Discover Top Posts Tagged with #yoongi lockscreens

── in which she finally lets yoongi go

the darkness in yoongi’s studio wasn’t quiet. it felt alive. hard drives whirred, the heat clicked somewhere in the walls, and an old cup of coffee had gone bitter and thick hours ago. he sat hunched in his chair, barely more than a shadow in the blue light of his screens.

his fingers hovered over the midi keyboard. they hadn’t moved in twelve minutes.

a 1.2-second loop played over and over. he kept tweaking it, chasing a frequency he already knew wasn’t there. it didn’t matter. it gave him something to focus on instead of the silence.

then the keypad by the door chirped—six soft notes. something he’d made a year ago because she said the old buzzer sounded like an “angry robot.” the sound cut clean through everything else.

the door opened. shut. her steps were quiet, stopping right before the rug—the line she never crossed when he was working, even though the recording light wasn’t on.

“the code still works,” she said.

her voice sounded thinner than he remembered. not quieter. just worn, like she’d been holding too much in for too long.

yoongi didn’t turn. he stared at the frozen waveform on his screen.

“didn’t get around to changing it.”

“too busy for that? same reason you couldn’t call?”

his chair creaked as he slowly turned. the screen lit up his face. dark circles pulled deep, his skin pale, hair shoved under a beanie that had seen better days.

“you shouldn’t be here. i’m in the middle of something. if i lose it—”

“you’ve been ‘in the middle of something’ for three weeks.” she stepped forward, crossing the rug. her shampoo—jasmine—cut through the stale air, sharp and sudden. it made his chest tighten. “three weeks and nothing. not even a text. i started checking the news just to make sure you were alive.”

“the album’s a mess right now. deadlines—”

“i don’t care about the album.” her voice snapped, sharp in a room that wasn’t used to it. “i care that i feel like i’m talking to someone who isn’t even here. do you know what yesterday was?”

he rubbed his face, rough and tired, then glanced at the date on his monitor. it took him a second too long.

“…thursday.”

“it was our anniversary. two years.”

silence. real silence this time.

he didn’t say anything. he didn’t have to. the way his eyes flicked to the calendar, the tension in his jaw, it said enough.

“i waited at that stupid italian place for an hour and forty minutes,” she said. her voice stayed steady, but just barely. “i even brought you a gift. the waiter kept looking at me like… like he knew. i had to ask him to take the second plate away so i wouldn’t have to keep seeing your empty seat.”

“i’ll fix it,” he said quickly. too quickly. “once this is done, i’ll take time off. we’ll go somewhere... geoje, you like that place. i’ll leave the laptop. i swear.”

“you said that before.” she shook her head. “after the tour. after the mixtape. you keep promising some future version of yourself that never shows up.”

he stood, his back cracking as he moved. he paced the small space like he didn’t know where else to put himself.

“what do you want me to say?” his voice edged sharp. “you knew what this was when you walked in. the hours, the pressure. why is it suddenly a problem now?”

“because i’m trying to exist in the same life as you!” she stepped closer, eyes rimmed red. “i’m not asking for much. just… a message. a moment. for you to actually look at me.”

“i see you!” he snapped, louder than he meant to. his chair rolled back, hitting the equipment. “i see you waiting, and it’s just another thing i’m failing at. i can barely breathe right now, and you want me to be… what? perfect?”

“i want you to try.” she moved closer, right in front of him now. “you’re putting everything into the music and leaving nothing for anything else. you think i don’t notice the difference? ‘suga,’ ‘agust d’—they’re alive. but yoongi? he’s been gone for months.”

“maybe ‘yoongi’ doesn’t have anything left,” he said quietly, his voice going cold. “maybe he’s just tired. nothing special.”

“then say that. don’t just disappear.”

“fine. i’m tired. so tired that even this—” he gestured between them “—feels like work.” his hand shook slightly as he pointed toward the door. “every time you come in here with that look, it’s pressure. something else i can’t keep up with. it’s… a burden.”

the word landed hard.

she went completely still.

“…a burden,” she repeated, like she was confirming it for herself.

he felt it immediately. the mistake. but the apology got stuck somewhere behind his pride.

“i didn’t mean—”

“you did.” her hand trembled as she lifted it. “you’ve been saying it for a while, just not out loud. every time you ignore me. every time you forget something important. this isn’t new.”

she picked up her bag slowly. the zipper sounded too loud in the room.

“where are you going?” his voice cracked.

“i’m taking the weight off you.” she walked toward the door. “you can have your silence back. your perfect sound. all of it.”

“don’t.” he stumbled forward slightly. “don’t do this. we’re just tired. we’ll fix it tomorrow.”

she paused, hand on the handle, then looked back.

“i’ve been waiting for ‘tomorrow’ for months. and it always looks like this. you in the dark. me… not fitting anywhere.”

“you do fit.”

“then why do i feel like i have to disappear just to stay?” she shook her head. “you don’t want a partner. you want someone who waits quietly in the background.”

“i love you,” he said, but it came out flat, like something he hadn’t used in a while.

she flinched. just a little.

“you love the idea of me. not the part that needs you.”

the door opened, hallway light spilling in, washing everything out.

“don’t worry about the code,” she added softly. “i’m not coming back.”

then she was gone.

the silence that followed felt different. too big, too empty.

yoongi stood there, waiting for relief. for focus. for something.

nothing came.

he sat back down, put on his headphones, and hit play.

the track sounded perfect.

he couldn’t hear it.

all he could think about was the faint trace of jasmine still in the air.

he pulled the headphones off and threw them aside. grabbed his phone. stared at her name.

i’m sorry. i messed up. please come back.

his thumb hovered.

then he pictured her sitting alone at that table, waiting.

he deleted the message.

he was built for this: music, stages, noise.

not for this.

not for the quiet after.

he turned off the monitors one by one until the room went completely dark.

and for the first time in a long time, he had nothing to say.

and it scared him more than anything else.