n: happy belated valentine's day my loves! this was highly inspired by the above italian song, please give it a listen <3 your likes, comments and reblogs mean so so much to me
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