02 ┃moth to a flame ┃taglist
The fight starts over something small. It always does.
A forgotten text. A missed call. The way you seemed distracted when he spoke.
It unravels quickly, like a thread being pulled too hard, tension that had been simmering beneath the surface finally snapping.
“You never listen anymore,” he says, voice sharp, eyes dark with frustration. “It’s like you’re here, but you’re not.”
You cross your arms, nails digging into your skin. “I’ve been busy,” you say flatly, knowing it’s a weak excuse.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not it, and you know it.” His gaze hardens. “What’s going on with you?”
You feel like you’re being seen in a way you don’t want to be.
“Nothing,” you say too quickly.
His jaw clenches. “Bullshit.”
The word hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.
You shift on your feet, heart hammering against your ribs. “What do you want me to say?” Your voice rises, frustration bleeding into it. “That I’ve been tired? That college is stressful? That maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to have this same conversation again?”
His brows knit together, hurt flickering across his face. “This isn’t about college.”
He exhales, voice quieter now. “Are you seeing someone else?”
Your head snaps back to him. “What?”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what to think. You don’t tell me anything anymore.” He exhales, voice quieter now. “You don’t even look at me the same way.”
Your pulse is roaring in your ears, but you don’t let it show. “Of course I’m not.”
The words leave your lips too easily. Too smoothly.
He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, fingers curled into fists at his sides. And for a second, you think he doesn’t believe you.
But then he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“You’re pushing me away,” he continues, voice strained. “I feel like I’m losing you, and you won’t even tell me why.”
You don’t respond. Because what would you even say?
He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, and for a split second, you think he might leave.
But then he just runs a hand through his hair, his frustration turning to exhaustion. He takes a step back but doesn’t move toward the door.
Instead, he just mutters, “I don’t want to fight anymore,” before sinking onto the couch, rubbing at his temples.
You exhale a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself.
You already know who it is before you even look.
You don’t check your phone right away.
You can’t. Not with him still sitting there, head in his hands, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths—like he’s trying to steady himself.
Like he’s trying to hold you together, too.
You swallow hard and turn away, palms pressing against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he’d said.
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.
The thought burns, bitter and cruel, because he’s not the bad guy here.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. You can feel the weight of your phone in your pocket, the screen lighting up again, another message waiting—him waiting.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
You startle slightly, fingers tightening against the counter’s edge. His voice is quieter now, tired, but there’s something else underneath it. Something fragile.
You turn, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
“What do you want me to say?” Your voice is softer now, too. You hate that it is.
He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Something.”
Silence stretches between you. It feels heavy, like a loaded gun, like something that could go off at any second.
“I’m tired,” you murmur eventually, looking away. It’s not a lie.
He watches you for a long moment, jaw tightening, shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”
He doesn’t press you further.
He just leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly. And for some reason, that hurts more than if he’d yelled.
You don’t respond. Not yet.
Instead, you glance back toward the couch. Your boyfriend is still there, his head tilted back against the cushions, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
Then, before you can stop yourself—
The next day, you tell yourself you won’t see him.
You tell yourself that the second you wake up, before your eyes even open, before the weight of last night settles onto your chest like an anchor.
You tell yourself that when your boyfriend pulls you in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before getting up for class. His warmth lingers, his scent clinging to the sheets, but all it does is remind you of what you’re hiding.
You tell yourself you won’t see him.
And yet, you find yourself walking across campus later that afternoon, hands buried deep in the pockets of your jacket, heart pounding just a little too fast.
You aren’t sure why you’re doing this. You aren’t sure why you always do this.
Jimin is already waiting.
He’s leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning a lighter between his fingers. The sun catches in the metal, making it glint every time it flicks open and shut. His head is tilted down, his hair falling into his eyes, but the second he hears your footsteps, his gaze snaps up.
The moment he sees you, his lips curl—something smug and knowing, something that makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.
“You didn’t give me a time.”
He hums, amused, and flicks the lighter shut. “Fair enough.”
For a moment, neither of you move. The air between you stretches, thick and familiar. You glance around, but the parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few students walking by in the distance.
Jimin’s eyes don’t leave you.
His voice is softer now, a little more serious. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always makes your stomach twist.
You hesitate. Then you nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. He never does—not directly, at least. Instead, he just watches you, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.
Then he exhales slowly and leans back against the car again, crossing his arms.
“My band’s playing this weekend,” he says after a moment. “You should come.”
You blink, caught off guard.
Before you can respond, he adds, “Bring your boyfriend too.”
Jimin watches your reaction, his face giving nothing away. But there’s something sharp in his gaze, something challenging, like he’s daring you to say no.
“You want both of us there?” you ask, carefully.
You stare at him. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s thinking.
Your mouth feels dry. “Jimin—”
“We’re all friends, aren’t we?” His lips twitch slightly, like he’s fighting back a smirk. “He’d want to support me, right?”
It’s a game. It has to be.
You should say no. You should turn around and leave, pretend this never happened. You should go back to your boyfriend, the one who texts you good morning and walks you to class and doesn’t know that, somehow, he’s already lost you.
But instead, you swallow hard and force yourself to nod.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course.”
And for some reason, it feels like a warning.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll save you a spot.”
He flicks his lighter open again, the small flame dancing in the late afternoon light. His eyes stay on you as he lifts it to the cigarette tucked behind his ear, lighting it with an ease that makes your breath catch.
He exhales, watching you through the smoke.
“You should get back,” he says after a beat.
Your heart pounds against your ribs.
“Yeah,” you whisper, but you don’t move.
Jimin watches you for another second before chuckling softly, shaking his head like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. He pushes off the car, stepping past you with just enough distance to keep it innocent—just enough to leave the scent of smoke and something distinctly him lingering in the air between you.
“See you this weekend,” he murmurs.
And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there, pulse roaring in your ears.
The weekend comes faster than you expect.
You spend the days leading up to it drowning in your thoughts, your textbooks open but unread, your boyfriend’s voice distant even when he’s right next to you. You should be focusing on school, on him, on anything other than the way Jimin looked at you in that parking lot, the way he said bring your boyfriend too like it was some kind of test.
Standing in front of the venue, your fingers curled tightly around your boyfriend’s hand.
It’s a small club just off campus, a place that’s always packed on nights like this—when Jimin and his band take the stage, when half the student body crams inside just to watch him perform. The bass vibrates through the pavement beneath your feet, and you can already hear the cheers from inside, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air.
Your boyfriend squeezes your hand. "You okay?"
You force a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before tugging you toward the entrance. "Come on, we should get a good spot before it gets too crowded."
The moment you step inside, the atmosphere swallows you whole. It’s dimly lit, neon signs casting a warm glow over the crowd. The scent of alcohol and sweat lingers in the air, bodies pressed together in excitement as the opening act finishes their set.
He’s already on stage, tuning his guitar, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. He’s dressed in all black, ripped jeans and a loose shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of his collarbone. His orange hair is tousled like he’s already been running his hands through it, and when he lifts his gaze, scanning the crowd—
His eyes find you immediately.
Your boyfriend doesn’t notice. He’s too busy looking for a spot, guiding you further into the crowd. But Jimin—Jimin notices everything. His lips twitch up at the corner, just slightly, just enough for you to catch it before he looks away.
The tension coils deep in your stomach.
The show starts, and the room comes alive. The music is loud, the kind that shakes through your bones and settles in your chest. Jimin commands the stage like he was born for it, moving effortlessly, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Every note, every lyric, every strum of his guitar feels like it’s meant for you—even though you know it isn’t.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Before the last song, Jimin steps up to the mic, pushing his hair back with one hand, the other gripping the stand loosely. His breathing is heavy, his voice lower than usual as he speaks over the noise.
"This next song is gonna be out soon," he says. His voice is unreadable, calm and careless and dangerous all at once. "It’s about a special girl."
The crowd cheers, some people whistling, others yelling who is she?!
Jimin smirks, tilting his head slightly. His eyes flick to yours for half a second—so quick you almost miss it.
"She knows who she is," he adds.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Your boyfriend doesn’t notice.
And then—he starts playing.
The melody is dark, sensual, laced with something unspoken. The lyrics wrap around you, each word pulling you deeper into the mess you’ve made for yourself.
“Like a moth to a flame, I’ll pull you in, I’ll pull you back to what you need initially."
Because you know, without a doubt, that this song is about you.
Jimin’s voice is smooth and devastating, weaving through the chords like he’s telling a story only the two of you understand. He doesn’t look at you while he sings—but he doesn’t have to. You can feel it.
Your fingers tighten around your boyfriend’s hand, but suddenly, you can’t breathe. The room is too hot, too much. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the weight of everything crashing over you all at once.
Without thinking, you turn to your boyfriend. "I need some air."
He blinks, confused. "Do you want me to come with you?"
And then—you push your way through the crowd, slipping out the side door and into the cool night air.
Your heart is still racing.
You don’t know what you’re doing.
But before you can stop yourself, you reach for your phone.
The door swings open behind you before you even have time to think.
You barely have a chance to register the sound of footsteps before he’s right there—Jimin, stepping into the dim alley behind the venue, the cool night air curling around him like smoke. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in messy strands, his chest rising and falling with the last remnants of adrenaline from the stage.
Standing frozen under the flickering streetlight, staring at him as if you hadn’t just spent the last hour drowning in his voice, as if you didn’t already know exactly why you texted him to come out here.
Jimin exhales, head tilting as he studies you. "Why do you keep doing this?" His voice is low, rough around the edges.
You know what he means. He’s not asking why you texted him. He’s asking why you keep leaving just to come back. Why you keep pulling him close only to push him away. Why you’re here when you’re supposed to be somewhere else.
"I don’t know," you whisper.
Jimin scoffs. "Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that the heat from his skin brushes against yours. "You know exactly why."
He tilts his head, watching you. "Tell me," his voice is quieter now, something dangerous curling beneath it, "when you're with him, does he know where your mind is?"
"Does he know who you dream about?" His words drip like honey, thick and slow, each syllable pressing into you. "Does he know who you really belong to?"
Jimin smirks, but there's something sharp in his eyes. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up.
"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "Tell me you don’t want this."
You open your mouth, but no words come out.
No hesitation. No warning. Just his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. And the worst part?
Because it’s him. Because it’s always been him. Because no matter how many times you tell yourself to stop, no matter how many times you swear you’ll walk away—he always pulls you back in.
His lips are soft, tasting faintly of the liquor he must have sipped after the set, and you can still feel the ghost of a smirk against your mouth, like he knew all along this was going to happen. Like it was inevitable.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like an anchor, because your head is spinning, your body burning, every nerve in you lighting up with the way he’s touching you. It’s dangerous and reckless and—
You barely have time to react before you’re yanked back to reality. Before Jimin stiffens, his hands falling away from you as your boyfriend storms out into the alley, his face twisted in disbelief, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Everything comes crashing down.
Your boyfriend’s eyes are burning into you, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.
"You," he says, voice sharp as glass, cutting through the thick, humid air between you. His gaze flickers to Jimin, then back to you. "You and him."
His hands shake at his sides, and you can tell he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to explode in the middle of the alley behind a venue full of people.
But the way his jaw clenches, the way his knuckles whiten, tells you that he’s barely hanging on.
Jimin stays quiet. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just stands there, watching, unreadable.
"Don't," your boyfriend snaps, voice low but lethal. "Don’t fucking lie to me." He lets out a short, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "God, I knew it."
"You knew ?" you echo, voice barely above a whisper.
He scoffs, his hands flying up in frustration. "Of course I fucking knew, everyone knew! My friends—" He cuts himself off, laughing again, but there's no humor in it. "They warned me. They didn’t say it outright, but they said just enough. Just enough to make me feel like I was fucking crazy for even suspecting it." His eyes snap back to yours, raw and accusing. "You made me feel crazy."
You inhale sharply, guilt clawing up your throat.
Jimin exhales through his nose, finally speaking up. "Look, man—"
But your boyfriend cuts him off with a glare, stepping closer. "Don't." His voice is low, dangerous. "Don't try to act like you're innocent in all this."
Jimin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He just stares, his expression unreadable, but his silence is loud enough.
Your boyfriend shakes his head, laughing bitterly again. "Wow," he breathes, looking back at you. "Wow. You really played me, huh?"
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the hell are you supposed to say?*l
That it wasn’t supposed to happen like this? That you never meant to hurt him? That every time you went back to Jimin, you swore it was the last time?
That no matter how many times you told yourself to let Jimin go, you couldn't?
"I can’t fucking believe this," your boyfriend mutters, stepping back, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s spiraling, trying to piece together every moment, every sign he ignored, every red flag he forced himself to push past. "How long?"
Your heart is hammering. "What?"
"How long?" he repeats, voice low and shaky. "How fucking long has this been going on?"
You hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."
Jimin shifts beside you. "It’s not what you think—"
"Shut the fuck up," your boyfriend snaps at him, turning his attention back to you. "Tell me. Right now. How long?"
You feel like you’re going to be sick. Your stomach twists painfully, your mouth goes dry, and suddenly, your entire world is crumbling right in front of you.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.
The air feels suffocating, thick with betrayal and disbelief. Your boyfriend is staring at you, eyes dark and desperate, waiting—begging—for an answer that won’t rip him apart. But you have none.
Your throat is dry. Your lips part, but the words get caught somewhere between guilt and shame. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to say it.
"How long, ___?" His voice breaks at the end, and it hurts more than if he had yelled.
Jimin shifts beside you, tense, like he’s waiting to step in, but you know that won’t help. Nothing will.
Your boyfriend scoffs when you don’t answer, stepping back as if the distance might make it hurt less. "Fuck." He shakes his head, hand dragging over his jaw. "I can’t believe this. I fucking—" He stops, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking down right in front of you. "I loved you."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. You feel sick.
"I still do," he adds, voice quieter this time, almost like an admission. "I fucking love you, and you—" His eyes flick to Jimin, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. "You kept running back to him like I was never enough."
"It’s not like that," you whisper, but the words taste like a lie even to you.
Because you don’t have an answer for that either.
Because if it wasn’t like that—if it wasn’t that simple—then why the hell were you standing here now, watching the person who had loved you unconditionally fall apart because of you?
Your boyfriend exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I should’ve fucking known," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I should’ve fucking known when my own friends started warning me about you two."
You knew. Of course, you knew. You knew his friends—who were also Jimin’s friends—had been wary, had made comments, had hinted at things without ever outright saying them. But they hadn’t really known. They had just known about your history with Jimin, known how things used to be between you two before your boyfriend ever came into the picture.
But now, standing here, watching everything crash and burn, you realize something.
He hadn’t really known either.
He knew Jimin had a past with you. He knew there was something unspoken there. But he didn’t know. Not until now.
"Fuck," he whispers, almost to himself, and you see it in his eyes—the moment everything fully clicks into place. "The song."
"The song," he repeats, laughing dryly, humorlessly. "‘Moth to a Flame’—it’s about you, isn’t it?"
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He lets out a breath, hands on his hips as he looks away for a second, like he needs to collect himself before he completely loses it. "I sat there in the crowd, listening to him sing about you, and I didn’t even fucking realize."
Jimin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it.
Your boyfriend’s hands curl into fists. "How long?" he asks again, voice rough. "How fucking long, Y/N?"
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Was any of it real?" His voice cracks, and you hate yourself for being the reason why. "Or was I just—?" He swallows thickly, looking away, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself together. "I should’ve fucking known."
"You were never just anything," Jimin says then, his voice even, but there’s something sharp beneath the surface. "She cared about you."
Your boyfriend’s eyes snap to him, venomous. "Shut the fuck up," he growls. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you give a shit about me, man."
Jimin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, just keeps looking at him like he sees something he understands—like he sees a pain he knows all too well. "I never wanted to hurt you."
Your boyfriend lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right."
The silence stretches between all of you, suffocating, unbearable. You feel Jimin shift slightly beside you, close but not touching, and your boyfriend watches it like it’s the final confirmation he needed.
"I should go," he mutters finally, voice hollow.
But he’s already turning, already walking away, his shoulders tense and his hands curled into fists at his sides.
You should stop him. You should.
Because what could you possibly say to make this right?
The air still feels thick, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. You watch his retreating figure, the way his shoulders stay rigid, his steps hurried, like he can’t get away fast enough.
You could call out to him. You could chase after him, tell him something, anything—but what would be the point? What could possibly fix this now?
So you just stand there. Silent. Frozen.
Jimin shifts beside you. You feel him, not quite touching but close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the cold sinking into your chest. He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales softly, and then—
It’s a stupid question. You both know the answer. But still, you nod. Because what else is there to do?
Jimin watches you for a moment, his gaze careful, searching. And then he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "You should go after him," he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
He doesn’t have an answer to that either.
The silence stretches. Your heart is still hammering, your thoughts still racing. It feels like the walls are closing in, like the weight of your choices is finally crashing down on you all at once.
"Come on," Jimin murmurs, reaching for you. His fingers brush against yours, barely there, like he’s testing to see if you’ll pull away. When you don’t, he laces them together, squeezing lightly. "Let’s get out of here."
You nod, letting him pull you along, away from the crowd, away from the mess you’ve made.
Jimin doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything, just lets you sit there, lost in your thoughts, staring out the window at the blur of city lights. The weight of the night sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, but you don’t let it break you. Not yet.
When you get to his place, everything feels eerily normal. Familiar. The same as it always is. Like nothing just imploded outside that concert venue.
You kick off your shoes, shrug off your jacket, move through his apartment like it’s second nature. Like you belong here. And maybe that’s the worst part—that even now, even after everything, this still feels like home.
Jimin watches you from the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you, warm and weighted.
Finally, he exhales, stepping forward. "Talk to me."
You let out a humorless laugh. "About what?"
"About what just happened."
You shake your head, pressing your fingers against your temples. "I don’t even know where to start."
Jimin sighs. He moves closer, his hands finding your waist, grounding you. "Then don’t start. Just… tell me what you need right now."
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. "I don’t know."
He hums softly, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I think you do."
Your chest tightens. You do. You do know.
You need to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and heartbreak. You need to drown it all out, even if it’s just for a little while.
Jimin sees it the moment you let go. The moment you give in. His hands tighten around your waist, and when you finally meet his gaze, there’s no hesitation—just understanding. Just the same pull that’s always been there, dragging you back to him, over and over again.
And when he leans in, when his lips brush against yours, soft and slow, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him—you don’t.
Because maybe you never really could.
The kiss starts slow. Hesitant, almost. Like he’s giving you space to change your mind. Like he knows you won’t.
Your hands move before you can think, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. And that’s all it takes. Jimin exhales sharply against your lips, something shifting between you, something heavier, something inevitable.
His fingers dig into your waist, guiding you back until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You fall, and he follows, pressing you down, his weight familiar and grounding. It should feel wrong. It should feel like a mistake. But all you feel is warmth, the way he fits against you like he belongs there.
He kisses you deep, slow and consuming, like he’s trying to pull you apart, unravel you thread by thread. And you let him. Because right now, in this moment, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
But then—he pulls back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you.
"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, quieter than before.
"No." His fingers slide along your jaw, tilting your face up. "Say it."
You swallow hard. Your chest is tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you hold his gaze and whisper, "I want this. I want you."
The space between you disappears again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.
Later, much later, you lie tangled in his sheets, the city lights casting soft shadows across the room. His arm is draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of your neck.
You should leave. You should get up, get dressed, walk out that door and never look back.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, mind spinning, chest tight with something you don’t want to name.
"You’re thinking too much," Jimin murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You huff a quiet laugh. "And you’re not thinking at all."
"Not true." He shifts, pressing closer. "I’m thinking about how good you feel next to me."
You roll your eyes, but he can’t see it. "You’re impossible."
"And you keep coming back to me anyway."
You don’t answer. Because he’s right. Because you don’t know how to stop.
You’re not sure you want to.
Silence settles between you, thick and heavy, as Jimin’s fingers trace lazy patterns against your bare skin. The warmth of his body against yours should be comforting, should make you feel safe. But instead, there’s this weight in your chest, pressing, pressing, pressing—
His voice is quiet but firm, breaking through the stillness of the room.
Your stomach clenches. You knew this was coming.
You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, biting the inside of your cheek.
”___." Jimin shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. "You’re here. Again. In my bed. With me. But tomorrow—what? You go back to him? Pretend like this didn’t happen?"
You exhale sharply. "Don’t do that."
"Make it sound like I don’t—" You stop yourself, pressing your lips together.
His eyes darken. "Like you don’t what?"
Your throat tightens. You sit up, pulling the sheets around you, feeling suddenly exposed. "Like I don’t care about you."
Jimin exhales, shaking his head. "Then tell me. Tell me what this is. Because I don’t fucking know anymore."
Your heart pounds. "I don’t know either."
"Bullshit." His voice is rough now, strained. "You do know. You just don’t want to say it."
He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "You keep coming back to me. Every fucking time. And I let you, because I—" He stops, jaw clenching. "Because I can't stay away from you either."
Your chest aches. "Jimin—"
"No. Just—just be honest with me." His voice drops, softer now. "Do you love him?"
Jimin watches you, eyes searching yours, waiting.
The answer is right there, on the tip of your tongue. But you can’t say it. Because the truth is—
"That’s what I thought," Jimin murmurs, nodding to himself.
"It’s not that simple," you whisper.
"It is." He looks at you, gaze unwavering. "You don’t love him. If you did, you wouldn’t be here with me."
Your breath shudders out of you. "And what if I do?"
His expression hardens for a moment, but then it shifts—something breaking, something vulnerable. "Then why do you look at me like that?" His fingers brush your cheek, his touch unbearably gentle. "Like I’m the only one who makes you feel alive?"
You close your eyes, willing the sting of tears away. "Jimin, please—"
"No." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Don’t beg me to stop when you don’t want me to."
Your resolve cracks. You turn away, pressing your face into your hands. "I don’t know how to do this."
Jimin is silent for a moment. Then—
"You don’t know how to do this, but you sure as hell know how to run back to me when you need me."
Your lips part, but no words come out.
"You keep saying it’s complicated, but then you leave and go play house with him while I—" He swallows hard, voice sharp now. "Do you think this is fucking easy for me?"
You look at him then. The frustration in his eyes, the way his fingers tighten in the sheets. He’s barely holding himself together.
"You sure make it look easy," you murmur, and it’s meant to come out sharp, but instead, it just sounds... broken.
His brow furrows. "What?"
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. "You don’t seem to have a hard time distracting yourself with other girls."
Jimin’s expression shifts in an instant. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his eyes—his eyes darken with something close to anger. "Are you fucking serious?"
"I see the pictures, Jimin. I hear what people say."
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand down his face. "You’re unbelievable."
You glare at him. "I’m unbelievable? You’re the one—"
"I’m the one what?" He snaps, sitting up fully now, sheets pooling at his waist. "Fucking girls who aren’t you ?"
You flinch at his words. But he’s not done.
"You wanna know why I do it? Why I go home with them?" His voice is lower now, rough, edged with something raw. "Because I’m trying to fucking forget you. And guess what?" He leans in, eyes boring into yours. "*It doesn’t fucking work.*"
"I don’t want them, Y/N. None of them. But I have to do something to keep myself from going crazy while you play perfect girlfriend with him and come running back to me whenever it suits you."
Your hands are trembling now. "Jimin—"
"No." He shakes his head, voice cracking. "I need you to hear me. I love you. I’ve always fucking loved you. And I can’t do this anymore unless you’re all in."
Your heart is pounding. The words are too much, too real, too heavy.
But you can’t deny the way your entire body reacts to them.
"You need to choose, Y/N," Jimin murmurs, softer now, but just as firm. "Me or him. But you can’t have us both."
The weight of his words settles over you, suffocating.
Because deep down, you already know.
You’ve known for a long time.
The apartment is eerily quiet.
You sit on the couch, staring at the floor, hands gripping your knees so hard your knuckles turn white. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you can’t shake off. The dim glow of the evening sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows against the walls. It feels empty here—like something has already been lost.
Your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest.
The choice has been made.
There’s a knock at the door.
Your breath catches in your throat as you force yourself to stand, legs shaky beneath you. You wipe your palms on your jeans, exhaling slowly before reaching for the door handle. The click of the lock echoes through the apartment as you pull it open.
Your boyfriend stands on the other side, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then he exhales sharply, stepping inside. His eyes sweep over you, searching for something—an answer, maybe. One you know he’s already figured out.
"So this is it?" His voice is flat. Detached.
Your throat tightens. "I—"
He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he walks past you, heading straight for the bedroom where his things are. He doesn't ask. He already knows.
You follow him slowly, hands twisting together. "I didn’t mean for it to happen like this."
"Didn't you?" He throws the words over his shoulder as he starts grabbing his clothes from the closet, shoving them into his duffel bag. "Because I think you did."
You flinch. "That’s not fair."
He turns then, eyes burning as he looks at you. "No, what’s not fair is that I spent months defending you. Months ignoring the things my friends were saying. The warnings. The looks. Because I trusted you."
Your stomach twists. "I never wanted to hurt you."
He scoffs, zipping up his bag with more force than necessary. "Well, congratulations. You did."
Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.
You watch as he slings the bag over his shoulder, exhaling through his nose as he studies you one last time. "It was him all along, wasn’t it?"
Because you don’t have to.
He nods, jaw clenching before he takes a step forward—close enough that you can see the pain flickering behind his eyes. "I hope he was worth it."
Then he walks past you, out the door.
And just like that—he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.
You just stand there, staring at the spot where he had been, the weight of everything pressing down on you like an anchor, dragging you under.
It should feel like relief. Like the end of something that was always bound to break. Instead, your chest tightens so painfully you have to grip the doorframe to steady yourself.
The apartment still smells like him—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of coffee that always lingered on his clothes. You catch sight of the empty space on the dresser where his things used to be, and it sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you.
You press your palms against your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. You shouldn’t be crying. You made this choice.
So why does it still hurt?
A sharp knock on the door shatters the quiet.
For a split second, you think it’s him—coming back, changing his mind, asking you to explain. But when you reach for the handle and pull it open, it’s not him standing on the other side.
His hood is pulled up over his orange hair, the low glow of the hallway lights casting shadows over his face. His eyes find yours instantly, and something inside you splinters. He takes one look at you—the trembling hands, the unshed tears, the mess of emotions you’re trying so hard to keep contained—and he just knows.
Jimin exhales, his jaw clenching for a brief moment before he steps inside, closing the door behind him.
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t have to. You know he sees right through you.
Instead, he just reaches for you.
And the moment his hands find your waist, you break.
A shuddering breath escapes you as you sink into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. Jimin says nothing, just holds you tighter, his chin resting against the top of your head. His warmth seeps into you, grounding you, steadying you.
Your breathing slows, the erratic pounding of your heart settling into something quieter, something calmer.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His dark eyes search yours, quiet and careful, waiting for something—waiting for you.
And then, softly—almost hesitantly—he asks, "Are you mine now?"
The words are barely above a whisper.
You swallow hard. You know what he’s really asking.
No more hiding. No more pretending.
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie, and you nod.
Something shifts in his expression—something raw, something like relief. His hands cup your face then, his lips brushing against your forehead, your temple, your cheek—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s making sure this is real.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
And for the first time all night—maybe for the first time in a long time—you don’t feel lost
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