Who
word count: 2.7k
pairing: soloist!jimin x bestfriend!reader
warnings: angst, some unrequited love and feelings of inadequacy, eventual fluff <3 a fave trope of mine > best friends to lovers!!
unedited
author's note: here is that jimin fic i've been working on for awhile! lmk what you think and if you like these longer fics. also, there mayhaps be a martin fic in the works... ~b
~he's been looking for his person, his 'who' for so long that he overlooks the one who has been his constant since day one. only until he realizes he may lose her, does he see how blind he's been.~
The studio was a sanctuary of shadows and sound, a place where the air grew heavy with the weight of unreleased melodies. At 3:15 AM, the only illumination came from the soft, rhythmic blink of the mixing console and the distant, smeared glow of Seoul’s skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I sat on the worn velvet couch in the corner, a book resting closed on my knees. I wasn’t reading. I hadn't read a word in an hour. My focus was entirely on the man pacing the small expanse of the room.
Park Jimin.
To the world, he was an icon, a force of nature, a voice that could make millions weep, a dancer whose precision was almost surgical. To me, he was just Jimin. He was the man who forgot to eat dinner when he was deep in a creative flow, the man who chewed on his lower lip until it was raw when a note didn't land right, and the man whose restless energy currently made the small room feel like it was vibrating.
He stopped at the window, his silhouette dark against the city lights. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the silver strands.
"I need to find them," he muttered, his voice raspy from hours of recording.
"What?" I asked, my voice soft enough not to jar him, but clear enough to cut through the silence.
He turned, leaning his back against the glass. "My person. My muse for this song"
I sighed, a familiar ache blooming in my chest. He had been working on this track for months. It was meant to be his definitive statement, a song about the elusive, inevitable partner. The Who that he felt was destined to complete him. He spoke of her as if she were a ghost haunting his future, a puzzle piece that was missing. He only wanted someone who would finally understand the duality of his life.
"You’ve been chasing a ghost for so long, Jimin, it’s just for a song" I said, rising from the couch. I walked over to the small kitchenette and poured him a glass of water. He took it, his fingers brushing against mine with a fleeting, electric contact that I had learned to bury deep beneath layers of friendly nonchalance.
"It’s not just for a song, Y/N," he said, pacing again. "It’s a feeling. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something, waiting for someone to pull me back. I’m waiting for the person who will finally look at me and see... everything."
I gripped the back of a chair until my knuckles turned white. "I’m here, Jimin," I said, a little too quickly.
"I know," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I know you are. I don’t know what I’d do without you, my constant."
My constant. The word was a heavy anchor. I was his foundation, his safety net, the person who kept him grounded while he drifted through the clouds of fame and creative longing. But the problem with a safety net is that you only look at it when you’re falling, you never stop to admire the weave.
The weeks that followed were an exercise in agony. He was deep in the throes of his project, and I was the one who facilitated his obsession. I proofread his lyrics about longing for a stranger. I brought him coffee while he lamented the loneliness of his stage life. I was the silent observer of his search for a soulmate, an irony so sharp it felt like a physical wound.
We fell into a rhythm that was domestic and devastating. He’d come over to my place at odd hours, needing to talk, needing someone to listen to a rough draft, needing a reminder that he was still human. He never noticed when I’d fallen silent or when I started pulling away, weary of the emotional labor of helping him find someone else.
It was a Friday.
I’d been offered a job overseas. A chance to start fresh, away from the city that felt like a museum of things I couldn't have. I wouldn't have to wake up everyday and see him love someone else. It was bound to happen, he was Park Jimin, what girl wouldn't want him. He would find someone and I would be stuck swallowing my feelings in the friend zone.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't live my life like that. I had to get out of this city.
I had to leave for London to try and move on.
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It was ten o’clock at night and Jimin was supposed to arrive any moment now for us to celebrate our friend Taehyung's birthday at our favorite local bar. I wasn't sure if I was ready to face him and tell our friend group I was leaving. But I had to go, I couldn't just chicken out and miss spending time with my favorite people.
Just as I finished the last touchups, he walked in.
“Y/N, are you ready yet? Jin and Namjoon are already there.” He calls out
“yeah let me just grab my purse” I yell back.
I step out of the bathroom and grab my purse hanging in the hall. I walked into the kitchen where Jimin was searching through my fridge, “I really don’t know how you talked me into giving you a key to my apartment when all you do is eat my good snacks and steal my face cream.”
He goes to shut the fridge door and turns around saying “I can't help that you make poor decisions on who-”
His sentence trails off as I stand there fiddling with fitting my phone in this ridiculously small purse. I look up to find him standing there frozen with raised eyebrows in surprise.
“Whats wrong? I just finished my makeup, did I already get something on myself?” I say as I begin to go to check in the mirror.
“No! No, nothing is wrong,” He steps forward grabbing my arm to stop me from moving, ”you look really nice.”
We stand there for a moment just staring at each other as he holds my arm. I feel a heavy tug on my heart and heat rush to my cheeks with the way he is looking at me. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, his phone rings, disrupting whatever was just happening.
He jumps from the startle and shakes his head slightly as he answers the phone.
“Okay yeah yeah, we’re on our way, be there in ten.”
He turns to walk to my front door “we need to head there, apparently Taehyung and Jungkook are already 3 shots deep and Jin has started rapping.”
The whole ride to the bar is silent aside from the light music flowing from the radio. I keep trying to meet Jimin’s eyes to start a conversation but he quickly turns his head back to the road every time I try. I assume he is tired from the week and just wants to get to the bar and let loose, so I turn my head to look out the window until we arrive.
By midnight, everyone is already several drinks deep, giggling and hiccuping between sentences as we debate on whether we should all go to namjoon’s place for our next movie night.
“No! Absolutely not! I’m still finding popcorn in my couch cushions from the last time you all showed up at my place unannounced!” Namjoon says as he leans forward in the booth.
“That’s only because you chose a scary movie and you know I can’t take jumpscares!” Jin retorts. Namjoon just slumps in the booth as he pouts, knowing he’s lost the battle as the table begins to devolve into chaos.
“What do you think, Jimin?” I asked the man sitting beside me. He has been unusually quiet all night, only replying in short sentences and slowly nursing his drink, scanning the crowd of people at the bar.
“About what?” he asks, clearly unaware of what was happening at our own table.
“About whose place we should have our next movie night. Have you been paying attention at all to the conversation?” I say slightly annoyed with how he has been dismissive of us all night.
“I’m just kind of busy at the moment.” He says without even looking at me.
“With what exactly? Ignoring your friends?”
“No that’s not it, Y/N, I just feel like something is supposed to happen tonight. Maybe she’s here, the ‘Who’ I’ve been looking for. My person.”
At that, my heart has finally had enough and I have to do something before I completely break in front of him.
"I’m leaving"
The sudden silence was deafening. He turned around, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Leaving? To get another drink? I’m fine, just—"
"No," I said, my heart feeling like a fragile bird trying to escape a cage. "I’m leaving for good. I got a job offer in London. I’m moving at the end of the month."
The bar around us was loud and headache inducing but the silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating. I watched his face—the confusion, then the slow, creeping panic. It wasn't the look of a man losing a lover; it was the look of a man realizing gravity was about to vanish from his world.
"You can't," he said, his voice rising, raw and jagged. "You’re my constant. You’re you. You’re Y/N. You don't just... leave."
"I’m not furniture, Jimin," I said, the bitterness finally leaking out. "I’m a person. And I’m tired of this city. I’m slowly suffocating here watching you search for a ghost when I’m the one that’s been here."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I stood up and turned toward the table telling everyone I'm not feeling well and calling an uber home. My chest feels hollow, my legs shaking with the effort of walking away after I say my goodbyes and give my friends half hearted hugs.
I arrive home and fall to my couch in anger and sadness. The silence of my apartment is deafening as I drift off to sleep as tears escape my eyes.
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Of course I didn't expect him to follow. And I definitely didn't expect the frantic pounding on my apartment door an hour later.
I awake with a startle and head to the door swinging it open, not caring how broken I looked as I felt equally as awful.
I opened it to find Jimin disheveled, his eyes wide and frantic, his silver hair a mess. He looked at me, not with the usual casual affection, but with a sudden, devastating clarity.
"You weren't joking," he breathed, his chest heaving as if he’d run the entire way.
"I don't joke about my life, Jimin."
He pushed past me into the apartment, pacing the small room like a caged animal. He stopped, running his hands over his face, his breathing ragged. "I was blind. I was so damn blind. I spent months—years—cursing the silence, screaming at the universe to send me a sign, to send me my person. And all this time, you were the one holding me up."
He turned to me, his eyes wet with tears. "I thought you were just... there. Never changing and always beside me. I didn't realize that without you, I’m just gasping for breath."
"You were looking for a ghost," I said, my voice trembling.
"I was looking for a reflection of myself," he countered, stepping into my space. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from him was palpable. "I was looking for someone to fill the void, but I didn't realize the void was there because I’d pushed you into the background. I was so busy searching for a fantasy that I didn't see the reality."
He looked at me—really looked at me. His gaze traced my face, a slow, agonizing assessment of every feature he’d seen a thousand times but never truly witnessed.
"If you leave," he whispered, his voice cracking, "I lose the only part of me that’s real. I don't just lose my ‘Who’, I lose everything."
"You’re only seeing it now because you’re afraid to lose your comfort," I said, though my resolve was beginning to crumble.
"No," he said, stepping closer until our toes touched. "I’m seeing it now because for the first time, I’m terrified. Not of being alone, I’ve been lonely before. I’m terrified of a life where you aren't the first person I see in the morning. I’m terrified of a life where I can’t hear your voice telling me the truth when everyone else is lying. I’m terrified of not being the one to make you smile when you’ve had a hard day."
He reached out, his hand hovering over my cheek, his fingers trembling. "I was so busy waiting for a sign from the stars that I ignored the person who was keeping my heart beating."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. The scent of him—sandalwood and something distinctly him—flooded my senses, grounding me even as the world seemed to spin.
"Stay," he whispered, a plea that sounded like a prayer. "Please, Y/N. Don't leave me with the ghosts."
I looked at him, searching for the old, oblivious Jimin, but he was gone. In his place was a man who had finally woken up, a man whose eyes were wide open and terrified.
"I can't be your constant if you don't see me," I said, my voice barely audible.
"I see you," he said, his voice dropping into a tender, broken ache. "I see you. I see everything."
And then, he kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle, friend-to-friend gesture. It was a desperate, reclamatory act. He pulled me into his arms as if he were trying to merge our heartbeats, his hands tangling in my hair, his lips moving against mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.
He was trembling, then I realized I was trembling too.
When we finally broke apart, he didn't pull away. He kept his forehead pressed against mine, his breath mingling with mine. The silence that followed wasn't empty, it was filled with the weight of everything we hadn't said for years.
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of quiet, beautiful discoveries. There were no cameras, no expectations, just the slow, steady process of becoming us.
Jimin was different. The restlessness that had defined him for so long began to fade, replaced by a deep, resonant calm. He didn't pace the studio anymore. He sat at the piano, his fingers finding melodies that were no longer questions, but answers.
One afternoon, I sat on the rug by the piano, watching him work. He was humming a new tune, a soft, melodic thing that seemed to vibrate in the air.
"What's that?" I asked.
He stopped, his fingers lingering on the keys. He looked over at me, and that slow, beautiful smile that I now knew was reserved for me spread across his face.
"That's the 'Who' song," he said.
I frowned. "The one you wrote about the ghost?"
He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. He stood up, walked over to me, and sat down on the rug, pulling me into his arms.
"I changed the lyrics," he said, his voice low.
"To what?"
"To the truth," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "The truth is, I was never looking for someone else. I was looking for the person who had been standing next to me all along. I was looking for you."
He leaned back, looking at me with such intensity that I felt the breath leave my lungs.
"You know," he started, his voice thoughtful. "I used to think that love was supposed to be a lightning strike. Something sudden, something violent, something that changed everything in an instant."
"And now?"
"Now," he said, his hand tracing the line of my jaw, "I know that love is a fire. It starts with a spark, and it burns, and it grows, and it stays. It's not a lightning strike. It's a slow, beautiful, necessary burn."
He leaned in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, a testament to the time it had taken for us to find this place.
Love wasn't a sudden explosion. It was a coming home.
