Fleeting Forevers
→ [6/7] of the Society Series
→ summary: In this obscure community, identities are lost, never able to see the light of day again. Names cease to exist, along with the concept of relationships itself. But isolation, alienation, individuality... they say it’s better this way.
→ pairing/rating: jimin x reader | PG
→ genre: 100% fluff (wow that’s a first 💀) | neighbors!au & dystopian!au
→ warnings: none
→ wordcount: 6.1k
12:28.
Just a little more...
12:29.
Almost there...
12:30!
He peels himself from his chair, straightening his back out and standing up for the first time in three and a half hours. It's finally lunch break. He walks, head down low, weaving in and out of the work cubicles where other faceless figures are furiously typing away, into the kitchen. He finds his cubby labeled in his code, 1013951204, amongst hundreds of others, and reaches inside to pull out his lunch.
Ham and cheese sandwich. As usual. Nevertheless, the lunch break lets the man sit away from his computer screen to rest his eyes. In one fluid motion, he brings out his headphones and begins to listen to his typical music playlist—songs that he only recognizes by their melodies and not their long identification numbers.
Too soon, it's time to work again. The man sets aside his headphones and packs up his lunch. Then, he begins to type, his fingers diligently clacking on his keyboard, eyes browsing through the green numbers glowing against the dark screen. He goes on what he calls 'robot mode'—where he erases all thoughts and feelings and works until his shift is finished.
When the clock strikes 5 p.m., he is up and out of his seat, his briefcase already in his hand. He walks out the door of one building and straight into the next, ordering his takeout dinner. Then, he walks home, the paths illuminated by the streetlights and bustling with other shadowy figures. He blends into the crowd as usual—not that he cares much that the crowd is there in the first place.
His favorite song turns on—the one that he likes so much that he can recall its long identification number—song #134340613. He lets the soft, jazzy melody wash over him as he continues to walk past towering, identical buildings. The only way to distinguish these shadowy structures is by the large, black numbers painted on their sides. That's how he finds his way home every day. Because he lives in apartment complex #883, which is snagged snuggly between buildings #882 and #884, which are, obviously, indistinguishable.
Sometimes, he lets his mind wander on the solemn walks back to his apartment complex; what if these numbers didn't exist? How would he ever find his way back home?
But those are stupid questions; improbable and a waste of time to even dwell on. He pushes those thoughts away and always ends up focusing on his dull music instead. The melodies and notes blend together after a while. In fact, everything here blends together in one gigantic blur. He doesn't mind.
Because here, he can keep to himself. Here, he can—
Someone taps on his shoulder. He whirls around.
And then there's a girl. She's stopped right in front of him, a friendly smile playing on her lips. He and she are the only ones who have stopped moving amidst a crowd of busy walkers. He stares at her, eyes wide, wondering what you could want from him. Wondering when was the last time he's even looked another person in the eye.
Your lips move. It seems as though you're speaking, but strangely, he can't hear you. You giggle, pointing at his ears. He's bewildered but quickly realizes his music had been obstructing his hearing. Slowly, his hands reach up to tug out one earphone.
You laugh and it's the loudest, merriest sound he's heard in quite some time. "Sorry," you apologize, giggling sheepishly. "The others wouldn't even give me the light of day! But thank goodness you stopped!"
It takes a moment for him to realize that you're talking to him. No one ever talks to each other around here. And judging by the small suitcase you're carrying by your side, you're new.
"I'm Y/N!" you say, giving the confused-looking man in front of you a bright smile. "I'm... well, I'm kind of lost so I was actually wondering if you could help me to get to apartment complex... What was it again?" You rummage through the pockets of your coat to pull out a small slip of paper. Your eyes squint as you examine it. "Oh, right! Apartment complex #883!" Upon seeing Jimin's even more perplexed face, you sigh. "I've been trying to find it for the past three hours, and the buildings all look the same so there's no help in that at all. I'm afraid I might've been walking around in circles!"
The man takes a step backward. Y/N. What was that? You'd named yourself. You had a name—not an identification number nor the usual number code, but a lettered name. "W-What?" he manages to stutter out.
Who are you?
Your face falls a little bit. "Sorry," you say. "If I wasn't making it quite obvious before, I'm new here." Then, your eyes shift to gloss over the man's face. He's got kind features—a cute nose, wide eyes and pretty lips (that are set in a stern line). And you notice that he's still listening to music. "Ooh!" you exclaim. "What are you listening to? Back home, I was obsessed with TXT. What about you?"
The man takes another step back. TXT? What is that? Why do you name things? And why are you singling him out in a crowd of hundreds? Irritation begins to settle in.
"Just... I'm just listening to the radio," he says. That ought to do it. He'd answered your question without really answering it; maybe it's enough to shut you up. He sighs, realizing that you're to be heading to the same exact place he calls his home. "C'mon. I'll take you to 883."
"Oh, goodness!" you squeal as you begin to follow the man weaving in and out of other faceless strangers. "If it's not on your way, you can just give me directions," you insist. "I don't want to bother you or anything... People here seem so busy all the time and I don't—"
"No, no," he says. "I live in that complex too."
"Oh!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "So you're my neighbor!"
The man frowns, though you can't see his face. "I doubt it," he says, his throat already dry from having spoken more than the usual amount of words he says in a day (which is none). "The complex is pretty big."
But seven elevator floors later, it dawns painfully on him that you are going to be neighbors with him. Apparently, for unbeknownst reasons (and the fact that everyone minds their own business here), his old neighbor right next door seems to have moved out. He barely remembers what she had looked like. But no matter now. Someone new has come to take her place. You.
He looks at you, who is happily unlocking the door to your new apartment, and shrugs. Pretty soon, he'll forget about you too. Just like everyone else. He'll go about his days, keeping himself company, ignoring everyone outside, and eventually, you'll fade from his memories because that's what this place does to you.
Yet you turn around, waving at him with a friendly grin plastered on your face. "Oh yeah, thanks, by the way, new neighbor!" you say. "I'll see you around, okay?" With that, you gently shut your door and disappear inside your apartment.
He stares after you in shock. Really. Who are you?
After a moment of contemplation, he shrugs, shaking his head in disapproval. It doesn't matter. You'll forget about him. Everyone always does.
Loud knocking on his door wakes him up. With a groan, the man rolls out of bed, running a hand through his mass of black bed hair in an attempt to tame it. No one ever knocks because no one ever needs to talk to him. Everything is efficient here; everyone is supposed to know what they're doing.
So he's not at all surprised when he sees you, all dressed up and cheery, in front of his door.
"Hey!" you sing-song, holding up a plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies. "I wanted to drop these off! You know, as a thank you for helping me get home! And... as a, well, an apology—if I made you feel uncomfortable yesterday."
He rubs his eyes groggily and cocks his head curiously at you. "Oh..." he croaks, quickly clearing his throat. "Thank you." He takes the warm plate of cookies, unsure what to think of such a kind gesture. People here fend for themselves. No one ever goes out of their way to do nice things. But then again, he supposes he had done a nice thing yesterday when he'd helped you with directions when no one else would.
"It's no problem at all!" you chirp. "Oh, by the way," you say, adjusting your casual sweater, "I didn't catch your name yesterday."
He's shocked. "My name?" he asks.
"Yes!" you insist. "What? Have you forgotten it?" you giggle. "It's okay, sometimes I forget mine too. Or rather, I look at myself in the mirror and think, 'do I really look like my name, or have I become accustomed to looking at myself and seeing my name??' Funny thoughts, eh?"
He just shakes his head, unable to laugh at your jokes. "I-I... I don't have a name," he stutters. "I mean, unless of course, you mean my identification code—"
Your eyes widen and you sputter, "Y-You don't have a name?!"
"No one does around here," he tries to explain.
But you're throwing your hands in the air. "How do you not have a name?!" you say. "How do people address you? Hey, you! Or, hey there, kind man! Or you there, in the nice blue striped pajamas??"
"No one... Uh, no one really needs to address me," he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his head with his unoccupied hand. "Everyone just does what they need to do. We don't really need to... talk to each other, per se."
"That's crazy!" you exclaim. "But what if we're in a crowd of people and I need to get your attention? If I just call, 'hey you!' fifty people will turn around and that would be the most ineffective thing ever! Or what about friends? What do they call you? Family?"
He shrinks back, his grip on the plate of cookies tightening. "I don't have friends. Or family."
"Huh?" You make a confused face. "But your parents?"
"I don't really remember them," he confesses, suddenly feeling very vulnerable under your scrutiny. "We don't find relationships important around here."
"Oh..." Your face falls. "Am I being a bother?"
"N-No!" he says. Well, kind of, he thinks. He doesn't know how to handle people, and he frankly doesn't understand why you're so preoccupied with being friendly with him. What do you have to gain from this? "Listen," he sighs. "None of us have names around here and it's actually better that way. That's how this place functions. I'm addressed by my birthdate and time. So I guess you can call me 1013951204."
"I lost you on the fourth digit," you say, scrunching your nose. It seems as though you still cannot understand why this man or any of the others living in this place do not have names.
He, in turn, wants to tell you that names are unsafe, an invasion of wanted privacy. Names can be used against you; others can drag your name through the dirt, spread false rumors of you behind your back and you will have nothing to defend yourself with. Because once you attach yourself to a name, you can't exactly detach yourself from it. He doesn't think you'll understand though, so he stays quiet.
The man shrugs. He lifts his plate of cookies and offers you a small smile. "Thank you for the cookies though," he says.
Then he quickly shuts the door.
Three days later, when he's coming home from work, you catch up with him on the elevator, holding takeout from restaurant #62, the new one that opened up just last week around the block. It seems as though you're adjusting well to your surroundings. Not that he cares too much.
"Hey!" you chirp as he pushes the button to take the both of you to the seventh floor. "How have you been?"
He's not exactly sure how to reply. It's such a simple phrase, but the meaning is loaded with so many possible ways to answer. Should he tell you how he's actually been? Or are you just asking as a means of formality? Should he tell a little white lie? Or would you be offended that he'd kept you from knowing the truth?
Human relationships are much too complex. He settles for a simple, "I've been well," and wipes the sweat that had suddenly accumulated on his brow. The silence that follows is a little awkward. That's when he remembers that he should've minded his manners. "H-How have you been?" he asks, deflecting the question back to you.
"Oh, well, the usual," you say, smiling. "Job hunting, exploring the city, reading my scripts."
"Scripts?" he asks, turning to you.
"Ah, yeah, just play scripts," you giggle. "Oh! That actually reminds me!"
The elevator dings and its doors open to the seventh floor. The two of you walk out and stop at the junction between yours and his apartments.
"It reminds you...?" he says, hoping you'll continue on after piquing his interest. There are so many unanswered questions about you; you're a mystery. And though you're strange, he wants to get to know you, to know more.
"Right, yeah! It reminds me, I found a name for you!"
"A name?" He frowns. "You found a name for me?"
"How does Jimin sound?" you say, clasping your hands together. "I think it fits perfectly."
"Jimin..." The name rolls off quite nicely on his tongue. For just a split second, he wishes there were a mirror, so he could look at himself and whisper the name out loud—to see if it was a match.
"I got it from a play I auditioned for a while back," you say, smiling wistfully. "I actually auditioned to play the role of a Jimin. Except they didn't accept me because I wasn't a man."
You're met by silence.
"You can laugh, you know," you say, peeking at the man. "Orrrr have any kind of reaction."
"Jimin..." he whispers. "I like it."
Your face blossoms into a gigantic smile. "You do??"
"Thank you..." he says, unsure what to do or if he should say anything more.
"No problem, Jimin!" you chirp happily. "Oh, by the way, I accidentally bought extra takeout. Wanna come over and help me chip away at it?"
Jimin has never been inside another's home before. He's not even sure if he likes the idea of someone else being in his apartment. But you seem so welcoming—as if you really want to invite him to have dinner with you.
It's such a spontaneous request, yet Jimin can't refuse you. Too soon, he finds himself wound up on your pink, worn couch, holding a bowl of noodles with a side of cooked vegetables. You had been chattering about your interior decorations (which Jimin admits is very well-coordinated) after he'd politely complimented how nice it looked. Every piece of furniture, every dish and every carpet holds sentimental value for you, and you seem to remember where you'd gotten everything.
You're rattling off about how your decorative flower vase was from your friend's dead grandmother's garage sale years and years ago when Jimin finally builds up the courage to ask you a question that's been boggling his mind for quite a while.
"What's a play?"
Your eyes widen and you look at the man in shock. "Oh, right! Sorry, I just assumed you—sorry, I still have to get used to the situation around here."
"What... situation?"
You just laugh. "Well, where I'm from, we have something called the media. You know, instead of your textbooks, we have books about fictional heroes or villains or even autobiographies of historical figures. We have televisions that play T.V. shows that include actors and actresses who play all these different characters!"
"That's peculiar..." Jimin hums. But you still hadn't quite answered his original question.
"Hold on," you say, standing up from your seat on the couch. "I'll be right back."
A few minutes later, you return with a thick, yellow booklet, flapping it about with enthusiasm. "Here's my copy of this play. You know, the one where I took your name from."
Jimin shyly takes the booklet from your hands. "Illegirl," he says, reading the title. "Is this the script?"
"Yeah!" you say excitedly. "This is what actors are given so they can recite their lines! Illegirl's a play, so that means the actors have to memorize their lines and perform it live, on stage, so the audience can witness it!"
"Who is Kim Seokjin?" Jimin asks, cocking his head.
"He's the man who wrote the play," you giggle. "He's a pretty famous playwright, actually. Some even say the play was based on a true story." You wiggle your eyebrows.
"What's the play about?" Jimin says, suddenly becoming consumed with interest.
"Wellll..." you trail off. "Forbidden romance?" you try. "Wanna try reading it with me?"
Jimin looks at the booklet in awe. Never has he seen anything remotely close to this in his life—at least, not in his near memory. Every piece of 'media' he's consumed here has been faceless and factful. There were no authors, no fictional stories or characters. This was different.
"Okay," Jimin finally says. "I'd love to read it with you."
"Hm," you say, rubbing your finger on your chin. "You can play Jimin because well, you are Jimin. Coincidentally, I have the same name as Illegirl's female lead. Ooh! Fun fact!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "I auditioned to play the role of Jimin but everyone actually wanted me to go for Y/N's role. You know, because we have the same name and whatnot. And the fact that she's a character I would be able to play pretty well. But I wanted a challenge, you know? I wanted to bring more character into Jimin and bring him to life. The play itself focuses a lot on Y/N's internal monologue, so she seems like a fully developed character. Jimin, though! I was so confident I could make him a tangible character! But..." you sigh, shrugging your shoulders. "I kinda didn't get the part."
"Oh," Jimin says. "I'm sorry."
"Oh no, it's all right," you giggle. "I still got to play the female lead! It's not what I wanted, but I still had a lot of fun with it. Now I'm too attached to her character to play someone else."
Jimin finds it fascinating that you enjoy 'playing' a different person. Plays are quite an interesting concept, indeed. He can't quite grasp why anyone would want to sit down and watch a fictional story about... other people. He can't even understand why anyone would want to stand up and play another person for the purpose of others' enjoyment. What a strange place you're from...
Still, he lets you give him a short rundown of how to read and interpret the script, how to really get into the mind of his character. Jimin thinks it's difficult to play another person, especially when he's not very acquainted with people other than you and himself.
"Y/N," he says, loud and clear in that stage voice you taught him. He forces a dry laugh out of his throat to satiate what the script had called for. "I'm not sure you understand what hiking is."
"More disbelief," you whisper encouragingly. "And add a little dramatic shake to your head to sell the idea!"
Jimin nods and tries again. "Y/N!" he says, this time a lighter laugh leaving his lips. He shakes his head with a look of incredulity. "I'm not sure you understand what hiking is!"
Your eyes sparkle as you turn to him, your lines already memorized. "Isn't it just walking in nature?" you say, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.
Jimin admires how well you sell the idea of this particular Y/N. It's like at that moment, you're not yourself, but you're pretending to be in the skin of another. Jimin quickly shrugs as the script calls for him to do so. Then, he glances at the dialogue before saying, "Well, yeah, but you have to admire the nature too." He peeks at you for approval and when you give him two thumbs up, he continues on. "Jin's kinda pissed 'cause he thought we'd take our time hiking the trail, but you just ran off." His tone sounds casual, almost nonchalant.
He makes the perfect Jimin.
"Oh no!" you groan, rolling your eyes. "Where is he??"
Jimin notices you've deviated from the script a little, but he finds that the lines you'd just uttered fit in the context!
"Fortunately for you, he's really far back," he answers, shrugging again (although the script didn't call for it this time). "You know your cousin, he hates not admiring anything. We'd be lucky if he even finishes the trail."
You laugh and it's not like your usual giggle, but a loud, robust sound. You've even changed your laugh to fit your character! "Accurate!" you exclaim. "I mean, do you understand the struggle of having to wait for him to finish up in the bathroom in the morning? He can spend three hours looking at his reflection in the mirror!"
"That sounds like Seokjin, alright," Jimin says. He shakes his head and grins. "Do you think he'll spare us this time and make it quick?"
The more he speaks, the more he becomes immersed in the character.
"Yikes," you snort. "I really don't know... Maybe we should go back for him?"
Jimin cocks an eyebrow. "You think?"
You giggle slightly, breaking character a little but you quickly compose yourself. "Nope, not really." A mischievous grin stretches across your lips. "You know what? Let's let him catch up himself."
Jimin decides to mirror your grin. "Exactly what I was thinking."
"And scene!" you yell, standing up and jumping up and down in excitement. "You are a natural talent, Jimin! That was amazing! I can't believe that was your first read-through!"
"A talent?" Jimin's eyes turn wide. "I was just doing exactly what you taught me!" He laughs. "It's fun, though. I can see why people would watch this. Y/N and Jimin's relationship in the play seems pretty great, doesn't it?"
You giggle. "It's more than great, actually. They become lovers by the end! Oh, oops!" you shriek, covering your hand over your mouth. "Sorry, that was a spoiler!"
"I don't mind," Jimin laughs. The play is interesting and Jimin wants to know more. "Can I... Can I borrow your copy?" he asks almost hesitantly.
"Oh of course you can!" you squeal. "Ooh, maybe we can do more readings! I mean, skipping the romance parts though 'cause then we'll be obligated to kind of act it out..." you trail off. "Uh, but anyways! Did I mention he's her teacher?"
Jimin's eyebrows scrunch together. "Oh, so that's what you meant when you said it was a forbidden romance."
"Basically," you giggle. "Some people didn't like this play when it came out. You know, because of the implications of being in a relationship with a minor and all that. Honestly, though, looking past all that, I think it's a great play. It's supposed to be light-hearted and comedic with a sprinkle of love and romance!"
"Can I tell you what I think about it after I finish it?" Jimin asks.
"Oh, yes, please!" you say. "I really hope you like it. But if you don't... Well, I have hundreds of other copies you can try!"
Jimin laughs. He realizes after enjoying your company for quite some time, his life had been so dull without you. In a place that values hidden identities, he doesn't mind knowing yours and entrusting you with his.
It gets quite boring to live in a singular bubble, where the only person inside is yourself. It's tedious to dwell in your own thoughts and your own life. Jimin had never exactly noticed this before. But now, he wants to get to know what others think and how others live. He wants to explore his apartment, meet his neighbors, his co-workers. He wants to learn faces and names! Read books that aren't just factual regurgitation and watch films that showcase actors.
And he expresses his concerns to you.
"I don't get how I've lived like this before," Jimin confesses, staring at his hands.
You raise your eyebrows. "Live like what?"
"You know, live without the company of a friend. Just... live by myself," he says. "I don't know how I did it."
"Well, human company does get a little addicting," you giggle, shrugging your shoulders. "You were just living like everyone else does in this place."
"You've lived here for three months now, Y/N. What do you really think of this place? This place!" Jimin exclaims. "Gosh, it doesn't even have a name."
"I do admit this society is strange," you hum, fingers tapping on your chin. "But it's not all bad!"
"We're missing out on so many wonderful things—things that you've shared with me! Music with artist names, fictional books, action films! We don't have that kind of stuff here because no one bothers to care about others' ideas. It's just work, work, work," Jimin huffs. "It's all about efficiency."
"And efficiency is good," you say. "Every place has its ups and downs, does it not?" You smile, reaching over across Jimin's dinner table to place a warm hand on top of his. "I left my town for a reason and ended up stumbling upon this place."
"Your town was worse than this?" Jimin asks. "But what can be worse than disapproving of making relationships with others?"
"Hm..." you hum. "Well, a lot of things. There's this society next to us called Truve. There, they take relationships too seriously. You know, to the point that they force romantic relationships on young adults and expect them to carry on with marriage for the rest of their lives."
Marriage. That's a word Jimin hasn't heard in a long time.
"There's a society next to us?" he asks, brows furrowing. "I thought there was nothing outside this place... You know, after the..."
"But I've seen the other five." You suddenly lower your voice into a low whisper. "I know they exist."
"The other five what?" Jimin cocks his head curiously.
"The other five societies, of course!"
"There is more than one???"
"Of course there is!" you cry, throwing up your arms. "And arguably, this one's the best out of the six!"
"Really??" Jimin's eyes blow out as he stares at you in awe. "Have you lived in all of them?"
"Well, not quite," you say, lowering your arms down and shrugging. "But I've been on the outsides. I've walked through some of them. Narrowly escaped a few. Trust me, Jimin. This place is your best bet."
"I can't believe there were other survivors..." Jimin breathes. "The textbooks said we were the only ones who could build up a society after that disaster. They said that we humans objectively work better alone."
"And sometimes we do," you say. "But other times, a little company is nice," you giggle.
Jimin looks confused, so you sigh. "Listen, all of these societies... Well, they're all a little weird, okay? But what do you expect humans to do after such an enormous breakout? We've got to adapt in some ways. We just happen to value anonymity and hidden identities," you say. "There's a reason I chose to stay here for good."
"You're never going to explore again?" Jimin asks in shock. Somewhere deep inside, he'd hoped that someday you were going to show him the world—outside this gray place of identical buildings and faceless figures.
"I'm finally settling down," you yawn, stretching out your arms. "It's getting late, Jimin. I should go."
Jimin has so many more questions he wants you to answer. So many more things he wants to learn from you. You talk about these other societies as if they are common sense, as if you've known of their existence since you were born. You'd said so casually that this place is arguably the best one. So how bad were the other ones?
Curiosity overtakes him. Jimin can't remember the last time he was intrigued by a certain mystery. But fairly, he can't quite remember a lot of details of his past life.
"I can walk you out," Jimin offers.
You smile brightly, nodding your head enthusiastically. It's an extremely short walk from Jimin's apartment to yours but he savors every moment he spends in your presence. He's come to learn how valuable it is to spend time with someone who isn't just himself.
"Goodnight Jimin," you sing-song as you wave goodbye from behind your door.
"Bye, Y/N," he says, waving back before the door shuts and he's left alone in the dark, empty hall.
After finishing Illegirl (which Jimin thoroughly enjoyed), he voraciously read A Kiss to Forever and binge-watched the whole season of Our Love Like Fibonacci in one day. You keep your surprises coming though. In that seemingly small suitcase you'd brought, you'd jam-packed hundreds of different types of media to keep you and Jimin both entertained.
Often, Jimin finds himself hanging out at your apartment (because you actually have a television), and he just likes seeing your lips curve up into a blossoming smile when you open the door and see him outside. Today is no different. He's lying on the couch, a book up to his face as you're on the opposite end of the furniture, listening to an audiobook—something that Jimin didn't know even existed until a few minutes ago. It's like every day, he learns something new.
The silence is comfortable. Usually, this place is eerily quiet, yes, as no one finds the need to talk out loud. But silence with you is different. Jimin knows that if he opens his mouth to speak, you will be interested in whatever he has to say. You'll actually care. The silence is merely a temporary holding spot for a better conversation.
"Hey, Y/N?" Jimin whispers.
"Yes?" you whisper back, eyes still closed, but you bring your hand up to pull an earbud out of your ear.
"Why did you leave?" he quickly asks before he loses the nerve to.
At that, you open your eyes. "Why did I leave my hometown?"
"Yeah," Jimin says. He sits up, scooting closer to you to show that you have his full attention.
You giggle at his action and shrug. "Well, I'm from someplace different as you already know. My hometown wasn't in any of these societies. It was someplace else. Someplace really far away. There, I guess you could say that our relationships would last longer. It was a place where everyone had names and everything was named. We would have artists who'd dedicate their life to make music and writers being the same way with their books.
"We'd have parties and invite friends over for drinks. At work, we'd be talking up to the boss for a promotion or gossiping behind a mean co-worker's back. We'd engage in small talk with strangers if we felt like it... And we even had little kids running about. I mean, when's the last time you've seen a little kid here?"
"Never," Jimin admits. "I almost forgot they existed."
"Exactly," you sigh. "I kinda miss my hometown now that I'm talking about it."
Jimin cocks his head. "But you left."
"Yeah, I guess I did."
"Why?"
You hum, trying to find the right words to answer. "I guess... I guess you can say that it's suffocating sometimes."
"Suffocating??" Jimin frowns. "How so?"
"Sometimes, relationships can be dangerous," you say, eyebrows knitting together as you're deep in thought. "The people you hang out with can change you for the better or worse. We depended too much on other people there. It was as if we didn't have any thoughts of our own. Our names were used as weapons, too. One wrong move, one pissed person with a loud mouth and one unfortunate misunderstanding, your name will be dragged across dirt everywhere. Your identity would be ruined."
"Oh..." Jimin breathes. He'd never thought of it like that.
"Once a bad rumor travels around in your name, people will start to look at you differently," you say, usually bright eyes dimming as you continue on. "People will carry their prejudices—without even getting to know you themselves. They attach names to a face, Jimin."
The more you speak, the more your face crumbles with the memories. You've obviously dealt with hurt, and it's written in the way your brows furrow and lips tug down slightly.
"If your name is soiled, they'll avoid you too!" Jimin says. He wants to comfort you, help you heal yourself from your recollections. "That's a little scary to think about."
"I agree," you sigh. Yet you wipe the serious look off your face, replacing it with a small smile. "But I guess there are pros and cons. I mean, coming here actually made me realize how crucial other humans are to our life. Meeting you was the best thing that happened to me since I came here. You're like my anchor back home. Besides, I think that this place, this nameless place, might actually be my new home."
"Really?"
You nod fervently. "I might technically die nameless here, but I trust you enough to give you my name and my identity. Jimin, I trust that you won't throw my name away and soil it."
Jimin flushes, turning away to recuperate from your generous comments. "I trust you too," he says in a voice below a whisper.
"That's not to say that this place doesn't need reconstructing," you say.
"Of course it does," Jimin agrees.
"Here, we're too independent. Our relationships are fleeting or nonexistent. People wander around and end up here one day and nobody cares."
"No one's born in this place, I know," Jimin says.
"We're misfits who've gotten lost," you say. "And the longer you roam here without other humans' contact, the more you're going to forget about your past self."
Jimin ducks his head. He's guilty of this, unable to remember anything about his life before he'd somehow magically ended up here with nothing but a small suitcase and no desire to use his name. He suddenly wonders what his name had been—before Jimin. And will he ever remember?
You sigh. "Sometimes, it's just good to open our eyes a little and see the opinions of others, I guess."
Jimin perks up at your words. "Yeah. I actually agree."
"Maybe we need an in-between," you murmur, hand splayed on the couch as your eyes roll up to the ceiling to concentrate.
Jimin takes a look at your hand. He takes a look at you. Then bravely, barely without thinking, he reaches out and places his hand on top of yours. "Y/N, I think that we can be the in-between," he says—quite confidently too. But there's more on his mind that he wishes you would know. "I..." he says, a little unsure but feeling safe from your presence. "Y/N, I want to be with you." It feels amazing to finally admit out loud to a person that matters to him a lot. A person who brought insurmountable change to his life.
Your eyebrows raise at Jimin's words. I want to be with you. It's a phrase that carries heavy weight. A phrase that holds a double meaning. A phrase that brings leeway for a relationship far more powerful, destructive, romantic than a friendship. A phrase that is also platonic in a sense. Maybe time will tell which side the two of you will fall on.
Despite the ambiguous implications, your eyes widen as you smile. Hands intertwined gently and eyes connecting precisely, the two of you relish in each other's presence—rendered safe and sound and away from the heavier burdens of the outside worlds. The desire to be with each other is mutual, and the desire to trust, just the same. In each other's glances, the two of you have a name, an identity—one that cannot be ruined by anyone else for a very, very long time. Maybe even forever.
—masterpost
—masterlist