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A 9mm Glock bullet travels at around 1200 feet per second, faster than the speed of sound.
It’s faster than the stadium’s sound system too, for it takes a few seconds for Jimin’s ear-shattering scream to reverberate throughout the crowded stadium, overruling the other ecstatic screams. This one is painful, agonising—and in the split second it takes for everyone to realise what happened, silence rings around the arena.
Jimin sees the sky above him, the blinding lights, and a single thought floods his mind — I’m going to die.
He’s floating, a soft mist wrapping around his mind but, at the same time, he feels everything.
A sharp, stinging pain shoots up his back, the mic pack pressing into his ribs.He’s blinded by the lights, the fireworks still going, beautiful sparks lighting up the sky above them.
Someone’s sweat drips onto his lips.
Darkness.
The stage boards rumble under frantic feet, black trousers and polished shoes trumpling near his head, strong fingers digging into his skin as he’s yanked up onto someone’s arms. It hurts so much.
Voices, so many voices.
All yelling inside his head.
The voices stop once someone rips out his in-ears, the screams now much louder, all around him, an endless chant of he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
“Jimin?! JIMIN?!” someone calls his name—he knows that voice. He knows. Namjoon.
“Jimin! Look at me—hey, hey, look at me!” his fingers feel rough on Jimin’s cheek. “Jimin—Jimin, can you hear me—where is the fucking paramedic?!” he yells to the vultures swarming around them.
He’s lowered onto something, his head lolling to the side, and now Jimin can only see their pacing legs, the voices merging into a single, terrified screech.
The fans.
He can hear the fans screaming.
They sound terrified, too.
“Jimin?!”
“Where is—”
“Medic! MEDIC!”
“Security—”
“MEDIC!”
Someone presses into his ribs and Jimin cries out in pain, momentarily blinded by the feeling of someone nearly ripping his bones out of his chest. Something hot coats his right side, dripping down his back, making the costume stick to his skin. Blood. It’s your blood, his brain supplies. You’re dying.
Tears fall freely, unbridled, agony tearing through his throat as a pained cry.
His lungs burn. It hurts to breathe.
“P-please—” he mumbles into someone’s chest, catching the panicked sobs and pushing them down so the words can come out. “I d-don’t wanna d-die—I don’t w-wanna die—”
Jimin can faintly hear Namjoon’s voice, but he can’t make out the frantic words.
The paramedic’s jumpsuit smells nice—it’s a beautiful navy blue, but it's getting soiled by blood, dark patches on his front.
A siren.
Ambulance.
I’m dying.
Jimin won’t sing again. Won’t get blisters from dancing, won’t go crazy at rehearsals. Won’t laugh at his friends’ jokes.
“10-71—”
He wishes he’d sung a different song.
He wishes he would have sung anything again, just once more.
“10-45 C en route to—”
Jimin won’t see the sunrise from his window again.
Won’t get to cuddle with Taehyung on his couch.
Won’t listen to his friend pine over Jimin’s producer and dear friend, Min Yoongi, as he always does. He hopes they finally get together someday, even if he won’t get to see it.
His cheek pulls up in a small, barely there smile.
“Helicopter transfer—”
Another tear slides down his temple, lost in his raven hair.
Jimin is sad, so sad.
“Come on, Jimin! You can’t die on me—”
He doesn’t want to die.
He didn’t get to see his parents.
He should’ve hugged them tighter last Christmas.
“ETA 2 minutes—”
He has so many regrets.
He wants to live more, to love more.
He had so many projects.
“Hospital—”
His fans. Will they be sad? Will they suffer too much with his death?
His death.
Immortalised.
Is it in the media already? The headlines are all saying he’s dead.
Dead.
It’s scary.
Jimin isn’t ready to become a memory.
He isn’t, but his vision is gone, darkness closing in.
“Stay with me, you gotta stay with me! Jimin, stay with me!”
His eyes are open but he can’t see anything.
Can’t hear anything.
Can’t feel anything.
“Gunshot wound.”
Nothingness.
Nothing.
—
The sunlight beam on the ceiling is the first thing Jimin sees when he opens his eyes. It must be early morning, the promise of a new, beautiful day.
The low, steady beep to his left is too familiar—heart monitor.
He’s in the hospital.
Hospital?
A small noise steals his attention and Jimin turns his head in time to watch the most beautiful man he’s ever seen pickup a clipboard from the floor. He’s young, probably around Jimin’s age—if not younger.
Decked in dark purple scrubs that can’t really conceal his broad shoulders, breast pocket full of pens with a cute lanyard dangling off of it and a stethoscope around his neck, the nurse is silently cursing himself as he dusts off the clipboard, adjusting the papers that got skewed.
Tall and lean, his sharp jaw and defined eyebrows contrast beautifully with his bright doe eyes and cupid lips, a boyish aura hidden behind the raven hair falling over his eyes. He stands beside Jimin’s bed, humming to himself, frowning a bit as he looks down at what Jimin assumes is his medical report.
“Hi.”
The nurse screams.
He jumps back violently, eyes wide in a panic as he falls back on his ass, a hand coming up to clutch his chest.
Jimin startles, recoiling a bit.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” he says, watching the nurse flail. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
His mouth opens several times but no words come out. It’s cute, the way the nurse’s pouty lips pucker like that of a little fish.
Jimin’s used to it.
He kind of enjoys this sensation, watching people realise it’s him. He loves to see their expressions morph—into shock, bewilderment, euphoria. But Jimin still introduces himself with a friendly “I’m Jimin,” watching the nurse sit up, taking deep, laboured breaths.
“Jeongguk,” the nurse instinctually supplies, still a bit out of it.
“Nice to meet you.”
Jimin watches Jeongguk slowly get to his feet, a strong hand coming up to clutch the rail of Jimin’s hospital bed as he stands up fully, eyes flickering between Jimin and the machines hooked up to him.
“Nice to… meet you too,” Jeongguk whispers belatedly, rubbing his eyes.
“Are you okay?” Jimin can’t help but chuckle.
“I am—yes, sorry.” Jeongguk shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “Sorry, you caught me by surprise. I—” Jeongguk glances back towards the closed door, a bit fidgety, fingers tightening around the rail. “I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”
Jimin frowns. “Have I been out for too long?”
“Ahm, no—no.” Jeongguk stutters, finally looking back at Jimin. He smiles gently, reaching for a hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall beside the bed, coating his hands with the clear alcohol.
“What happened?” Jimin asks, watching Jeongguk work.
“You got hurt,” Jeongguk offers vaguely.
“During rehearsal?”
Jeongguk shakes his head, a hand reaching out towards the IV, expert fingers adjusting the flow controller.
“At home?”
Another no.
“Is Namjoon here?”
“Namjoon?”
“My manager,” Jimin explains, watching the muscles of Jeongguk’s neck jump when he swallows before answering with a nervous “Uhm—I don’t know.”
Jimin frowns, staring at Jeongguk intently while the other avoids his eyes like the plague, not sure why the nurse is being so vague. Jimin probably just fainted. Again.
He knows he’s been overworking himself, going on a strict diet while preparing for the tour. It must’ve caught up to him. He wiggles his fingers and toes, tenses his muscles—nothing.
He feels fine, nothing hurts.
“Well, can you call him in?” Jimin asks, trying to sit up.
“Wait,” Jeongguk nearly shouts, hand shooting out, splayed fingers hovering over Jimin’s chest. “Stop. What—what are you doing?”
“Sitting up?”
“Can you… Can you lay back down?” Jeongguk asks, voice strangled. “Please?”
“But I feel fine.”
“Please.”
Jimin huffs, annoyed. But he complies, laying back down on the fluffy pillow. “I’m fine,” he mumbles through a pout, petulant as ever.
Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. He keeps fidgeting with the things hooked up to Jimin’s body, mumbling inaudibly to himself as his eyes dart around.
Jimin observes him—notices the little mole under Jeongguk’s bottom lip, the faint scar on his left cheek, the way his small hoop earrings twinkle under the soft lights. Jeongguk is gorgeous.
And Jimin is shameless, openly admiring the way Jeongguk focuses even if he’s clearly nervous, his hands trembling a little bit.
Trying to ease his discomfort, Jimin launches into small talk. “How did you become a nurse?”
“Went to school for it,” Jeongguk answers, a grin pulling up the corners of his mouth, revealing the cutest dimple. He gets a deathly glare. “My parents are in the medical field,” Jeongguk concedes, chuckling to himself.
Jimin hums, “My mom’s an actress.”
“I know.”
Jimin laughs quietly, “Of course you do.”
“Can’t help it when you’re the country’s favourite nepo baby.”
“So you know me.”
“Everyone knows you.”
“Have you ever been to one of my shows?”
The smile falls from Jeongguk’s lips straight away, a veil of sadness overcoming his features. “No,” he whispers, seemingly lost in thought. “Not really.”
“Then you should come to my next concert, whenever that is,” Jimin offers, excited. “Free tickets. I’ll give you VIP seats and everything.”
“It’ll be an honour to hear you sing.”
The warmth that spreads through his body is like the sun on a cloudless day, a breath of fresh air early in the morning.
Jimin knows he’s the country’s pride and joy. Got used to the billboards and articles, to the shining eyes and blinding smiles, to the pen and paper shoved into his hands. Got used to the chaotic lifestyle—to the sleepless nights, to the rush, to the blur of everything going at full speed.
The luxury hotels, the designer clothes, the endless money—the attention, the adoration, the fame. It’s all a consequence.
All that came as a result of his love for music.
He’s a nepo baby, he knows. Unlike so many struggling artists who dream to have their music put out into the world, he didn’t have doors slamming into his face—he was invited in, handed a glass of sparkling wine and a contract. But that didn’t stop him from slaving himself in the practice room—dance lessons, voice coaching, music studies;
Jimin crafted himself to be an idol.
Took a mallet and a chisel and carved himself out of the marble block he was gifted.
Gave himself up to his art—sweat, bled and cried. Even if the media loved to tear him to shreds, downplay all his achievements, say he took it all for granted, had it easy.
If only they’d seen the mess behind the scenes. Seen the agony, the frustration, the rage.
Everything that’s hidden behind a practised smile and a sparkly outfit.
“Technically you’ve heard me sing,” Jimin teases, watching Jeongguk scribble something on his report.
“Only on the radio.”
“I can sing for you sometime.”
“I would love that.”
The honesty in Jeongguk’s voice means everything. Jimin wants to know more. “How old are you?” he asks, curious.
“Twenty five.”
“Oh, I’m your hyung.”
“I know.”
“You know everything!” Jimin jokes, rolling his eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re a stalker.”
Yet the laughter dies in his throat when Jeongguk inhales sharply, the pen escaping his hold. It clatters to the floor, rolling on the linoleum.
“Don’t say that,” Jeongguk pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please, don’t say that.”
Jimin nods, a bit stunned. He watches Jeongguk’s chest expand as he inhales deeply, head falling back, the long stretch of his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, guiltily. “That was a poor joke.”
“It’s okay,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “You don’t have to apologise.”
“But what I said upset you.”
Jeongguk clears his throat, his beautiful eyes finding Jimin’s. “It’s okay.”
Jimin’s not convinced. But he doesn’t pry, watching Jeongguk’s right hand slide down the bed rail, tracing one of the hospital logos printed on the blanket covering Jimin’s body. He takes a deep calming breath, a hand resting over his chest.
“As you’re awake, I’d feel more comfortable asking for your consent. May I touch you?” Jeongguk asks, gesturing towards Jimin’s body.
“Oh, my. You didn’t even buy me a drink first.”
Jeongguk rolls his eyes, amused. “I need to assess the dressings on your back,” he explains, sliding back into professional mode. “You had some redness, so it’s been dressed to prevent sores.”
“Bed sores? Have I been out long enough to have that?”
Jeongguk doesn’t answer.
He just keeps staring at him, his eyes roaming Jimin’s face with a weirdly bittersweet fondness, fingers flexing almost as if he wants to reach out and run his fingers through his hair.
“Will you let me roll you on your side or not?”
Jimin huffs, feeling a small blush creep up on him. He knows Jeongguk is a nurse and that he’s definitely desensitised from seeing someone’s naked body and all, but he can’t help but feel a bit self-conscious.
“Fine. But don’t pretend you’re not dying to see my million dollar ass.”
“I’m your nurse,” Jeongguk says, gently prompting a hand under Jimin’s shoulder blades while the other goes to his hip. “Sorry to break it to you but I’ve seen your ass before.”
And while Jeongguk’s touch burns, Jimin feels himself tearing up for another reason.
It’s foreign, the comfort and safety of someone’s gentle care.
He’s been touched his entire life—fans, lovers, creepy old men who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves.
Been naked in front of people—doctors, lovers, stylists dressing him up and down.
And then there’s Jeongguk.
Jeongguk with his gentle touch, firm fingers undoing the back of Jimin’s hospital gown, never wandering away, never lingering. He’s careful when he hooks his arm under Jimin’s legs, manoeuvring him around with the utmost respect, getting him into whatever position he needs him in.
“Are you the only nurse looking after me?” Jimin wonders, face scrunching up at the weird sensation of something being peeled from his skin.
“I guess,” he hears Jeongguk say, his voice a bit muffled. “You’re probably asleep when other nurses or doctors come to check on you.”
I’m glad I woke up when it was you here with me.
Laying on his side, Jimin takes a moment to look at the room. It’s all white, with a small couch pushed under the window. There’s a door to the left, cracked open enough to let Jimin see it’s a bathroom. Besides all the hospital stuff, the room is bare. It’s kind of depressing.
“Am I not allowed to have flowers?” he wonders aloud.
He feels Jeongguk pause. “What do you mean?”
Now that he’s said it, it sounds a bit egotistical. Flustered, Jimin remains silent.
“Jimin-ssi?”
“It’s nothing.” He sighs, hand coming up to trace the stitching on the blanket tip near his head. “I just… thought it was—I don’t know, customary to have flowers and balloons in your hospital room.”
“Oh.”
“I sound self-absorbed, don’t I? A shallow celebrity in constant need of attention—”
“Not at all,” Jeongguk says, his voice incredibly soft. “I’ll get you flowers. And a balloon.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jimin mumbles into the pillow, embarrassment scorching his face, creeping all the way down his neck. “God, this is so humiliating.”
“Hey…”
Jimin squeezes his eyes shut the moment he sees Jeongguk rounding the bed, ditching his gloves and pulling his face mask down to his chin.
“Jimin? Can you look at me?”
Jimin shakes his head, curling into himself.
“Please?”
Slowly, Jimin peels one eye open to see Jeongguk leaning forward on the rail, arms crossed over it, chin resting on top of them. His lips pull up in a timid smile, eyes twinkling with a thousand galaxies.
“Even if you can’t have them, I’ll get you flowers,” he promises in a whisper. “And a balloon, and beautiful little drawings to put up on your wall. I’ll even get you a book. Would you like that?”
“...Yeah.”
Jeongguk beams at Jimin’s shy smile, one of his hands sliding between the rails, fingers gentle when they curl around Jimin’s, mindful of the IV cannula taped to the back of his hand.
“What’s your favourite book? I’ll read it to you.”
“Don’t you dare judge me,” Jimin warns.
“You can say Twilight, it’s okay.”
It’s so absurd it makes Jimin giggle, Jeongguk’s fingers squeezing his own, tender and reassuring.
“The Notebook.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic,” Jeongguk tuts, tilting his head, his cheek pressing against his forearm in a way that makes his lips jut out in the cutest pout. “I should’ve known.”
And there it is again, that look.
There’s something in the way Jeongguk looks at him that’s unidentifiable. It’s joy tinged with sadness, some sort of sympathetic acceptance laced with resilient longing. Jimin can’t stop looking.
“But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Of course he did. One of Jimin’s most famous songs is based on it.
He’s aware that details of his life are common knowledge, at least to an extent. Yet, Jimin still tries to keep the most intrinsic details of his life hidden, treasuring whatever privacy that’s left.
But Jeongguk—there’s something about him that makes Jimin want to share.
He wants Jeongguk to know everything.
“I did,” Jeongguk admits with a nod. “But I wanted to hear it from you.”
Jimin wants to know, too.
“Do you like dogs?”
Jeongguk chuckles, a bit confused. “What?”
“Well, do you?”
“Uh, yes. Of course. Why do you ask?”
Jimin shrugs, mouth pressed in a cheeky smile. “You look like a dog person.”
“What does that even mean?” Jeongguk huffs, standing back up straight. “I love all pets.”
“Do you have any?”
“Yeah.” There it is. The smile—bright and full, his bunny teeth on display. “Duke, he’s a Dobermann.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He lives with my parents now.”
“I bet he’s cute.”
“He is,” Jeongguk agrees, glowing at the mention of his fur baby. “Total goofball. Thinks he’s still a puppy.”
“You see him often?”
“Not as much as I want to. My schedule is a nightmare—I can’t tend to him when I’m working twelve-hour shifts, covering the ICU and ER.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“But I love it,” Jeongguk beams. “Even if it feels like I live here instead of my own home.”
“Ugh, felt.” Jimin groans, watching Jeongguk’s eyes dart back and forth between Jimin and the monitors. “I can count on one hand the times I slept in my own bed. Hotels suck, I hate it.”
“Don’t you usually stay at the fancy ones?”
“It’s still a hotel.”
Jeongguk hums, tugging the blanket from where it’s bunched under Jimin’s waist, adjusting his pillow—everything to make him more comfortable. “Nothing like home, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How is it?”
“How is what?”
“Your home,” Jeongguk asks. “Is it one of those expensive penthouses with gigantic windows overlooking the peasants? Does it have one of those heated indoor pools? A diamond chandelier in the living room, hallways full of overpriced paintings from snob artists?”
Jimin cackles loudly, feeling his entire body shake. “For your information, I made sure my place feels very homey. It’s cosy and quaint.”
“Mhm.”
“It’s true!” Jimin whines, the grin splitting his lips mirrored on Jeongguk’s face.
“But it’s a penthouse.”
“It is a penthouse.”
“Knew it,” Jeongguk snickers, hands coming up to rest on the rail near Jimin’s thigh.
“How about your place, then?” Jimin prompts, watching the veins and tendons dance on the back of Jeongguk’s hand as he twiddles his fingers.
“What about it?” Jeongguk shoots back.
“What is it?”
“A studio.”
“Owned or rented?”
“Rented.”
“Roommates?”
“Nope.”
“Significant other?”
Jeongguk finally laughs, loud and boisterous, the bright bunny smile returning to his lips when he answers, “No.”
“I know I’m supposed to say that’s a shame, but…”
“Do you usually flirt with the staff, Jimin-ssi?” Jeongguk teases, trying to hide his blush with a cocky grin. “Or am I the only one to be graced with such an honour?”
Jimin shrugs, wincing when the movement makes a sharp sting of pain shoot up his chest, almost as if a knife is lodged between his ribs, twisting into his heart. “Ouch.”
Jeongguk is on him in an instant.
“What is it?”
“This is a bit uncomfortable, can I lay back down?” Jimin pleads. Jeongguk hesitates for a moment, eyebrows furrowing slightly. But his eyes dart up to the monitors and he acquiesces, “Yeah, here—let me help you.”
With the utmost care and the softest touch, Jeongguk steadily manoeuvres Jimin until he’s once again laying on his back. He repositions Jimin’s arms and legs, propping his feet up with a pillow, tucking the blanket around him.
“I feel like a little kid,” Jimin mumbles, his face hot. Jeongguk chuckles, leaning a bit over Jimin to fix his pillow. With his chest this close, Jimin feels the warmth wafting off of him, his scrubs smelling of something floral. His stethoscope dangles in front of Jimin’s face, the yoke a muted lilac with a small tag attached to it—JJK.
A glance towards his breast pocket confirms it— Jeon Jeongguk. Clipped along all the rapid IDs on his lanyard, Jeongguk’s badge steals Jimin’s attention. He looks really sweet in his picture—his hair is shorter and lighter, his face more round and boyish. He definitely grew into his nose.
But then he’s pulling back, a delicate finger gently brushing a strand of hair away from Jimin's eyes. It makes him drowsy, his vision fuzzy around the edges.
It feels like a dream. Those weird dreams you know you’re dreaming but can’t control, overpowered by your unconsciousness chosen paths.
“I’ll come check on you later, okay?” Jeongguk whispers, collecting his things.
“Okay.”
—
Jimin.
Jimin.
“Jimin.”
Jimin opens his eyes to find Jeongguk hovering over him, a knuckle tracing his cheek, doe eyes roaming Jimin’s face.
“Hi,” he sighs, a bit drowsy. Jeongguk looks so gorgeous today in his dark teal scrubs, hair hidden beneath a midnight blue cap with tiny stars. The light is a bit harsh on him, the room pitch black, Jeongguk haloed by a single white light.
“I don’t have much time,” Jeongguk whispers, doing a double take towards the door, worrying his lower lip. Jimin takes that moment to appreciate the column of his neck, the way little wisps of raven hair escape from under the cap, the long stretch of his throat bobbing with a hard swallow, his jaw clenching.
And then he’s looking down at Jimin again, that gorgeous bunny smile replacing the gloomy frown.
“I got your flower,” he conspires gleefully, smile widening as he pulls something from his chest pocket and holds it up for Jimin to see.
It’s a small post-it note with a single tiger lily drawn on it.
“I can’t bring you real ones,” Jeongguk confides, once again quickly looking over his shoulder. “But if you promise to stay with me, I’ll bring you a flower everyday. You'll have a garden full of them.”
He turns and glues the little drawing to the heart monitor beside Jimin’s bed, in a way it’s in his line of sight. Jimin fights the sleep that’s insistently trying to claim him, turning his head to see the little flower sitting prettily by his head.
It’s so beautiful and detailed, the golden lines of the pen on white paper seemingly blooming out of the note, dancing in front of him, multiplying into a thousand little flakes of gold—flakes that surround Jeongguk, blending with the stars in his eyes.
“I have to go now,” he hears Jeongguk say, darkness closing in. “Please be okay.”
His fingers tingle.
—
“...I am nothing special; of this I am sure. I am a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life…”
Jeongguk.
“...There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.”
That’s his voice.
“The romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call it a tragedy. In my mind it's a little bit of both, and no matter how you choose to view it in the end, it does not change the fact that it involves a great deal of my life and the path I've chosen to follow—”
His voice is so beautiful.
“I have no complaints about my path and the places it has taken me,” Jimin recites in a sleepy voice, eyes still closed. “Enough complaints to fill a circus tent about other things, maybe, but the path I've chosen has always been the right one—”
“And I wouldn't have had it any other way,” Jeongguk finishes, closing the book with a blinding smile. “Hi, sleepyhead.”
“Hi,” Jimin echoes, blinking the blurriness away.
It’s night, the only light coming from the thin LED strip overhead. Jeongguk is sitting beside him, the chair angled towards the bed, book still propped up on his knee. His scrubs are purple again, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a few strands loose.
“How are you feeling?” Jeongguk asks, setting the book aside. It looks old; must be second-hand—the paperback cover curled on the edges, the spine severely broken.
Jimin squirms, flexing his toes. “I’m okay,” he smiles, tilting his head to look at his flower. Only to find out almost the entire left side of his heart monitor has been covered in tiger lillies.
“You have a garden now,” Jeongguk says, reaching for Jimin’s hand. “And a balloon,” he adds, eyes flicking towards the left. Jimin follows his gaze, the most delighted laugh escaping his lips once he sees his balloon.
It’s hilarious.
Tied to the railings of his bed with a string of dental floss is an inflated surgical glove, the fingers tied into two bows, hearts and smiley faces cutely drawn on it.
“I love it,” Jimin beams, turning his head to find Jeongguk’s expectant gaze. “It’s perfect.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Cute, like you.” Jimin winks, twiddling his fingers under Jeongguk’s palm. It makes the nurse tighten his grip, returning the caress.
“Ditto,” Jeongguk’s laugh echoes in the room. Jimin huffs, blushing a little bit. “What? I can’t flirt back? You started it,” Jeongguk snorts, jokingly pinching the sleeve of Jimin’s gown. “So you better stop, otherwise you’re gonna blow my ego— no.”
“What?” Jimin whines, the corners of his lips twitching into a cheeky grin.
“Don’t say it,” Jeongguk groans the moment he sees the mischievous flash in Jimin's eyes, the flirty retort on the tip of his tongue. It makes Jimin giggle, and it’s so contagious Jeongguk can’t help but laugh with him.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Jimin mumbles, knowing very well that’s a massive lie. “Can you move my hair?” he asks instead, scrunching his face, trying to get the little strand to move. It’s not really bothering him that much, he just wants Jeongguk closer. “It’s in my eyes.”
Jeongguk’s face turns soft, “Of course.”
He stands up, the little plastic cards on his badge clinking together with the movement. Slowly, Jeongguk reaches out, catching the offending strand between two fingers, securing it behind Jimin’s ear.
“Better?”
Jimin nods, tongue-tied. It’s overwhelming, the way Jeongguk’s eyes travel his face, the way his hand lingers, thumb tracing his cheekbone almost reverently. It’s bliss, the way Jeongguk touches him.
Like he’s seeing him. Jimin.
Not the celebrity, nor the carefully curated idol persona.
Jimin, just Jimin.
The boy from Busan who still collects shells and pearls, who thrives in the love of his fans but cries himself to sleep most nights. the boy who yearns for affection and intimacy, not the man in a glass cage—a timeless doll, made to be admired. Desired.
Jeongguk sees a human.
Like a breath of fresh air, the boy with beautiful eyes and soothing voice came and found him—reached into his heart and said let me stay here .
Taken by a wave of unknown emotion, Jimin whimpers, recoiling. It makes Jeongguk pull back, taking his warmth with him.
“Sorry,” Jeongguk croaks, swallowing his nerves. “It’s not often I see your eyes. Most of the time I’m with you, you’re sleeping.”
“Why don’t you wake me up?”
And there it is again, that flash of pain. A strange look crosses his face and Jeongguk clears his throat, licking his lips nervously.
It’s silent for a while, both of them waiting for the other to speak up with bated breaths and watery eyes.
“I want to,” Jeongguk eventually answers, eyes downcast. “But I need to let you do that on your own.”
“Is it hospital protocol?”
Jeongguk smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. It’s protocol.”
He doesn’t have his stethoscope tonight—if anything he looks a bit dressed down, a bit tired, eyes bloodshot and swollen, a red mask mark across his face.
“Are you okay?” Jimin whispers, afraid to raise his voice and shatter the moment.
Jeongguk chuckles, but the tears rise on cue, one already making its way down his cheek. “I’m a bit sad, that’s all,” Jeongguk tries to laugh off, but Jimin catches on.
“Why? What happened?”
Jeongguk pulls back, the tears finally flowing free. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking a shuddery breath. The fear is palpable in his voice when he whispers, “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” Jimin startles, reaching out. His own eyes burn, chest constructing at the sight of Jeongguk in pain. It feels worse than any physical wound would. “Jeongguk?”
“Nothing,” he sobs, wiping furiously at his eyes. He grabs the railings, tilting his head back, a watery smile on his face. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“It is, Jimin.”
“It’s not,” Jimin argues, lips pursed. “You can talk to me if—”
“Not about this!” Jeongguk snaps, clutching his chest. Seeing Jimin recoil, tearful, he deflates. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have yelled, I’m sorry.”
“Jeongguk…”
Jimin wilts, crestfallen. He feels Jeongguk’s anguish as if it’s his own—his heart aches , a dull melancholy settling under his skin.
“I’m so-sorry,” Jeongguk grimaces, choking up. When the tips of Jimin’s finger find the back of his hand Jeongguk pulls back as if burnt, his face crumpling in agony. “I have to go.”
“No—Jeongguk, wait!”
But Jeongguk’s already yanking the door open, the harsh light forcing Jimin’s eyes closed.
—
Jimin only notices he’s fallen asleep when he opens his eyes to a sunny room, gaze falling on an older woman sitting on the couch to the left of his bed, her face tilted towards the window, wrinkled skin glowing under the first rays of sun. She has a blanket thrown over her shoulders, covering most of her hospital gown, feet hidden under fluffy socks and white slippers, a small bandage placed on her forehead.
As if sensing Jimin is awake, she turns, soft eyes meeting his confused ones.
“Sorry if I scared you, child,” she says in that comforting elderly tone, lips pulled up in a tiny friendly smile. “Don’t be afraid, I mean no harm.”
And then, tilting her head back with a wider smile, face glowing under the morning sun, she says, “I just missed the sun. My new room has no windows.”
“Oh.”
Jimin notices his bed has been propped up into an almost seated position, and he can also see the sun in the horizon, shining between the adjacent hospital buildings. It’s magnificent, the sky still tinted with streaks of blue and purple, remnants of dawn before a new day.
“I mean no offence, but…” Jimin looks over to the closed door, only to find it’s wide open, showing the empty hallway outside. He’s never seen it unlocked. “How—how did you get in here, ma’am?”
“Honestly… I don’t know,” she chuckles, clutching her head. She frowns for a moment as if trying to remember, but eventually she looks up at Jimin, eyebrows drawn up apologetically. “Forgive me, I’m getting old.”
Jimin means to say something comforting, that it’s okay, but his attention is stolen by the flap of wings. A small swallow sits on the windowsill, looking curiously at the both of them for a moment before taking flight once more.
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the birds chirping outside and the steady beeping of Jimin’s heart monitor.
But then the woman takes a deep breath, Jimin’s eyes founding hers. She avoids his gaze, looking down at her feet. “He’s an angel, you know?”
Jimin inhales sharply, a weird lump forming in his throat that he doesn’t understand. Lightheaded, he manages a weak “Who?”
“The boy with the bunny smile.” She smiles sadly, playing with the little tag attached to the end of the blanket, a few wisps of hair escaping the bun at the back of her head. “He visits you every day,” she says, voice wavering. “I hear him reading to you most nights.”
“J-Jeongguk?” Jimin manages to ask, eyes now brimming with tears.
The lady nods, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “He’s special, that one. A gentle, selfless soul. He took good care of us—of you.”
“You know him?” Jimin murmurs, the first tear escaping from his eyes.
The woman nods, finally looking up at Jimin. “He stops by, sometimes.”
Jimin can’t understand why he’s crying so much. He just is.
“Sorry, I—I don’t know why I’m crying,” Jimin mumbles, embarrassed. He wipes his nose on his gown, sniffling quietly.
“It’s okay, child. There’s no shame in it,” it’s comforting, the way she says it. As if Jimin bursting into tears at the mere mention of Jeongguk isn’t concerning. “I have to go now,” she sighs, bracing herself against the armrest as she stands up on wobbly legs, giving the window one last glance. “I can’t stay much longer.”
“I—I don’t mind. You can stay and wait for the sun to fully rise.”
“My time’s up,” she whispers, fingers running over the edge of the blanket by Jimin’s feet. There’s a rogue little note stuck to it. “It’s his birth flower,” she says, holding it up. And then, pointing at the machines surrounding Jimin, most of them covered by the little colourful notes with the tiger lily, she says, “And yours.”
Jimin whips his head up abruptly, searching for the spirea wreaths amidst all the orange lilies, but there are none.
—
Whenever Jimin looks up, Jeongguk’s comforting figure is sitting beside him, reading or drawing him flowers. Hours seem to blend into one another, and Jimin barely feels time pass as he just sits there, watching Jeongguk draw, something urging him to take in all of his features, memorise every detail of his face—the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the galaxies in his eyes—
“You’re staring,” Jeongguk says, not looking up from his sketchpad.
Jimin blushes, looking away. He can’t deny it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks on fire.
“That’s fine,” Jeongguk smirks, twirling his pencil. “You’re the incorrigible flirt here, if memory serves me right.”
“Shut it,” Jimin mumbles, pretending to toss one of his pillows at Jeongguk’s head. If Jeongguk actually hated the attention, he wouldn’t look so damn pleased as he looks right now.
—
“Tell me something on your bucket list.”
Jeongguk smiles at the question, chuckling as he bends Jimin’s left knee, helping him exercise.
It’s been like this for a few days now. Jimin wakes up to Jeongguk reading him his favourite book, the sun behind his back. Jeongguk then helps him exercise, every day, without fail. He’s also taken to doodle on Jimin’s medical report, but usually, Jeongguk brings in a tiny sketchpad and they play tic-tac-toe for a while.
Then, as the sun sets, Jimin watches silently as Jeongguk draws him another tiger lily, leaning over to place it with the others around Jimin’s bed. He tucks him in, and Jimin falls asleep to the door closing behind him.
But these days, Jimin sings for him.
The first time he did, Jeongguk burst into tears.
It’s a late night, the soft drizzle outside humming against the bedroom window. Jimin is sitting up in between Jeongguk’s legs, the nurse sitting on the bed behind him to support his back.
Jimin’s been feeling a bit sore lately, muscles aching and twitching uncomfortably, so Jeongguk has been massaging his muscles for hours, applying pressure to ease the tension until there’s no more pain. And it’s on that night, feeling Jeongguk’s hands on his body, the warmth of his palm against his shoulder blades, that Jimin quietly slips into a hum. It starts softly, just the melody of a song that comes to mind.
But then, note after note, his voice crashes over the room like giant soundwaves, filling their little cocoon with nothing but his voice. He feels Jeongguk’s chest rise and fall behind his back; feels the way his own voice reaches deep within his bones, settling under his skin.
It’s sweet and warm—each syllable a pleasure to listen to, every stress of the word irresistibly sweet. A smile bleeds through the notes, happiness dancing over his tongue.
Jimin pours his heart out, rejoicing the sensations music brings to his soul, feeling the thrum of his vocal chords as he holds the last note, voice dissolving into the air like the mists over a lake at dawn.
It's silent. Jimin sits there, breathless, waiting patiently for Jeongguk to say something, anything.
Instead of the usual applause or word of astonishment, Jimin gets a choked sob muffled on the back of his neck and the warmth of Jeongguk’s lips pressed against his shoulder, tears soaking his flimsy gown.
Trespassing an obvious boundary, Jeongguk wraps his arms around Jimin, caging him in as he pulls him closer to his chest in a desperate hug. Jimin goes easily, bringing his hands up to caress Jeongguk’s forearms, his own eyes watering with emotion.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispers quietly, afraid to speak any louder. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Jeongguk shakes his head, rubbing against Jimin’s neck, but doesn’t say anything. So Jimin keeps touching him, trying to offer some comfort, running his fingers over the veins on the back of Jeongguk's hands, thumbs caressing the knuckles soothingly.
“It pains me that I made you sad.”
“They’re happy tears,” Jeongguk laughs wetly, sniffling.
Immersed in a dense mist of euphoria, a couple tears trickling down his cheeks, Jimin promises himself he’ll sing everyday. And so, blushing a bit, he twists in between Jeongguk’s legs, his own teary eyes meeting Jeongguk’s bloodshot ones.
Without really thinking, Jimin finds himself tracing his features, feather-light fingertips following the curve of his cheek, catching the hair that falls over his eyes, securing them back behind Jeongguk’s ear. At Jeongguk’s sharp inhale, Jimin lets his hand fall to his lap, eyes downcast, afraid to look up and see things in Jeongguk’s eyes he’s afraid to admit to himself.
Soon, a hand covers his own, lightly squeezing his fingers. Then, Jimin watches as Jeongguk’s hand cradles his own, turning his palm up and lifting it towards his lips. Jimin follows the movement, watching Jeongguk press a gentle kiss to the palm of his hand.
Jeongguk then curls his fingers over his, closing his hand in a fist, the kiss safe in between Jimin’s fingers. His lips rest over Jimin’s pinkish knuckles as they sit there in silence, just breathing each other in, lulled by the steady beep of Jimin’s heart monitor.
The next day, when Jeongguk comes, Jimin greets him with a smile, asking him which song he wants Jimin to sing or some other random questions like ‘do you think mint-choco ice cream tastes like toothpaste?’ or ‘have you ever played in the rain and got sick after?’
Like today, about a bucket list.
“Come on, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Something on your bucket list,” Jimin pouts, crossing his arms.
“Okay,” Jeongguk nods, gently massaging Jimin’s calf. “I want to skydive.”
“Lame.”
Jeongguk laughs heartily, palm resting on Jimin’s knee. “Why is it lame?”
“That’s the most boring answer I've ever heard,” Jimin huffs. “Tell me something you really want.”
Jeongguk’s hands still, resting over Jimin’s leg, warm and gentle.
“To be a memory,” he says.
“Hm?”
“A memory,” Jeongguk repeats, finding Jimin’s gaze. “That’s what I want.”
“A memory?”
Jeongguk nods, eyes drifting shut. “I want—I want to experience a memory as it comes to be. Live it for what it is—life itself.”
Jimin sits there, watching the joy play on Jeongguk’s face for what feels like a very long time.
“I wanna go home to the smell of rain in the air,” Jeonggul continues, a single tear sliding down the corner of his eye. “Feel the breeze tickling my cheeks, the pressure my shoelaces put on my feet as I run. I want to watch tiny plants punch their way through the pavement cracks, sun rays peeking through the heavy clouds and leaving dotted shadows on the sidewalk. Feel the clothes on my body, the ground beneath my feet…”
When Jeongguk eventually blinks his eyes open, finding Jimin already looking at him. He flashes him a precious smile that is just for him. For Jimin.
“I wanna feel human, like I’m not alone in this place,” Jeongguk stammers, taking a deep breath. “I need to know life carries traces of others—that they’re everywhere. Just like I am.”
“You’re not alone,” Jimin mouths silently, looking down to his lap.
“I know. It’s like now, with you, I see everything beyond my own existence.”
Jimin feels the expecting eyes on him, but finds no strength to return the gesture. His ribcage has dissolved into a thousand butterflies, fluttering inside his chest in a whirlwind as he tentatively reaches out, touching the back of Jeongguk’s hand.
“That’s why I love it when you sing for me,” Jeongguk confesses in a small voice, capturing Jimin’s hand between his own. “It’s the closest I get to it.”
When Jimin tugs, Jeongguk comes easily. He has so many questions but none makes their way past the swell of his chest other than, “Ask me, Gguk.”
“What’s something you want?”
Jeongguk’s words hang like cobwebs in the air, confession tucked away between their hands, held secret for just a moment more.
Jimin takes that moment to create a memory, just as Jeongguk said.
He takes in the afternoon sun disappearing behind the horizon, painting the sky a beautiful blend of pinks and purples, painting Jeongguk’s back with the most beautiful golden glow, the tiny specks of dust dancing in the sun rays like fairy dust.
He feels the softness of the pillows supporting his back, the sheets tangled between his legs, the whirring of the machines connected to him. The paper flowers all around him, the newest glued to the railings of his bed.
The warmth of Jeongguk’s eyes on him, the way he cups Jimin’s face so tenderly, holding him like a precious flower, thumb brushing the red petals of his lips, coaxing them open to utter an honest, “I want you to kiss me.”
It’s easy. Simple.
Jeongguk’s lips brush against Jimin’s, so softly, so gently.
There’s no rush.
It starts as a brush of lips, barely there. Exploring.
With each passing second, Jimin lets himself fall into that abyss, diving deep enough to avoid the sun-kissed waves on the surface. Down to where the eye of the hurricane lies untouched, waiting for the right current to sweep in and bring him ashore. To pull him to freedom.
Jeongguk’s lips are soft, tongue slipping past the seam of his lips, deepening the kiss. His hands cup Jimin’s face, feeling the movement of his jaw, thumbs resting under his ears. His perfume clings to Jimin’s clothes, to his skin—seeps further into his bones, something uniquely Jeongguk that has Jimin moaning against his mouth, seeking more of him.
When Jeongguk groans, Jimin pulls him closer, a hand lost to the mess of his hair, the other searching the hem of his scrubs, blunt nails scraping the skin of his waist, pulling until Jeongguk has a knee on the bed, half-straddling him.
Jimin moans softly—he’d never felt the warmth of Jeongguk’s body without fabric barriers, palms flat against his back, feeling each muscle contract, each rise and fall of his lungs, each roll of his shoulders as Jeongguk presses himself against him, rolling his hips with a low moan.
Head fuzzy, Jimin throws his head back, offering up his throat—an offer Jeongguk gladly takes, leaving open-mouth kisses along the column, rolling the skin between his teeth until it bruises. Jimin runs his hands through Jeongguk’s hair, scraping at the roots, encouraging the kisses and bites he’s laying all over his neck and collarbones.
But that’s not enough.
Stealing his lips once again, Jimin works the soft fabric that’s keeping Jeongguk from him, running his tongue up Jeongguk’s neck to bite at the junction below his jawline, coaxing a moan that’s absolute music to his ears—so elegantly tuned, mewling such lustful sounds.
Jeongguk grabs his chin, a bit more forceful and eager, tilting Jimin’s head up to bite his lower lip, tugging, watching it snap back in place, desire rolling down his back like waves on the coast. “I need to stop, tell me to stop,” Jeongguk whimpers, bracing himself against the bed.
“I don’t want you to,” Jimin whispers, a strangled noise trapped in the back of his throat, fingers clutching Jeongguk’s scrubs. He clings to Jeongguk, muffling a moan against his throat, something foreign starting to bubble under his skin—a dense fear that creeps onto him, the sensation that Jeongguk is slipping between his fingers, that he's losing him. “Jeongguk, please.”
Seeking out his eyes, Jimin holds onto Jeongguk’s gaze as he slips a hand between their bodies, fingers resting just above his heart. Jeongguk recoils at the touch, eyes snapping to Jimin’s face, a tumult of emotions in them. Unsteady thuds resonate up Jimin’s arm, each beat more broken than the one before.
“I don’t know if I’m haunting you or if you’re haunting me,” Jeongguk confesses in a breathy murmur, pressing their foreheads together. His tears fall freely between them and Jimin holds him closer, running his fingers through Jeongguk’s damp hair, feeling the walls crumbling around them, bruising him.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Jimin cries, a heavy foreboding darkness creeping onto him. He feels Jeongguk’s sobs reverberating through his ribs, hears his voice form as if he lives inside his lungs, coiling in the air that waltz in and out in broken cries, dragging around his bruised vocal chords.
Jimin pulls Jeongguk into a hug, fingers digging into his back, wrapping his arms around his waist and hiding his face in his chest, seeking the comfort of his embrace. And with the tempo set by the frantic thudding of his heart, Jimin starts singing a lullaby.
He’s choking on his tears, snot clogging his nose but he doesn’t care. He pushes through, spilling the words into the crook of Jeongguk’s neck. “A baby more beautiful than flowers, a baby more precious than gold…”
His voice grows louder, more terrified, when Jeongguk’s hands leave him, cold taking the place of the ghost of Jeongguk’s hands on his skin.
Tears cling to his lashes and Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, tightening his arms around Jeongguk, trembling fingers clawing his back. But Jeongguk isn’t hugging him back, no matter how much he begs.
Out there, the stars are falling for them, the night growing just a bit longer as time slows down, hanging by a thread.
“I’m sorry, Jimin.”
“What? N-No!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No! No. No! No. No, Jeongguk!”
Jeongguk’s hands aren’t holding him anymore and he’s drifting away.
His own hands are wet and clammy, something sticking to his skin. Opening his eyes, Jimin sees red. The sheets are dotted with red blobs, the soft fabric of Jeongguk’s scrubs soaked with it.
Blood. So much blood.
It sticks to the folds of his knuckles, darkening the creases with burgundy lines caught in the skin webs. It’s just like when Jimin fell as a kid, skinning his knee on loose gravel, having to pick at the pebbles embedded in his flesh.
To live is to bleed. And here’s Jimin, bleeding. Emptying himself in Jeongguk’s arms, melancholy closing in on him, a sadness that isn’t his own but he feels all the same.
Blood flows from the hollow gashes, embellishing the void where his heart used to sit.
“J-Jeongguk, please… p-please…”
Bright, flashing lights force his eyes close, a sharp, excruciating pain rippling through his ribs, heart shrivelling in anguish. Jeongguk slips through his fingers, the sudden movement tugging at his heart, the sting of his warmth ripping away burning like poisonous thorns.
“Jeongguk… P-please…”
Please, don’t leave me.
Met with silence, his heart falls, the pieces scattering like shattered glass—like dying stars, gone.
Jimin hears the door close, blindly crying out Jeongguk’s name, trying to catch a glimpse of his face before he blacks out.
—
Jimin wakes up with a jolt.
It’s night, the curtains are drawn, a haze of bluish light all around him. He’s lying on his side, facing away from the open door.
The open door.
As his eyes follow the shadow of a tiny silhouette holding a teddy bear, Jimin turns his head to see a small child standing there.
The light out in the corridor is a bit harsh, bouncing off the linoleum in a halo around the kid. Looking over his shoulder, Jimin sees big eyes staring back at him, tiny body in a red shirt and jean overalls, a mop of black hair hidden under a white beanie.
“Hi,” he whispers, slowly shuffling on his back to face the little boy.
The child seems surprised to be addressed, looking up, startled.
“Hi,” he replies timidly, hugging the little teddy bear closer to his heart, cute bread cheek squished against the fluffy toy. He can’t be older than five.
“What’s your name?”
“Yeonjun.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jimin smiles sweetly, pulling his blanket closer to his chest. “My name’s Jimin.”
“I know,” the boy smiles, taking a tentative step into the room, mumbling something that sounds like ‘he told me’.
“It’s okay, you can come in,” Jimin assures him, pushing up into a more sitting position. His body hurts, protesting against the movement, but Jimin pushes through the sluggishness of his limbs, wincing when the IV tugs on his vein.
Yeonjun takes a few steps in, looking around Jimin’s hospital room.
His eyes light up with awe, pouty lips parting in a small ‘o’.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jimin smiles, following his gaze, taking in the post-it flowers in the garden around his bed. “My friend brings me a new one every day.”
Yeonjun gasps, reaching out a tiny hand to trace one of the flowers glued to the end of the bed. There are so many some have fallen to the floor around Jimin, hanging from his blanket, from the machines hooked up to him.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Jimin asks, nodding to the little fluffy teddy bear.
“Doo,” Yeonjun answers, smiling as he proudly shows Jimin his teddy. “Mommy gave him to me.”
“That’s so cool!”
“What’s the name of your friend?” Yeonjun prods.
“His name is Jeongguk.”
That gets a reaction. Yeonjun looks up abruptly, tilting his head, eyes blinking as he takes Jimin in.
“Have you met him?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, clutching his toy. “He helped noona see again. He helped you, too.”
Something about Yeonjun’s words triggers a deep, blooming cut full of sorrow in Jimin’s heart. His vision blurs, the child becoming nothing but a blur of white, red and blue, and Jimin can’t breathe. He coughs and gasps, choking on his tears, the room closing in all around him.
It’s as if an invisible string is wrapping around his throat, drowning him in his own air, heart screaming out for Jeongguk, needing him there to hug him, to smile at him so Jimin knows everything is going to be okay. That he’ll be okay.
“Don’t be sad,” Yeonjun whispers, timidly reaching out a hand. Jimin meets him halfway, feeling the warmth of the child's small hand spread all over his arm. “Don’t be sad.”
Jimin can’t find words, nothing to go past the sobs choking him, the tears streaming down his face as the child offers him the most genuine comfort.
“Your friend gave you his heart,” Yeonjun whispers, leaning closer as if to tell a secret. “Mommy says it’s where we keep the people we love.”
Your friend gave you his heart.
Something startles him, Yeonjun pulling his hand away, looking back at the open door and turning back to Jimin.
His eyes widen, shining like little galaxies. “Mommy’s calling me,” he says, eyebrows drawing up in sorrow. He lingers, eyes flicking between the door and Jimin’s crying figure.
Slowly, Yeonjun comes closer to the bed, rising on his tippy toes to push the little teddy bear up on the bed, the fluffy plushie tumbling over the railing into Jimin’s lap.
“Doo will keep you company,” Yeonjun says, working his little arm in between the railings to push the teddy closer to Jimin. “So you won’t be alone.”
Jimin doesn’t see Yeonjun leave.
His eyes are glued to the tiny plushie in his lap, the bear’s big beady eyes staring back at him. It reminds him so much of Jeongguk’s eyes, those beautiful doe eyes shining brightly, looking at him like there’s no one else in the world.
Jimin hugs Doo close to his chest, crying himself to sleep.
—
Gentle fingers coax Jimin away from sleep.
They trace the slope of his nose, his eyebrows, the curve of his upper lip.
Memorising.
Jimin.
Jimin.
“Jimin.”
Slowly, Jimin opens his eyes.
“Hi, sleepyhead.” Jeongguk murmurs, mouth parting in a small smile.
“Hi.”
“Sorry I woke you up.”
“It’s okay,” Jimin reassures quickly, sitting up with a wince, hand shooting out to grab Jeongguk’s wrist and keep his hand cradling his jaw, nuzzling into the touch.
Keeping his hold on Jimin’s cheek with one hand, Jeongguk pulls another flower from his chest pocket, glueing it to the pole holding Jimin’s IV.
Jeongguk runs his thumb under Jimin’s eye, and Jimin feels how tense he is. “Is something wrong?” he asks shakily, wanting nothing more than to climb off the bed and bury himself in his arms. Jeongguk shrugs, sitting down heavily on the side of his bed, ditching the usual chair.
“Jeongguk?”
He drops his hand, leaving a trail of cold after his touch, an emptiness that tugs at Jimin’s heart. Gone is his usual smile, replaced by a strained grimace. It’s clear something weighs on him.
“I need to ask you something.”
Jimin tenses, pulling Doo closer to his chest, almost like a barrier between himself and whatever Jeongguk is going to say.
“Who’s your doctor?”
“What?” Jimin pales.
“Your doctor,” Jeongguk insists, a single tear escaping his eye. “Another nurse. Anyone.”
“What are you talking about?” he deadpans, terror crawling on the corners of his mind, a phantom hand curling around his throat, making it hard to breathe.
“Name them.”
“What?”
“Tell me the name of any other doctor or nurse who comes in here,” Jeongguk’s voice trembles, as if it pains him immensely to be asking this. “Describe them to me.”
“I don’t know—how could I know?” Jimin spits harshly, backing away into the mattress, panic rising in his chest. “Why are you saying these things?”
“I don’t have much time,” Jeongguk hisses through gritted teeth, fingers clutching the bedding until his knuckles turn white. His eyes hold such an intense pain it’s like a ghost hand squeezing Jimin’s heart, tearing it from the inside out. “They won’t let me stay anymore, Jimin.”
“What do you mean? Jeongguk? W-what?”
“You need to wake up,” Jeongguk grabs his hand, taking a deep breath. “Jimin, you need to wake up.”
The pain in his voice is too much for Jimin to handle, as if Jeongguk is tearing his soul in two, clawing at his heart like a voracious beast, leaving nothing behind.
“W-What? Why–Jeongguk—please, p-please.”
“You need to wake up,” Jeongguk repeats, choking on a sob. “They’re giving up on you and I can’t let that happen.”
“Stop saying that!” Jimin screams, pushing at Jeongguk’s chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his scrubs, not letting go. Don’t let him go. “Why are you lying?!”
His head is spinning, brain on overload trying to remember anyone else—a doctor, a nurse, a sound—but he draws a blank. Not even a visitor.
It’s as if a veil is lifted, and he suddenly remembers them—
Taehyung.
Namjoon.
Yoongi.
“They never came,” Jimin murmurs in a daze, eyes drawn to the closed door.
Jeongguk’s face falls. “They did. You just can’t see them.”
No word can describe what it feels like to have your love ripped away from you.
To feel so hollow, so empty. To feel such lacerating pain you can’t even scream.
He’s an angel, you know?
It’s like now, with you, I see everything beyond my own existence.
I don’t know if I’m haunting you or if you’re haunting me.
Your friend gave you his heart. Mommy says it’s where we keep the people we love.
Your friend gave you his heart.
His heart.
Jimin tugs at Jeongguk’s scrub, pulling the neckline low enough to look down his shirt and see perfect, unblemished skin.
“You have no scars,” Jimin cries, fingers curling onto the fabric. “I feel your heart beating. I feel your skin, I feel you. You’re here, you’re h-here…”
Jeongguk smiles sadly, cradling Jimin’s hand with his own, pressing until he flattens his fingers over his chest.
“It’s your heart,” he whispers, tears falling onto Jimin's knuckles. “In more ways than one.”
“Kiss me.” Jimin tugs on his shirt until he can feel his breath on his chapped lips, the erratic heartbeat under his hands, the warmth of his body seeping into his skin. “Please. P-Please, kiss me…”
Jeongguk smiles sadly, “I wish we had time, Jimin-ah.”
“Don’t say t-that—stop saying that—”
“You have to heal,” Jeongguk keeps pushing, even as his voice breaks, each word inflicting a visceral wound. “You have to help your friends heal, too. It wasn’t their fault. None of this.”
“J-Jeongguk—you c-can’t leave me, you can’t. I won’t let you—”
“I’m not leaving you,” Jeongguk tugs until both of Jimin’s hands rest over his heart, warm palms keeping them in place, thumb caressing the delicate skin of his wrists.
“Then w-why do you speak as if I’ll never see y-you again,” Jimin sobs hysterically, leaning until his head rests on top of their joined hands, quivering lips parting in a kiss that’s so tenderly laid on the back of Jeongguk’s hand.
Oh so gently, Jeongguk brings a hand up to Jimin’s hair, delicate fingers carding through the soft strands as Jimin weeps for them.
For himself, for Jeongguk.
For the time they spent together, and for the time stolen from them.
“Does it hurt?”
Jeongguk shakes his head, a hint of a smile when he answers, “Feels like being carried to your bedroom when you’re a child after you fell asleep on the couch on a family night. You still hear them faintly, but you choose sleep.”
Tears flow, unbound.
They pour out of Jimin in a whirlwind, heavy and burning their paths down his face, dripping into his heart, eroding all the edges of denial, lifting the haze of a dream he desperately clings to, afraid to wake up and realise it’s all it’s ever going to be.
“I have no right to ask you this,” Jeongguk whispers into the crown of his head, a single tear falling to hide amongst the strands. “But don’t forget me. Promise me you won’t forget me.”
Jimin pulls back, blindly seeking Jeongguk’s mouth with his own. “Promise me you’ll find m-me again,” he pleads against his lips, melancholic tears of grief sealing the vow whispered between them. “Promise me.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve found you,” Jeongguk smiles against his lips, the warmth of his breath seeping into Jimin’s bones, curling around his very own essence. “Though fate parts us once more, do not for a moment think I’ve abandoned you.”
And with his thumbs brushing away the tears that can’t seem to stop, he says, “No matter how many years pass, I’ll find you.”
“Take me with you,” Jimin begs, breathing him in. “Let them pull the plug, I don’t—”
“You have so much to live for,” Jeongguk grins, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Look around you…”
With a gentle finger under his chin, Jeongguk tilts Jimin’s head to the side, letting him follow his eyes, nodding towards the obscene amount of flowers all over the room, picking up one of the little lillies glued to the bed.
He takes one of Jimin’s hands in both of his, uncurling his fingers to place the tiny drawing on his palm, slowly closing his fingers over it.
“Each one of them is a day to live,” Jeongguk explains, bringing Jimin’s fist up between them, kissing his knuckles briefly before tilting his head and capturing Jimin’s lips in a sweet, careful kiss. “Go and live them, my love.”
The words make Jimin recoil, curling into himself, eyes squeezed shut. But Jeongguk simply smiles against his lips, fingers curling gently around Jimin’s neck, pulling until their foreheads meet.
“You carry my heart, Jimin. You are me, I am you.”
—
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
—
Jimin wakes to the sun peeking through the curtains, dust bits waltzing in sunlight beams by the open window, a warm golden haze descending upon the bedroom.
His eyelids feel swollen and there’s this weird taste of damp sand on his tongue.
His body hurts, a bone wearing fatigue that stops him from moving anything other than his eyes.
The room is different.
The colours, the bed, the blanket—they’re all wrong.
There are no flowers glued to his bed.
There’s no Doo tucked under his arm.
There’s no chair. No book.
Jimin wakes up and Jeongguk isn’t there.
He keeps glancing nervously at the door, hoping Jeongguk will walk in at any moment but he never does.
—
Jimin wakes to thunder and rain.
He blinks his eyes open to a man standing by his bedside, scribbling something down on a clipboard, silhouetted by the incessant lightning outside.
He’s tall. Handsome. With sleek black hair combed back off his forehead, the collar of a navy blue shirt peeking under his white coat.
Like his frozen body, his lips don't seem to move, so Jimin simply waits until the man glances up, meeting his bleary, itching eyes.
Shock is too simple of a word.
The doctor is stunned, blinking repeatedly as he stands there, frozen in silence.
“Jimin?” he calls tentatively, ditching the clipboard as he leans in a bit over him, studying his face. “Can you hear me?”
He manages a low, gurgled hum that dies in his throat. Tears come.
“No, no—don’t try to talk, just blink if yes.”
Jimin blinks, slowly, a tear sliding down his temple.
“Jimin?” The sound of his name on his mouth feels wrong, wrong, wrong —
Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, the annoying beep of a heart monitor going wild just tearing further into the wounds full of grief and despair, each one of those beeps like a whip lashing into his soul, tearing him from the inside out.
Each beep is a constant reminder that the heart beating inside his chest isn’t his own.
“Hey, hey—it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay,” the doctor jumps into action, pressing a button near his bed, throwing aside the stethoscope slung over his neck. “You’re okay, you’re in the hospital. You’re okay, you’re okay.”
More doctors and nurses enter the room, fretting over him, checking his vitals, a blur of scrubs and white coats and things being said.
They poke and prod, shining lights into his eyes, moving his body this and that way.
Jimin doesn’t care.
His mind is elsewhere, holding onto the only memory he cannot let himself forget, letting it binding itself to his own.
Promise me you won’t forget me.
A doctor asks him something but Jimin doesn’t hear him.
His eyes are open but he can’t see anything but the face smiling back at him, a halo of flowers around them, swirling in the air like magic.
I can never forget you.
Those specks of gold in Jeongguk’s eyes flair like the sun, engulfing him in warmth, lips sealing a promise long made.
You are me, I am you.
—
“Jimin?”
He turns his head at the sound of the doctor’s voice. It’s the same man who was in the room when Jimin woke up, even if Jimin didn’t really catch his name.
“May I come in?”
Jimin blinks, averting his eyes to the window. It’s late, probably around sunset, with the sky behind the buildings a gradient of purplish oranges.
“How are you feeling?” The doctor asks, pulling a chair to his bedside, leaning in eagerly, trying to capture his attention.
Jimin shrugs. He hasn’t spoken a word in two days.
He’s fine, somehow. His body feels like lead and no matter how many times they bathe him he feels filthy, foreign in his own skin. But he’s alive.
Flesh healing—the fresh, still pinkish scars on his skin are nothing compared to the one on his soul.
“My name is Kim Seokjin,” the doctor says, resting a hand on the railings of Jimin’s hospital bed. “I’m a cardiologist.”
Jimin nods in acquiescence, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the window.
Cardiologist. The scar down his sternum burns.
“I’m a surgeon.”
More silence.
“Is there someone else you’d prefer to talk to right now?” he offers gently.
“...J-Jeongguk.”
That gets a reaction out of him.
“What…?”
“J-Jeongguk,” Jimin repeats, voice raspy with disuse. He turns his head to look at the doctor, facing him steadily.
Seokjin looks like he’s seen a ghost. Jimin would give everything to see one, too.
“Wh…a–How…” Seokjin pauses, studying Jimin’s face intently, lower lip caught in his teeth, eyes shining with unshed tears. “He came for you, didn’t he?”
For an answer, Jimin flicks his eyes down to the sheet on the doctor’s lap, a laminated paper with the entire alphabet Seokjin seems to have brought to help Jimin communicate.
Promptly, the doctor scoots closer, the chair dragging over the linoleum. He holds the sheet closer to Jimin’s hand, mindful of the IV sticking out the back of his hand. “Here.”
Patiently, he waits until Jimin manages to spell O-V-E-R-D-O-S-E-M-E.
“No.”
Tears fall, for both of them.
P-L-E-A-S-E.
“Jimin—”
Jimin manages to choke out a weak “please,” a hand curled over his heart, the feel of his heartbeat both joyful and sickening.
Seokjin throws the sheet over his shoulder, letting it clatter to the floor somewhere behind him. He leans in, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed, hiding a sob behind his hands. “I’m a fucking doctor,” he laughs bitterly, hands rubbing up and down his face, smearing tears all over his cheeks.
He cries, torn between science and the unknown, babbling to himself things Jimin can’t quite catch. “I don’t know what happened while you were in a coma, and truthfully, I can’t wrap my mind around it,” Seokjin glances up, meeting Jimin’s eyes. “Yet, somehow, my heart just… knows.”
An overdue sob claws its way out of his chest, and Jimin can’t do anything but lay there and watch as someone important to Jeongguk crumbles down right in front of him.
“You’re not the only one in pain,” Seokjin confesses after a while, folding his arms over the blanket by Jimin’s thighs, hiding his face in them. “Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him.”
His words slash through Jimin’s walls, an urge to reach out and comfort him overtaking his entire being—so Jimin does it. His movements are still limited and sluggish, but he manages to drag his hand towards Seokjin, touching his elbow with his fingertips.
The doctor flinches at the touch at first, but he quickly slides his own hand over Jimin’s, holding on carefully for a moment before letting go.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” he says, turning his head to look at Jimin. His eyes are so terribly sad, filled with a deep, gut wrenching melancholy that rivals Jimin’s own. “At the stadium.”
Little by little, the memories come to him.
Thousands of people, screaming his name.
Lights, money and glitter.
“Selfless kid, that one.” With a deep breath, Seokjin continues, wiping a stray tear on his coat. “Volunteered to cover for a friend who had been drafted for the show. It’s usually not a big deal, with most work being people feeling faint or a scraped knee here and there. But then…”
The stage.
A gunshot.
Screams and sirens and pain.
So much blood and so much pain.
“It’s not really my story to tell,” he admits, fingertip tracing the hospital logo embroidered on the blanket, running over the bumps of thread on cotton. “This is something your friends need to talk to you about. They have so much to tell.”
Jimin averts his eyes, staring at a stray lint peeking out of his pillowcase.
He knows they’re here.
He can even picture them sitting in the waiting room, munching on cheap vending machine snacks, all dishevelled and tired, Taehyung pacing down the hallway, filling in several visiting requests.
Jimin has denied each and every one of them.
He wants to see them. Desperately.
Wants to hug his best friend and cry on his shoulder as he’s done so many times before—wants to be held and cherished and loved.
But he knows everything will change when they do. The moment his friends walk through that door, there’ll be no space for denial. Jeongguk will be nothing but a memory.
“Two hundred and eighty-nine,” Seokjin whispers, eyes lost and unfocused. “Two hundred and eighty-nine grams was the weight of my best friend’s heart.”
Two hundred and eighty-nine grams. Feels much heavier than that.
“They didn’t prepare me for this in med school, Jimin. For the pain of having my friend on my table, having to hold his heart in my hands and decide who to save.”
Seokjin stands rather abruptly, chest rattling with a breathy, swallowed cry. “I cannot imagine what you’re going through,” he whispers to the room, pulling the sleeve of his coat over his hand to wipe the tears drying on his skin. “But please, don’t ever ask me to stop the heart you now carry in your chest. Not when it was nowhere near ready to stop.”
Later that night, when Jimin wakes up to raindrops splattering against the thick glass of his window, there’s something tucked between the railings of his bed.
It’s a photograph.
There, three boys sit on the floor of what looks like a dorm hallway, crinkled plastic bags spilling snacks in between them.
One of them is Dr. Kim. He’s clearly a bit younger, in his early twenties, but he hasn’t changed much. Still as handsome in a white coat as he was in a bleach stained hoodie, drinking something out of a huge Mickey Mouse tumbler.
The boy on his left is a stranger. With a heart-shaped smile and wild hair, he sits frozen mid-bite, cheeks puffed like a squirrel’s, full of a huge sandwich he holds in one hand.
The other is Jeongguk.
Beautiful Jeongguk, sitting there cross-legged, barefoot. In some black shorts and a huge t-shirt, the neckline is so stretched it’s falling off his shoulder, exposing a small scar.
He’s much younger, face still carrying hints of baby fat, but his eyes are the same. Bright and big and beautiful, shining brightly with the camera’s flash.
His hair is longer and in desperate need of a wash. He has mayonnaise all over his lips, mouth in a little pout to hold a bite much bigger than he can chew.
Carefully, as if holding a gem, Jimin picks up the photograph, running his fingers over the glossy surface, caressing the frozen image of someone he yearns for.
Curious to see if there was something written on the back, he flips it over and surely, there is. A loopy, almost childish penmanship, worn out with time, spells ‘our first visit to the dorm, spring of Jeonggukie’s freshman year.’
Beneath it, in a different, neat scrawl, is a freshly written ‘This was our Jeongguk’.
—
In the months Jimin spent in a coma, Taehyung seems to have aged a decade.
He’s much thinner, paler than Jimin remembers. There’s no bright boxy smile, no chaotic energy radiating off of him.
He stands there, by the door, clutching the frame until his knuckles turn white, face drawn in worry. Almost as if the one laying in a bed is a stranger, not his best friend.
“Hi.”
The soft, barely there curl of Jimin’s lips is the reply he manages to give.
“May I…?”
Jimin nods, eyes flickering between Taehyung and the door. ‘Alone?’ he mouths, throat producing not a single sound.
“Yoongi hyung is in the waiting room,” Taehyung replies carefully, hands up in front of him as if approaching a small, frightened animal. “He’ll come if you want him to.”
‘Namjoon?’ Jimin asks silently, watching Taehyung take a seat on the chair near his bed.
“He’s not here,” Taehyung whispers, voice strained, throat tight. His shoulders drop, defeated, as he glances up wearily, seemingly trying to find the right words. “He isn’t well, Jimin-ah.”
Thoughts of Namjoon getting shot and hurt flash through his mind, and it must be clear on his face, for Taehyung immediately adds, “He’s okay. Physically. It’s his mind. He… feels responsible for what happened to you.”
Tugging his trusted alphabet sheet from under his blanket, Jimin spells T-E-L-L-M-E.
He’s just numb at this point.
Numb and apathetic—detached.
A shell of flesh and blood that breathes and shits, encasing whatever’s left of his soul.
The truth cannot possibly hurt him more than he already is.
“Do you… remember what happened?” Taehyung starts, leaning in. His fidgety hands are a telltale sign he wants to reach out and hold Jimin’s hand but is holding himself back.
Jimin doesn’t know how to tell him he wants Taehyung to reach out and hold him, that he needs to feel his best friend’s touch, the warmth of his hand and the comfort of his presence.
He can’t bring himself to say it. But again his love for Taehyung runs deep, trespassing the burnt fields, fueling the need to comfort his friend whose eyes are shining with tears yet to spill.
So Jimin turns his hand palm up, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed, meeting Taehyung’s questioning gaze.
‘It’s okay,’ he mouths, the tiniest sound of his voice escaping his lips, drowned by the constant beep of his heart monitor.
Taehyung whimpers, hands trembling when he reaches out, cradling Jimin’s with his own, pulling it away from his little alphabet card.
His touch burns like electricity. A jolt of life.
And just like that, Jimin is jerked back into reality.
He’s a man, confined to a hospital bed with a bullet hole in his chest and a void left by a love he doesn’t remember nor understand.
He’s a living, breathing human who almost died, and his best friend in the entire world is finally here, crumbling down in front of him, quivering lips pressed into his knuckles, his tears slipping in between Jimin’s fingers, making their way down his wrist.
Jeongguk’s heart hammers in his chest. Strong and stable.
The heart monitor picks up, the sound more constant and intense.
Taehyung looks up, eyes wide, glancing at the button that calls emergency.
But Jimin tightens his hold on Taehyung’s hand, tugging with the little strength he has until Taehyung looks at him in time to see him mouth a much-needed ‘hug me.’
Taehyung holds him gently as he weeps, leaning over Jimin’s half-sitting form, ear pressed to his chest, Jimin’s booming, constant heartbeat reverberating along his skull.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
And Jimin sits there, paralyzed, the warmth of Taehyung's body seeping through the blanket, wrapping around him like an anchor.
He wants to hug him back, wants to wrap his arms around his friend but he can’t. He doesn’t have the strength to move them.
So he just sits there in silence for what could’ve been hours, looking down at his friend, until Taehyung catches his breath. Jimin wishes there was a way to convey how grateful he is that Taehyung didn’t abandon him. Even when he wants to let go of himself.
Trying to slow his breathing, Taehyung sits back, still holding tight onto Jimin’s hand.
“At first, no one believed what had happened. We were all in shock, acting on autopilot,” Taehyung starts, voice quivering, gaze lost to the incident. “I was sitting prettily in my VIP booth up there, and then suddenly you were falling on stage with a scream, and…”
He recoils, fingers tightening around Jimin’s hand, eyes squeezed shut. “I still remember it so vividly. Pandemonium. Screams and screams and just… chaos. They locked down and wouldn’t let me leave, the guard on the door telling me to lay down on the floor.”
Jimin’s chest tightens, a deep, sinking darkness slowly digging its nails into his stomach.
“I have huge blank spots where I don’t remember anything. I don’t—I don’t really remember details, it’s all a blur of red and blue sirens and dark clothing and men shouting, and just… screams. It’s like they never stop ringing inside my head,” Taehyung cries, a hand gripping his hair as he squeezes his eyes shut, wracked with sobs.
Taehyung needs this just as much as Jimin does. To tell the truth, speak it into existence.
“They locked down. The hospital. And they wouldn’t let me in,” Taehyung swallows tightly, taking a deep breath. “But then I saw Namjoon hyung. He—he was drenched in blood, crying in the middle of the hallway. I… I thought we’d lost you.”
He chokes on a sob, a single tear sliding down his face.
“But Seokjin hyung said…” The first hint of a smile crosses his face when Jimin perks up at that name. “We became close,” he explains sadly, drawing meaningless circles on the palm of Jimin’s hand. “He… he’s suffering as much as we are.”
“J-Jeongguk.”
His name is the only word Jimin has been able to bring himself to speak aloud. The only word that doesn’t taste foul, that doesn’t make him want to sink his nails in his throat and rip out his vocal chords.
Taehyung’s lower lip trembles, eyes filled with emotion hearing Jimin’s voice for the first time, blindly following the movement when Jimin reaches for the card again.
“He was the paramedic who saved you.”
Jimin shakes his head, a distressed cry leaving his lips. D-O-N-O-R.
“That too,” Taehyung smiles wetly, fingers curling tighter around Jimin’s. “He saved you. More than once.”
It’s as if an evil hand is squeezing Jimin’s heart, blood dripping between the fingers, hot and thick, claws sinking in until he has nothing left to give.
“He was one of the paramedics that brought you to the hospital, and the one who stopped Joonwoo.”
Jimin freezes, recoiling at the sound of his personal bodyguard and head of security being said with so much venom.
The claws sinking into his chest start to take form, the black tips receding, giving way to human flesh—thick, knobbly fingers that used to steer him away from crowds and stalkers.
“He fooled us all, Jimin.” Taehyung sniffles, pale and defeated. Broken. “He… he was obsessed with you and we had no idea.”
His eyes drift away, distant and cold, as if narrating something else entirely. “It was Joonwoo who shot you.”
Jimin curls into himself, clawing at his chest, trying to make it stop.
But it doesn’t.
“He fumbled the shot at the stadium, so you didn’t die immediately. In a way no one knows how to explain, Jeongguk managed to keep you alive until they got you here,” Taehyung goes on, word vomiting the truth of it all. “They took you straight into surgery, and you miraculously made it through, even if you arrived with a fucking bullet to the chest.”
Jimin barely hears him, wailing and crying as if his heart is being ripped from his chest all over again.
“He’s the reason Jeongguk laid down his life for you,” Taehyung whispers, the sparkle dying in his eyes as he watches Jimin fall apart. “And the reason I have to watch Namjoon hyung destroy himself while I stand there, powerless.”
The heart monitor is going haywire in the background, a meaningless blip in between Jimin’s deafening, deafening cries.
“I don’t think they’d want me to tell you this, and maybe I shouldn’t, but you deserve the truth.” Taehyung pushes through, grimacing through the pain of forcing the words out. “He came in, after you got out of surgery. To end it, I guess. But he didn’t expect Jeongguk to be here with you.”
Jimin tries to pull his hand back but Taehyung doesn’t let him, grounding him as he wails and trashes, drowning in his own cries full of agonising grief.
“Jeongguk fought him, Jimin. Valiantly.” Taehyung’s voice is nothing but a lifeless whisper, at the same time nailing his heart down and setting it free. “But hands are no match for a gun.”
The room is spinning and Jimin can’t breathe.
An excruciating scream tears itself from deep in his chest, slashing through him until he tastes blood. The iron, coppery taste flooding his mouth like poison and he sees red.
Waves of wrath flow through him like a wild river, current so strong nothing stands afloat, sweeping him away, weaving itself in his soul.
Taehyung’s voice sounds distant, muted. But Jimin hears him nonetheless.
“He was shot in the head, but he was still alive.”
Time stops.
A second stretches into a million years and Jimin knows.
He just knows.
“You, too. You both went back into surgery and… J-Jin hyung…”
Jimin sits there, staring straight ahead, blind, waiting for Taehyung to rip the last thread holding him together. To say what he already knows. To voice out the truth that seared a wound that nothing can heal.
Not even time.
“He knew you wouldn’t make it without a transplant. And knowing Jeongguk wouldn’t… come back, he made a decision. A very difficult one.”
He’s special, that one. A gentle, selfless soul.
He helped noona see again.
Two hundred and eighty-nine grams.
“I’m not sure if I should’ve told you all of this,” Taehyung breathes, a trembling hand coming up to cradle his cheek, gently turning his head. “But I don’t know what to do anymore. We… We’re just shells, Jimin. All of us.”
Jimin’s throat is on fire, as if Hell itself has opened a portal within him and everything pours out of him.
Grief.
Anger.
Despair.
Helplessness.
Pain. Vocal chords shredded like his heart—torn apart forcefully, ripped away from him. Just like Jeongguk was. And the lifetime they could’ve had. They should’ve had.
Perhaps that was how they were supposed to meet.
Maybe Jimin would’ve banged his knee or scraped his hand on stage and Jeongguk would come tend to him in between songs.
Jimin would fuss and say he’s fine, but everything would stop the moment Jeongguk walked into the tent. Someone would hold the flap open for him, staff bustling in and out, and their eyes would meet. Jeongguk would come and kneel before Jimin while the stylists fret around him, redoing his hair and applying more makeup, another staff dabbing his sweaty neck with a small hand towel.
Jeongguk would crouch there in the cramped space, with his little first-aid kit and his beautiful purple scrubs, staring up at Jimin with those eyes filled with a thousand galaxies. He would smile and say “It’s just a scratch.”
And he would lower his head, chuckling shyly, flustered with the way Jimin would stare at him, entranced, as Jeongguk laid a cute Mickey Mouse band-aid over his tiny cut. He would joke about ‘kissing it better’, and Jeongguk would call him a flirt.
And then Jimin would stand up and put his in-ears back on. His staff would shout ‘one minute!’ and Jimin would leave the tent, grab his mic and turn to Namjoon. He would quickly pull his manager closer and whisper in his ear to get him the cute paramedic’s info or he would intentionally bump into a metal pole or miss a step on the ladder up the stage.
Namjoon would cackle and call him a thirsty hoe, but he would get Jeongguk's number after making him sign an NDA. And then Jimin would text him that same night, back at the hotel. Probably send something super corny, giggling into his pillow, freshly showered after the concert.
Jeongguk would reply immediately and they would text all night long.
Jimin would wake up tired after just a couple hours of sleep, smiling at the ‘good morning’ text on his phone. He would text Jeongguk back, send him a cute selfie, and they’d go to work, looking forward to the night where they’d see each other again.
And they would spend that night talking, too.
And the next.
And the next.
“For the first two weeks, we stayed here all day every day. Waiting for you to wake up,” Taehyung breathes, sniffling into the back of his hand, pulling Jimin’s attention back to him. “But you never did.”
Jimin stares at their hands, fingers intertwined, trying to keep himself from falling apart.
“They said you were fine and recovering physically, but you just wouldn’t… wake up.”
Jimin wishes he wouldn’t.
Maybe he should’ve died on stage.
That way, he wouldn’t be here, overcome with guilt and pain, mourning something he doesn’t understand.
His friends wouldn’t be suffering on his behalf.
Jeongguk wouldn’t be a memory he desperately holds on to.
“I don’t know what we’re gonna do from now on,” Taehyung says, voice heavy and tired. So, so tired. “I… I tried to stop them, Jimin. I really did.”
When Jimin glances up, disappointment and sheer betrayal bleed into Taehyung’s brown eyes, mouth twisting in a frown.
“Your family… they thrived off of what happened. Media ate the story up, turned it into a fucking spectacle,” he spits venomously. “And when the hype died down and you didn’t die or woke up, they—Jimin, they robbed you.”
A disbelieving chuckle makes its way past his lips. He’s not surprised. Sad, of course. But his family turning on him the moment his fortune was unattended, even if they themselves are loaded celebrities, just proves he has nothing to do with this world anymore.
He may still be alive, but the idol died that night on stage.
“They took over your accounts and rights. Sold the penthouse. Everything.”
His arms feel like lead, but Jimin manages to drag his fingers over the alphabet card, asking Taehyung to elaborate.
“It—fuck, it makes me sick to think of it,” Taehyung hisses, fuming. “The way they sold the story like you were some fucking object, turning a tragedy into profitable entertainment.”
“T’was.”
“What?”
“M-My… life,” Jimin manages to say, wincing as the muscles move in his throat. He definitely tore something.
“No. No, baby. No…” Taehyung raises a hand to Jimin’s cheek, fingers splayed on the side of his face, tugging slightly until Jimin meets him halfway, hiding in Taehyung’s neck. “You’re an artist, first and foremost. You’ll always be one.”
Jimin shivers under Taehyung’s care, the other boy running a hand down his back, fingers getting caught in the little bows holding his gown together. It’s soothing, the touch.
“You gave the world so much, Jimin. So much. You don’t have to go back to that life if you don’t want to.”
His throat tightens painfully, the lump stuck in it is heavy and dull, almost as if his pain has found a place to make home in him. To attach itself to.
“I don’t know how things are gonna turn out, but I’ll be with you all the way. And so will Yoongi hyung. A-And Namjoon hyung, too.”
Fresh tears well in Jimin’s eyes at the mention of Namjoon.
His dearest friend who gladly shared that chaotic life with him, who was by his side through all the glory and all the shit.
He cannot fathom the pain Namjoon is in.
“I haven’t had the chance to tell him you’re awake,” Taehyung whispers into his hair. “Would you like me to?”
Jimin nods against his neck, breathing in deeply.
Jeongguk’s words come back to him at that moment, and Jimin finally understands. He has to live on.
For Jeongguk.
For his friends.
For himself.
He has to heal and help them heal, too.
“Jin hyung said he gave you a picture of them,” Taehyung says, sniffling. “The other boy in the picture is Hobi hyung. Jung Hoseok.”
Jimin slumps further into Taehyung’s arms, letting all his weight on his friend.
J-E-O-N-G-G-U-K F-R-I-E-N-D.
“Yeah. He’s a doctor here, too. Psychiatrist. He’s…” Taehyung gulps, his fingers freezing in Jimin’s hair, stopping the soft caress. “He’s been taking care of Joonie hyung. Helping him.”
That brings a small, albeit genuine, smile to Jimin's face; A smile Taehyung feels against his skin.
“Sticking together has been a huge help to all of us.”
Jimin opens his eyes, looking over Taehyung’s shoulder at the closed door.
“Can’t wait for you to meet him.”
His vision blurs with more unshed tears, throat on fire, but Jimin smiles. He smiles brightly, fingertips tingling where they rest over his slightly crumpled alphabet card.
You left your friends to take care of mine, huh?
And he can picture Jeongguk’s cheeky smile so clearly, so perfectly, it’s as if he’s standing right there in front of him.
And he feels it.
The tiniest zap of hope.
A miniscule spark the size of a mustard seed, but a spark nonetheless.
A flare of light in that endless, bottomless pit of darkness.
Will you stay? Jeongguk, will you stay?
A ghostly hand cradles his face, warm and safe.
Always.
Jimin closes his eyes and focuses on their heart.
There, beating inside his chest.
Theirs.
Strong.
Steady.
A metronome setting the tempo he needs to write a new melody, a new chapter.
A sanctuary Jimin can rely on to keep the rhythm of his soul at a steady pace.
He wants to hold onto time, but it’ll fly. And a lifetime is just a chapter in the book of forever.
So he’ll do it. He will live.
Walk the path and live the days Jeongguk gave him, carrying his memory along the road.
Honour each and every one of his lillies until they meet again.
That way, he won’t be so scared of eternity.
He’ll look forward to it, knowing he’ll never truly be alone;
Knowing he’ll always feel Jeongguk beside him;
Knowing he’ll be there to greet him on the other side, at the intersection of souls they’ve created over the years.
One day.
One day, Jeongguk will hold out his hand and call his name.
Jimin.
—
Jimin wakes to the sun peeking through the curtains, dust bits waltzing in the sunlight beams by the open window.
Taehyung and Yoongi sit beside his bed, holding hands, their eyes lighting up when they see he’s awake.
The warmth of the sun on Jimin’s skin when they help him go sit by the window is nothing compared to the way his heart blooms seeing them finally together. Together, together.
Seeing Yoongi kiss Taehyung’s knuckles with a promise to go get them something sweet to eat while Tae helps Jimin actually bathe for the first time.
He’s been able to walk around the room, now. Just a few, careful steps.
He’s been able to see himself in the mirror, too.
His hair has been cut close to the scalp, back to the natural black. Eyes sunken, complexion a bit gaunt.
His lips are chapped, his cheeks blotchy and red.
In a flowy hospital gown, supported by his best friend and a sweet older nurse, Jimin sees himself for the first time. And the man staring back at him isn’t the idol that once was — the celebrity decked head to toe in luxurious clothes, heavy makeup and dyed hair, nor the singer surrounded by camera flashes and screaming fans.
But, surprisingly, Jimin still sees himself in that reflection.
Perhaps that’s the real him, lost under all the money and glamour.
“Come, darling. Let’s wash up.”
The nurse assisting them is gentle, compassionate.
Her touch is firm and experienced as they help him undress, guiding Taehyung on how to hold him. One would think it’s humiliating, to let his friend see him in such a state.
But what a relief it is to have him there. To allow himself to be vulnerable in the eyes of the other, knowing there’s no judgement there. Only love.
Together they help him sit down, assisting him without overstepping the boundaries of his dignity.
The shower steam takes over the small bathroom, droplets clinging to the white tiles, the splash of water on the floor echoing back on the walls.
The nurse’s silent presence is soothing, even if it’s Taehyung who holds a naked Jimin against his chest, clothes now soaking wet, as his friend wails and trashes, the wound on his soul too painful to bear at the sight of his scars.
One would think it’s the visual of once unblemished skin now marred with a thick pinkish line down his sternum. The ‘ugliness’ of two bullet wounds — small, round scars beneath his left collarbone.
Perhaps it’d have been that, if Jimin was still the person he was before. But he isn’t.
He’s just Jimin now.
No, the pain comes from a memory.
The memory of a young soul reaped too soon.
The guilty of carrying on.
From memories not his own, but that are now his to remember.
From processing the grief, from mourning the time lost, the road untravelled.
Jimin vowed to go on.
To live.
To honour the garden he was given. Petal by petal, stem by stem.
But it’s hard.
The wound, too fresh.
Time hasn’t nurtured their roots, sun hasn’t shined enough on the buds to help them bloom.
So Jimin lets himself cry the tears his heart needs to soak the soil for his future self, crushed under the pain, until the marks have faded. He lets despair meld with the promise of a better, easier tomorrow.
—
Hoseok is a ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak room.
Seokjin is a force to be reckoned with.
Yoongi, a fortress.
And Taehyung the pillar holding Jimin up when the police come.
They stand by him when the men in black uniforms circle his bed, respecting his wishes to see the pictures in a thin, pristine manila folder.
He used to see it all the time.
His face all over a bedroom, posters glued to the walls, his albums on a shelf, records of his voice playing from a radio somewhere.
These give him the chills.
They don’t come from a fan’s love and admiration, they’re a shrine built on obsession.
On a lie so well told he fell for it; for the false sense of protection of a monster, unknowingly offering his life on a plate to the man hellbent on ceasing it.
Jimin tries not to, but the anger comes like a hurricane, sweeping him off in a wave of regret, of ‘what if’s.
A need to burn and destroy like a blazing fire through a dry forest, to turn everything to ash and dust — anything to quell the hunger of vengeance plaguing his blood.
But even that Joonwoo took from him, keeping the last bullet for himself.
—
Jimin spends most of the following days sedated.
When awake, he’s overcome by tears and an overwhelming, panic-stricken hysteria.
Grief in itself is a difficult road to navigate, but Jimin struggles to confront the loss.
He promised Jeongguk he would keep going no matter how painful the reality of not having him around would be.
He promised to move forward despite the hollowed pangs of emptiness.
But it’s so, so difficult to keep anger at bay. To keep the corrosive remorse out of his system, to keep the screams lodged in his permanently damaged throat.
He promised to go on, but there’s too much pain and he doesn’t know how to let it all go in a way that won’t obliterate him in the process.
But like a thunderstorm, he eventually runs out of tears.
And then delirium is soon replaced by silent, permissive apathy.
He remains awake, eyes lost and unfocused, mind wandering by itself, ignoring the growing realisation of how difficult it’s going to be to fight against the numbness that’s slowly finding roots within him, the remorse.
He’s sinking, letting sadness get to him.
He knows he has to fight against the current. He has to try, he has to care.
But the looming shadow of death and despair is difficult to wade through. Like a swamp, it clings to him, trying to keep him from going on further.
He struggles to set himself free, but he keeps sinking deeper, devoured by the never-ending pool of darkness.
—
The moon is high in the night sky when Namjoon walks through the door.
Gone is the pressed designer suit, replaced by a hospital scrub-like pyjama of loose-fitting pants and matching top. The wrist that used to sport a Rolex now bears a hospital wristband, the neatly-styled hair buzzed down to the scalp.
“Jimin-ah.”
The sound of his name in Namjoon’s voice brings forth the last piece needed to complete the puzzle, to ground Jimin back into this lifetime.
They’re all there, they’re all alive —
Namjoon.
Seokjin.
Hoseok.
Yoongi.
Taehyung.
Jeongguk, too.
Jimin sees him in everything —
In the gentleness of Seokjin’s care.
In the moonlight filtering through the window.
In the fire in Namjoon’s eyes that depression didn’t manage to dull.
In the warmth of the blanket over his shoulders.
In the kindness and patience with which Hoseok approaches his agony.
In the lilies in a vase by his bed.
In Taehyung’s steadfast heart, and Yoongi’s serene love.
The decision to donate their organs is one of the most generous gifts someone can give, and yet Jeongguk gave him much more than a heart.
To fill the void of his corporeal absence, Jeongguk left Jimin two best friends who’ll help him navigate this journey. All together they’ll weave the bonds of their new, found family.
So.
Seeking solace in the arms of his friends, Jimin cries.
He cries tears of relief and grief, the first breath of air after pushing his head out of the swamp of sorrow and misery that threatened to swallow him.
As heartbreaking as it is, Jimin allows himself to bond with them over their shared suffering, knowing it’s much, much more than that.
This time, his tears aren’t born out of sorrow. They’re a cathartic beginning in the arduous process of healing.
—
Jimin is already well enough to be walking around the hospital by himself, nagging the nurses and stealing pudding off the food delivery carts, when Jin tells him he has visitors by the names of Jeon Soyoon and Jeon Jeonghyun.
It’s painful to see Jeongguk in their faces, to see the origin of his smile in his mom’s lips, to see his grief reflected in his dad’s doe eyes.
It’s painful to sit there in their embrace, the stethoscopes’ chest pieces cold against the jagged skin of his scar as they listen to their son’s heart beating inside his chest.
It’s painful to feel their tears soaking his pyjamas, his own tears falling in the crown of their heads — they too have that same raven hair Jimin remembers running his fingers through, though theirs are sprinkled with bits of grey here and there.
It’s painful to hug them, knowing they lost their son while he stands there, alive and breathing.
“You being alive means everything to us,” Mrs. Jeon tells him in that soft, motherly voice. Her hands are so incredibly warm, her slightly wrinkly fingers cradling his face, thumbs wiping his tears.
Mr. Jeon’s arms around him make Jimin feel so, so safe. He hugs him back with all the strength he’s managed to recover, burrowing his face in his chest, allowing himself to feel small again. He hugs him for himself and for Jeongguk, receiving that parental love he didn’t receive from his own parents.
What he got was a visit from a lawyer and documents that basically asked him to not sue them for robbing him blind, with an agreement to return his royalties and a few millions to help him settle in a simpler, less publicised life.
For that entire afternoon, Jeongguk’s parents ease his guilt, chase away the misguided inadequacy he feels for grieving someone he never truly met. “The depth of your grief is the capacity of your love,” Mr. Jeon tells him. “And we know how much you would’ve loved him.”
The tears they shed clear the path for the room to be filled with laughter when they tell Jimin stories of Jeongguk’s childhood, of the day he stole Dr. Jeon’s white coat and opened a clinic in the living room to tend to his teddy bears.
They tell him how Jeongguk cried on his first day of kindergarten, but then didn’t want to go home after, thinking he wouldn’t meet the friends he made that day ever again.
They tell him how Jeongguk became friends with Seokjin and Hoseok at an early age, the three of them becoming attached at the hip even if the other two were older than him. They met at a dinner hosted by Jin’s family, a gathering for Dr. Kim’s acquaintances from the medical field, the newest addition to the circle being the Jeons.
Mrs. Jeon tells him how handsome nine year old Jeongguk looked with his hair combed back, in dress pants and a white shirt, clutching her hand as they made their way through the wealthy crowd. How, noticing the shy little Jeongguk standing alone next to his parents, Mrs. Kim came and introduced the kids to him, nervously running her hands through Seokjin’s hair to tame the wild, unkempt locks of a kid who’d been running around the house playing catch with his equally dishevelled friend Jung Hoseok.
They immediately took Jeongguk under their wing, telling their parents they were going upstairs to play in Jin’s room, but actually sneaking outside to play catch around the mansion.
Mrs. Jeon laughs heartily as she retells how, not even an hour later, the three of them appeared in the room, soaking wet, dripping pool water all over the floor. Jeongguk had fallen into the pool, unfamiliar with the house, and Jin and Hoseok had jumped after him. Not to save him from drowning, no. To keep playing catch in the pool, splashing each other playfully until one of the maids saw them.
She tells Jimin how Jeongguk grew up well, how he loved to play at the beach in Busan, how he always carried a small sketchpad with him wherever he went.
It’s soft and beautiful, a moment to be cherished deeply in the years to come.
His voice is still too damaged to speak for long, but with the aid of his withered alphabet card, Jimin tells them his side of the story, too.
Not stories from his past, no.
He tells them those memories he shouldn't be able to remember, the dreams that shouldn’t make sense.
He tells them of the flowers Jeongguk gave him, the way they surrounded his bed, and how, even now, he sees them all around him. Feels him all around him.
They listen.
They sit and listen as Jimin slowly recounts what should be unfathomable to doctors, to people of science.
But they understand.
They know.
They all do.
They all understand that there are ties that do not come from the flesh sutured into his own human carcass, that there is a bond that goes beyond human comprehension.
They stay well past visiting hours, but no one has the heart to ask them to leave.
When they do, eventually leave, it’s with a promise to stay with him if allowed to, and the offer of a room in their hearts if he so wishes to occupy a place that will always be there for him.
That is why, one sunny morning by the end of that month, Jimin wakes up to a small box and a large envelope sitting next to a bouquet of fresh tiger lilies.
The box holds several pictures of Jeongguk throughout his life — with his family, his friends, with Duke.
The neatly folded envelope is a bit thicker than it’s supposed to be, the flap not able to hold it closed. In it, Jimin finds a few documents.
Duke’s veterinarian anamnesis and ownership form.
The lease to Jeongguk’s studio, extended for another seven years, the first twelve months already paid off.
His donor national registration papers and a letter young Jeongguk wrote for himself to be opened when he turned 30, left unopened.
Some would say it’s wrong, to hold onto those who pass. But Jimin doesn’t care.
He has a promise to keep and a story to tell.
“Tell me something you really want.”
“To be a memory.”
He’ll be much, much more than that.
—
Months go by.
Jimin’s room is filled with light and joy, even on the bad days.
There’s always a balloon tied to his bedpost and a vase of lilies on his bedside table.
Taehyung brings him books to pass the time, but Jimin is more often than not wandering around the floor, making new friends. Usually, he’s found sitting out on the veranda basking in sunlight, folding origami flowers and stars for hours, and giving them to the nurses to drop at the paediatric ward.
He receives a few fan mails that Taehyung sifts through.
The words on beautifully decorated letters speak of love and admiration, of prayers and recovery. They wish him a happy life, away from the spotlight. They talk of gratitude, of strength, of being a beacon of light in the darkest times. They talk of love. Love, love and love.
They stay folded inside colourful envelopes, always there on his bedside with his flowers, to be read over and over again as the days pass.
And they do pass.
Days turn into weeks and so he persists, trying to be gentle with himself on his steady, albeit slow recovery.
His scars heal nicely, the redness softening with time. His hair grows back.
Physical therapy helps him regain full mobility, even if he does feel a slightly painful tug whenever he moves his left arm a certain way that most likely won’t ever go away.
Seokjin still checks on him daily, a moment that is not just to assess his condition.
Their friendship blooms into something beautiful, comfortable. They talk about anything, joke around and tease each other endlessly. Seokjin sometimes rambles about the latest episode of a drama he’s been watching everyday during lunch, but mostly he sticks to dramatic anecdotes from their college days.
He becomes a source of comfort for Jimin, a safe place. And Jimin is grateful to be that for him too, when one random Tuesday Seokjin barges into his room in tears, needing comfort from a loved one.
He’s a doctor. A surgeon. Relatively hardened by a career that deals with death on the daily. But there he is, crying into Jimin’s chest, grieving a middle-aged patient that, after a lengthy code, passed away.
He tells Jimin of the patient’s mother, an elderly woman who never stopped seeing her grown son as a baby, crying over his lifeless form in the ER. Her pain tore at his heart, and how inadequate he felt as a doctor right there and then, unable to do anything to spare her such suffering.
Groggy with sleep, Jimin does his best to comfort Jin through that loss, letting his friend ditch the stone-faced doctor front and be a goddamn human being. He hums a lullaby, hands rubbing up and down Seokjin’s back, a wistful smile finding its way onto his lips when he feels another ghostly pair on his own shoulders.
And his smile is even brighter when, the day after, Seokjin walks into the room carrying two stethoscopes. One with a black yoke, the other a muted lilac.
His smile is so bright his cheeks hurt, and there’s something unexplainably exhilarating in listening to his own heart, looking down and seeing the small tag around the yoke that reads JJK.
He doesn’t even have to ask — Seokjin lets him keep it.
—
Jimin speaks more and more as time goes by, his beloved alphabet card more of a clutch these days.
For weeks, he goes through exams and tests conducted by Dr. Jeon’s trusted friend, Dr. Choi Jinah. She’s a middle aged laryngologist, with a bob cut and thick rimmed glasses. She’s calm and sympathetic, soft spoken; understanding of his hesitancy to tell the truth — that his difficulty to speak wasn’t only physiological.
Something within him was blown to smithereens when he screamed himself raw, when he allowed his soul to push beyond the boundaries of his corporeal limits, feeling an emotion no human body was designed to contain.
Against all odds and expectations, Jimin choses to bypass the recommended surgery to tend to his poorly healed laryngeal fracture, trading the higher pitches and belting ranges for a breathy, slightly hoarse voice.
He’ll be able to sing again, of course, just not the way he used to. Like a child, he’ll learn how to use his voice all over again. And what an exciting adventure that will be.
They all support his decision, encouraging him to try again whenever he fails, celebrating each and every conquest. And just like Jimin himself, they grow to love his new, raspier voice.
And so, after weeks and weeks of physical therapy and a bumpy path of recovery, Jimin finally trades the hospital room for one small studio apartment.
The colourful balloons on the hallway bring him to tears, a handful of handwritten letters from the nurses and doctors shoved into his backpack, arms open wide to hug him goodbye.
He hugs them as tight as he can, hoping that that embrace conveys the gratitude that goes beyond the medical care they’ve provided him with.
He’ll miss them. Terribly.
But it is time.
It’s a bit painful to part with his room, to take down the drawings the kids at the paediatric ward sent him, the little drawings he’d glued all around his bed. Jimin, who hated sleeping on a bed not his own, had found comfort in that bed that was meant to be a temporary place of rest.
Taehyung and Yoongi help him, packing his bags and the belongings he managed to gather in all these months.
It’s a weird feeling, to cherish simple things like a child’s drawing or a chocolate wrapper. To see it as his most prized possessions when, not too long ago, diamonds and riches were analogue to such thought.
He can barely remember what they were. Mere lavish objects that now hold no meaning in his life anymore, not when the most valuable treasure sits with him, at all times.
It’s a weird feeling, to be seen as a human. A commoner. Forgotten by the media and the entertainment industry, to be an afterthought in the minds of those who proved him the more that you have, the more that they take.
And yet, Jimin welcomes it with open arms. The opportunity to be someone who blends with the mass, just another face in the crowd, just another human roaming the Earth.
When he crosses the front door, his friends are all there.
Taehyung carrying his flowers, Yoongi the backpack with the stepping stones of his new life, smiling at a tearful Seokjin spitting a dramatic spiel about how Jimin is abandoning him at the same time he hugs him tight and asks him to be okay, to stay safe.
Namjoon is there too, blushing furiously when Jimin very pointedly looks at Hoseok’s arms around his waist, their bashful smiles telling him everything he needs to know.
And so are the Jeons, with Duke, waiting for Jimin to go home.
Duke is much more beautiful than the pictures, his bright eyes zeroing on Jimin the moment he notices him there, giving him the chance to choose. He sniffs the air, head tilting in curiosity.
No one can keep the emotions at bay when Duke sprints down the sidewalk, crying and whining, stumbling over his paws as he runs straight into Jimin’s open arms.
And when he nuzzles into Jimin’s chest, showering him in that love only dogs can give, Jeongguk’s voice rings loud and clear, “I trust him to you knowing he’ll take care of you, too.”
—
The moment he walks through the door, Jimin knows he’s home.
That it’s the right choice.
That every day from now on he’ll be coming home to a sanctuary, to a place of safety above all. That he’ll have a place to be vulnerable, a place where he can actually heal.
The house breathes life and joy, infused with the sound of his laughter and another promise to keep — Jeongguk’s presence wraps around him like a blanket, arms swaddling him tight and safe.
Jimin feels him everywhere.
There by the door as he stands over a battered mat, a testimony to the life that dwelled in this house.
In the paintings on the walls, in the blankets folded over the couch.
In the sunlight beam shining through the window, in the breeze that comes from nowhere, caressing his cheek like a lover’s kiss.
The moment Jimin lets go of the leash, Duke runs inside, zooming happily around every corner, knowing he’ll find Jeongguk home as if he never left.
Life goes onward, and in the safety of that home, Jimin goes through the memories of his old life, one at a time. Some he keeps, some mourns. Most are left to fade.
He goes through Jeongguk’s memories, too.
The neatly arranged clothes, the matching kitchenware, the keepsakes that tell so much of the life he lived.
The sketchpad with receipts tucked between the pages, the little side notes written in pencil on the books he never finished reading.
The drawings, the photographs.
The grocery lists he finds here and there, scraps of paper unknowingly bearing the treasure of Jeongguk’s handwriting. Emotions come in powerful waves whenever he finds a new one.
Duke stays with him throughout it all, the good and the bad days.
The days they take a walk in the park, the days they laze around at Taehyung and Yoongi’s flat.
The days Jimin can’t get out of bed, the nights he cries himself to sleep.
The days Jimin spends on the floor, surrounded by notebooks and journals, the nights he spends writing it all down by hand, pouring every word his heart yearns to say.
With Duke by his side, Jimin finds the strength to brave countless nights hunched over Jeongguk’s story with only the soft glow of his bedside lamp bathing his skin, bouncing off of the strands falling over his eyes.
In the long years it takes him to write the first draft of The Goodbye Book, Jimin falls in love with Jeongguk.
With the Jeongguk he didn’t get to meet in this life and the Jeongguk his soul remembers.
He falls in love with the past while living his present and looking forward to the future — a future that tells a promise of infinity.
He had once heard that some infinities are bigger than others. And though there are days he resents the size of the one they were given, he too is thankful for their little infinity.
The night he writes the last sentence, Jimin heaves in a deep breath, a single tear dropping on the back of cramping hand, his shoulders shaking with how much he’s trying to keep more from falling.
It’s done.
Done.
In Jeongguk, he found his home.
For years he pours the story that healed his wounds onto a thousand pages, mending a heart torn to pieces so tiny they pass through the eye of a needle. Now his heart has found some peace, jotting down the story no other book has the spine to carry.
With secrets etched in the nooks and crannies, Jimin wrote the romance of a lifetime. A story where stars are just gaps in the curtains of heaven, from which light shines through onto them.
Sitting there on the floor, staring at the last sentence he just wrote, Jimin hears his name for the first time.
Jimin.
Jimin.
“Jimin.”
It’s Jeongguk’s voice — his voice, his laughter.
Feeling eyes on him, Jimin looks up, heart about to burst out of his chest when he sees Jeongguk standing there, smiling at him.He reaches out a hand, and Jimin takes it.
The familiar warmth of his body seeps through his skin when Jeongguk kneels and wraps his arms around him, the rumble of his voice breathing life into him when he says, “Hi, my love.”
Jimin just hugs him close, turning his face to the side, resting his cheek against his chest to stop and listen to his heartbeat.
Steady.
A mirror of his own heart hammering within.
They stay there for a long time, Jimin’s hand splayed between Jeongguk’s shoulder blades, feeling his chest expand with each breath he takes.
It’s silent. The curtains twitch in the breeze, the soft gust of wind blowing down the back of his neck, skin erupting in goosebumps soon soothed by Jeongguk’s fingers fiddling up and down his spine.
Keeping his face tucked into his chest and his legs wrapped tight around his waist, Jimin brings his hand up, gently brushing Jeongguk’s hair behind his ear, lazily tracing the shape, echoes of his own voice playing on repeat around his brain until the words ‘I love you’ don’t make any more sense.
He buries his nose into Jeongguk’s neck, pressing his lips against the delicate skin, resting his head on his shoulder. Just feeling.
Existing as two halves of a soul that’s been split in two, destined to find each other again and again.
Loving the part that is missing, even if for a brief moment.
Eventually, he pulls back to find Jeongguk looking at him with the most blinding smile on his lips, his hand running through Jimin’s hair so fondly to brush them back and away from his face.
Jimin commits everything to memory, knowing this one is his to keep.
The white of Jeongguk’s shirt with spots darkened by his tears.
The soft blur of grey behind him where nothing else exists.
The orange glow the bedside lamp casts on his face.
The beauty of Jeongguk’s rosy lips, his slender nose, the prominent curve of his jawline —
His eyes fall shut when Jeongguk’s feathery touch meets his hand, idly playing with his fingers, feeling around the tendons and knuckles, tracing the words ‘I love you’ on the back of his hand.
And the tears fall like shooting stars when Jeongguk meets him halfway, foreheads pressed together when Jimin brings their intertwined fingers to trace the bridge of Jeongguk’s nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow, stopping by the tiny mole under his lower lip.
“I love you so much,” he breathes into their clasped hands, holding onto them with all the strength he has, trying to delay the inevitable goodbye, even if for just a few more seconds.
“You are me, I am you.”
The words bleed into the gaps between their fingers, blooming into flowers that grow between Jimin’s ribs. They stay with him like a neatly folded letter, his to safeguard from the world and its prying eyes.
Like the pencil Jimin found that still has his name on it, Jeongguk writes his words down on the palm of their hands, every line entangling with the ones already there.
They free Jimin from the nights in which he, like an archeologist, excavated memories, old and new, finding solace in overflowing journals and blank pages.
They tell him it’s time to let go.
And it hurts. His hands feel empty without Jeongguk’s memory to hold, but he doesn’t have the strength to hold on any longer.
So Jimin promises Jeongguk he’ll start by letting the little things go.
It’ll make it easier to let them go. To let him go.
At least for a little while, until they meet again to live a bigger, greater infinity.
A stronger gust of wind blows into the room, that same wind that blows bedsheets away from the clotheslines, that ruffles his hair, tickles his lashes and kisses his cheek with its breathy goodbye kiss.
Their eyes meet.
The glint of affection in Jeongguk’s irises is the last thing Jimin sees before he opens his eyes to the sun rays peeking through the blinds, pages no longer blank, their story strewn all around him, waiting to be told.
—
When Jimin closes the door behind him, it’s with a smile on his face.
When he moves with his friends to a house on the outskirts of the city that has enough rooms for all of them and more, it’s with an excitement similar to that of a bird’s first flight — a bright home, with gigantic wall-to-floor windows and dark wood bookshelves they will fill with memories and trinkets throughout the years.
When he remembers Duke, his dearest friend passing as an old pup not long ago, it’s with immeasurable gratitude for the everloving companionship.
When he does remember him, it’s with a lighter heart and the promise of a tomorrow.
When it comes to life, we know we all die in the end. But Jimin has learnt that we live in the middle.
So he lives.
—
The night is quiet, trees sleeping under a soft blanket of snow when Jimin gathers his family in the living room, feeling their expectant gaze when he sets five copies of The Goodbye Book down on the table.
He has revised and typed it all out, keeping the handwritten manuscript safe with him, and now it’s time to give them the piece of Jeongguk he’s kept to himself all these years.
“I’m no wordsmith,” Jimin chuckles, fingertips running over the title page, feeling the slight bumpy letters. “But fuck if I didn’t pour all of myself into this story.”
He brings his eyes up, looking each one of them in the face, heart filled with joy seeing his happiness reflected in their expectant eyes.
They knew.
Jimin told them.
They’d seen the infinite research papers glued to the wall, the open journals on every surface of that small studio whenever they came to visit. They’d seen the calluses on Jimin’s hand, they’d bought him more pencils, more ruled paper.
They helped him set up a study in one of the rooms and brought him tea whenever he stayed up well past midnight. They held him when the memories felt too heavy to carry alone, when a harsh winter turned the lily garden a colourless patch of dry shrubs.
They’d seen it all. But they’d waited, patiently, for the moment Jimin felt safe to let them in.
“Gguk told me he just wanted to be a memory,” Jimin’s voice is soft, tinged with a nostalgic smile. “But memories are fleeting.”
Slowly, he reaches out, sliding the first copy towards Seokjin. It’s bound in leather, like the others, his friend’s name handwritten on the cover. “I’ve only ever written lyrics before,” Jimin continues, turning to give Hoseok his copy, too. “And even still, I had help.”
He meets Yoongi’s eyes over the coffee table, his friend’s gummy smile as gentle as his hands when he leans in to receive his book.
“I may not be an idol anymore, but a friend once told me I’ll always be an artist.”
Taehyung’s knowing smile and teary eyes set Jimin’s heart ablaze, their fingers touching briefly when Taehyung cradles his copy like a precious, fragile treasure.
“And I believed him — believed me.”
He hesitates, holding onto the last copy.
“Like you did.”
Jimin stares directly at Namjoon, reaching over the table with his right hand, palm up. Namjoon leans in and holds his hand like one would hold a baby bird, gentle and safe. So, so safe.
“You’ve stayed with me through hell and back,” Jimin whispers, a small tear hanging from his bottom lashes. “And I’ll need you now more than ever.”
Namjoon brings Jimin’s hand up to his mouth, placing a small kiss on the palm of his hand, guiding Jimin’s hand to cradle his cheek instead, letting him feel the muscles moving when his mouth splits in a rare, dimpled smile.
“Anything you need, Jimin-ah.”
When Jimin hands over Namjoon’s copy, he feels it.
When his friends’ eyes are all drawn to the handwritten messages on the covers, flipping through the first few pages, he feels it —
The gentle fingers running through his hair, nails scratching his nape. The loving breeze that comes from nowhere, carrying a kiss given by a gentle brush of lips on his cheek.
“Thank you.”
—
The book becomes much, much more than a timeless memoir.
It starts simple — a mere spark of inspiration.
Going through Jeongguk’s old drawings for the cover, Taehyung discovers in the soothing drag of a pencil over paper a new path to follow. That he can freeze their time in a canvas, a permanent window to their world for years to come.
And while helping with the business side of publishing a book out of nowhere, Namjoon finds that words call to him, too. That they heal him as much as the others, the endless hours working on the publishing project ultimately driving him to open a blank document and type his first sentence, the first of many poems to be later published by Kim Namjoon.
Seokjin finds solace in those pages, the guilt that sometimes finds its way back into his heart eased by what he calls one of the most beautiful romances ever written, a sentiment mirrored by the entire family.
So when the first proof copy arrives in the mail, Taehyung sprints down the hall in an apron covered in paint, hair wild and feet padding loudly on the corridor, knuckles rapping urgently on the door to Namjoon’s study as he shouts “It’s here, it’s here!”
He messages both Seokjin and Hoseok at the hospital to let them know, sliding a quick note under the door to Yoongi’s home studio before slamming the back door open, running down the grass barefoot to find Jimin sleeping among the lilies.
They open the box later that night when they’re all together, the room filled with delighted screeches, the six of them fawning over the first printed copy.
It’s beautiful. Complete.
The shiny, purple hued cover is the first thing they see. A silver, anatomical heart embossed right in the middle — one of the many Jeongguk's old illustrations that were digitally processed and scanned to fill the pages within.
The title, The Goodbye Book, sits on top of the authors’ name. Both of them.
At first, he looks at it. But when Jimin skims through the first couple pages, holding the final book in his hand, he feels something indescribable.
He did it.
Not only for Jeongguk, but for himself. For the artist he’ll always be, no matter what medium he needs to convey it.
He did it.
He worked hard to leave their mark in the world, to leave behind a story that has to be told.
Jimin runs his fingers over the cover, down the spine, feeling all the hard edges, the texture of the pages and all the emotions he infused each one of them with. He takes it all in, rejoicing in the resolution of what defined his entire life.
Holding the one and only book he’ll ever write, Jimin knows he’s weaved his creation into the threads of history — knows it’s just a droplet in the ocean right now, safe as it is within the confines of their home, but that it’ll ripple endlessly from person to person like the music that carries on through the soundwaves, even if he doesn’t sing them anymore.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t cry, elated as he is to be telling their story.
The tears do come, however, when Yoongi approaches him a week later in the garden with seven music sheets.
Jimin sits there, taking in the greys that now adorn his friend's temples, the wrinkles that are starting to appear on the corner of his eyes whenever he smiles.
“I had to,” Yoongi tells him.
And Jimin knows. He understands.
The memory has become intrinsic to all of them, and it’s liberating to see Yoongi finding some peace of mind too. That’s why Jimin looks at the paper filled with music notes with fondness, smiling brightly when Yoongi says, “I’ve been working on the album for years, actually. There are more songs,” he admits, shyly picking at a lint on his trousers. “But these are the ones I wrote for him.”
From a book of exactly 1306 pages, Yoongi excerpted the only songs Jimin brings himself to sing again. A last album.
For closure.
For a peaceful land of a flight cut too short, too violently.
An album sung by Jimin, for Jimin.
And so, on Jeongguk’s 39th birthday, the world gets to listen to 289 for the first time.
An album freely distributed with no profits and no agency to push the sales.
No glamorous pictures of Jimin in a luxurious photobook, no collectibles, no music video.
Just music.
Songs Jimin allows himself to sing, in a lower, less strained range.
Mellow, soft love songs that carry all the love he couldn’t give, all the love he didn’t know what to do with.
Songs sung with a new voice and a new purpose, retelling a love story that goes beyond the ages, that faces death and rebirth with a smile and a fond heart.
Tiger Lily. September. Doo —
They all find their place in the histories of music.
But it’s Jeongguk, the song that carries his name, the one bequeathed a place of honour within the story of mankind.
—
The book is released on a Saturday, when the delicate cherry blossoms are in full bloom.
There’s no special event, no party, no fan signing.
No interviews, no press conference.
Just a letter, from the artist Park Jimin. A goodbye, of sorts. To the singer he once was, to the artist that grew up in public life, and is now exchanging it for a more peaceful existence.
The picture on the back cover is the last ever photo taken of him.
The Goodbye Book is his one and only book, shortly followed by his last, most truthful album.
An album that goes on to win endless music awards, even if Jimin never attends them.
The ongoing stream of awards, trophies and platinum plaques delivered to the house are all stored in a room Jimin rarely goes into. It holds memories that are, sometimes, too painful to deal with.
But he does cherish them, deeply.
All the albums, merch, DVDs, costumes — they all have their place in his heart, even if they don’t fit into his present anymore.
They’re his history, not his future.
That is why, even when Jeongguk makes its way to the most recluse places on the Earth, finding its place in history, Jimin’s voice telling his story to everyone who lends an ear to listen, not a single word is heard from the singer.
No live performance, no interview.
No follow up album, no deluxe edition.
To the world, Jimin never sings again. He has given it all he could give.
But fear not, he still sings every day.
In the mornings as he strolls around the garden, tending to his lilies of all colours.
In the afternoons when he helps Taehyung out in the studio, smiling whenever they hear the click-clack of Namjoon’s typewriter in the living room or Hoseok’s loud laughter bouncing off the walls.
In the nights he sits by the window and watches the raindrops trickle down the glass, singing quietly to himself, fingertips caressing the discoloured, slightly jarred patch of skin he has learned to love more than anything.
In the moments he stops in his tracks, closes his eyes and feels their heartbeat.
Strong.
Steady.
Theirs.
—
It’s a perfect family night.
Yoongi is playing the piano, as he does every single night. Jimin loves when he misses a note, unable to use both hands because Taehyung always steals one of them, intertwining their fingers as he sits there by his side, head resting on Yoongi’s shoulder with his eyes closed.
Namjoon and Hoseok sit by the fireplace, cuddled under a blanket on the loveseat, enjoying a nice cup of herbal tea, Hoseok’s platinum white hair glowing vibrantly under the orange glow that comes from the fire. The same fire reflected in Namjoon’s glasses — a mirror of the one that still burns in his eyes, never fading, not even with age.
Yoongi misses another note, the sound carried on by Seokjin’s laughter, the airy tone weathering a bit over the years. “Don’t be a jerk,” Jimin hisses under his breath, tightening his arms around the elder, snuggling closer to his chest, hiding the amused smile in Jin’s fluffy sweater.
They sit and listen and talk. Reminisce the old halcyon days, the trips they took, the projects they were part of.
They ask Jimin to sing.
Soft, easy songs that don’t strain the voice that never healed.
They laugh and rejoice in each other’s company, but Jimin is starting to feel a pull. His eyes feel heavy, the gentle call of sleep quiet, but there. So he hugs Seokjin one more time before standing up.
“I’m gonna call it a night,” he sighs. “I’m a bit tired.”
“Already?” Namjoon asks, looking up at him. Jimin nods, walking behind the loveseat, running his fingers through Namjoon’s hair, planting a small kiss on his cheek. He does the same to Hoseok, pulling the blanket up his shoulders, tucking him in tight.
“Goodnight old man,” Taehyung teases from the piano, turning on his seat with a hand extended. Jimin takes it on his own, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles, leaning in to place another kiss on top of Taehyung’s head.
“Goodnight,” he echoes back at him.
Meeting Yoongi’s eyes over Taehyung’s head, Jimin brings his hand over the other’s hunched back, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze.
“Goodnight, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi says, pausing his playing, his hand coming up over Jimin’s hand on his shoulder, bony thumb rubbing gently over the paper thin skin.
With a soft kiss to his temple, Jimin tells Yoongi, “Goodnight, hyung. Keep playing, it’ll help me sleep.”
And so Jimin retreats to his room with the sound of the piano fading behind him, another missed note and the sound of his friends’ laughter filling the house with joy. As he walks down the hall, Jimin runs his fingers over the wood panelling, feeling the bumps on the intricate wainscoting, taking in the several paintings and trinkets they’ve collected over the years.
It brings a smile to his face, all these pictures lining the walls. Old and new, but all proof of what a great life they lived.
After changing into some comfy pyjamas, Jimin snuggles under the blanket in his cosy bed, eyelids so, so heavy. He giggles to himself, listening to the voices of those beautiful souls he had the honour of sharing his life with.
He hears them faintly, as if calling to him, but he chooses sleep.
Jimin has his eyes closed for nothing but a moment, ready to rest, when he feels the familiar, loving touch of gentle fingers.
They trace the slope of his nose, his eyebrows, the curve of his upper lip.
Jimin.
Jimin.
“Jimin.”
Slowly, Jimin opens his eyes.
“Hi, sleepyhead.”
—
When death comes to take my hand, you’ll be there to hold the other.
—
The school bus has barely parked and Taehyung is already up on his feet, bouncing up and down like an excited pup, tugging on Jimin’s hoodie to get him to stand up.
“We’re here!” he screams, face pressed against the glass, mouth agape as he takes in the view outside the window. “Oh my god, Jimin. Look!”
Turning his head, Jimin sees it.
There, up on the hill, sits the mansion known as the Jeon-Park Art Institute.
A nonprofit organisation with the objective of promoting cultural and artistic activities, from music to fine arts and literature, crafted from the home the artist shared with his friends throughout their whole life, now transformed into a museum open to the public. Work began a few years after the artist passed, the project started by his family — including famous music producer Min Yoongi, poet Kim Namjoon and the painter, Kim Taehyung — later continued by their families, too.
The studying and cataloguing of their conjoined collection allowed a deep comprehension of their history, of the path they followed together as both friends and artists, the stories of their friendship told for years after.
In addition to the visits open to the general public and permanent exhibition of their works, the institute also hosts cultural events and residency programs. The entire house has been kept in its original state, with all doors and windows, classical elements blending with modern ones, the family’s story told in every nook and cranny, even if a few rooms have been redesigned to hold each individual exhibit.
The living room still has Min Yoongi’s piano in impeccable condition, the walls lined with a timeline of his work. Most of the bedrooms have been remodelled to hold the exhibitions of Kim Taehyung’s works, consisting mostly of the artworks the artist couldn’t part with; the ones that aren’t in other museums and galleries all around the world.
Kim Namjoon’s study is a shrine to poetry and literature, his notes and drafts on display behind glass cases, his desk still in the same place. Quotes have been blown up and pasted all over the walls, some areas kept out of touch behind those velvety red ropes.
The back rooms have been split into two: one half holds the exhibition of Park Jimin, the idol. His costumes, albums, vinyls, photos — they’re all there, a memory lane of one of the country’s greatest singers. The walls are covered in brief texts retelling his legacy, the stories behind his lyrics, and a more gentle account of the tragic accident that changed his life forever.
The other rooms are for the love of his life, the muse that drove him to write one of most beloved books in history.
The ‘Jeongguk’ room is otherworldly. Something about the place, which was Park Jimin’s old bedroom, holds a special kind of magic that most visitors seem to be affected by. Even the most sceptical human can’t help but feel something in there, especially when standing in front of the small round desk with Jeongguk’s unopened letter and Jimin’s alphabet card, or the glass case with seven books in it.
In the middle of the room sits the original manuscript of The Goodbye Book, yellowed with age.
All fourteen thousand handwritten pages, surrounded by the five other printed copies, bound in leather, each one personally addressed to the artist’s beloved ones.
Kim Seokjin’s copy is by far the most worn out, the leather fraying at the edges, the pages the most brittle out of them all.
And, of course, the first proof copy for the first edition to ever be published, in its original purple and silver glory, Jeon Jeongguk’s heart drawn on the cover.
He’s everywhere, just like Jimin intended. The idea of love he represents is better felt once a visitor goes past the sliding doors at the back of the room — doors that open to the grounds that host the world’s most famous garden, immortalised in the pages of Park Jimin’s one and only book, The Lily Garden.
Measuring over four thousand square metres, the garden is part of the luxurious allotment that houses the mansion, and the place Jimin is most eager to see. Not only for their meaning, but because the tiger lillies are his birth flowers, too.
Taehyung has been obsessed with the star-crossed lovers’ story since they were kids, his mom equally besotted with Park Jimin and Jeon Jeongguk’s story as Jimin’s own. It’s rather needless to say Taehyung was beside himself when their literature professor announced they’d be taking a trip to the house-museum.
Jimin can’t help but mirror the sentiment now that they’re here. The story of love and devotion that drove his namesake artist to write one of the most famous books ever known is one Jimin grew up with.
His mother used to play Park Jimin’s songs all the time when he was little.
She still does, actually.
Jeongguk has always been her favourite, and it found a special place in Jimin’s heart, too.
“I wish I could’ve been loved like he was,” she says every time, caressing the album cover with the golden numbers — two, eight and nine. “Don’t you, Jimin-ah?”
He used to huff and roll his eyes at her, but of course he did. Who wouldn’t want to be loved so deeply, so intensely? Who wouldn’t want to know that there is another soul out there looking for you, desperate to hold you in their arms and finally live your promised infinity?
But while his mom found herself in his songs, Jimin was drawn to the book. Something about it always called to him —
When he was little, he used to just skim the pages, mesmerised by the beautiful illustrations within, tracing them with his little fingers. It felt familiar, in a way. Then, as Jimin got older, the core story started to make sense, all the nuances and intricacies of the romance finally sinking in.
It became something of a safe harbour — the book. A balm to quell the odd emptiness that sometimes took over him, the melancholic sensation of missing that’s followed him for all these sixteen years.
The Goodbye Book made him interested in other books, in writing. And he’s good, really good. He loves it — writing little things here and there, revisiting old ones to add new things, sometimes jotting down his thoughts in the back of grocery store receipts before he loses them.
His own copy of the book is so old and battered it’s borderline ridiculous — the cover held together with some tape, post-its marking his favourite paragraphs, comments scribbled all over the margins. That’s why his essay for a simple literature class went well over fifteen pages, the file delivered to his professor with an apology for getting carried on, fully expecting a low grade for the lengthy text alone.
Little did he know he’d get the highest grade, the professor pulling him aside and showering him in praises, her eyes shining bright as she rambled on and on about how he was able to delve so deeply into the author’s yearning for Jeongguk it seemed Park Jimin himself that written it for him. For Jimin.
Her words were like a long lost key to unlock something within him, and from that day on, Jimin’s been looking forward to the trip.
The whole week leading up to it he reread his favourite chapters from the book, eager to see the house it speaks of, to walk around the garden that holds so much meaning to the world.
To see the flowers — alive and real.
To see the exhibitions and understand where it all came from.
To see their clothes, their books, their notes — all proof of the lives they lived. Together.
Like all other museums all over the world, places that look after these fragile windows to the past, this house feels like a tear in time and space — even with all these curious visitors, it stands in its true, most truthful form.
And if one stops and listens, they can hear it — the rustle of leaves, the soothing piano, the joyful laughter. The song being sung, the drag of a paintbrush over a canvas, the click clack of a typewriter.
If one stops and listens, they can hear it — the house calling for its family to come back. To make it a home.
Their home.
—
The sun is high in the sky, the greens reflected in the mansion’s windows, people bustling in and out of the museum when their group is finally allowed entrance.
There seems to be another school on a trip today, a different school bus parked some way down the hill to their left and a large group of high school seniors rounding the house towards the garden. After inquiry, it was found it was nothing but a little mishap, the institute accidentally booking two schools for the same slot.
“Alright, kiddos!” the professor calls from way up in the front, clapping her hands to get her own rowdy teens to pay attention. “Let’s go!”
Jimin grabs his copy of The Goodbye Book, the one he’d been clinging to his chest the entire two-hour trip, slungs his backpack over his shoulder and follows Taehyung down the bus with an excited energy to his steps.
However, the moment he steps on the gravel outside, it’s as if he’s been shot at.
A sharp, searing pain shoots up his chest, reverberating all the way down his left arm, like pins and needles that explode right within his heart.
He stumbles, gasping as if he’d been electrocuted, book falling from his hands.
“Jimin, what’s wrong?” Taehyung worries, rushing to his aid, strong hands keeping Jimin upright against the side of the bus. “Are you okay? Jimin?”
“Honey?” The professor frowns, gesturing at the other students to wait as she makes her way back to them, shoving a frantic Taehyung aside to assess Jimin herself. “What happened?”
“I-I don’t know,” Jimin mumbles, blinking rapidly, still slightly disoriented. “I think I stood up too quickly, my pressure must have dropped.”
“Do you wanna sit down?”
“No,” he shakes his head a little, looking up at the bright blue sky. “I’m okay, ma’am. I just… I need a moment.”
“You sure?” she insists, her gaze intense with concern.
“I’m okay,” Jimin breathes, putting on a smile.
Hesitant, the professor goes back to the rest of class, looking over her shoulder every now and then to make sure Jimin isn’t going to faint on her, assuring them it’s all good and that they’ll be going in shortly.
“What did you feel?” Taehyung asks in a low voice, stealing Jimin’s attention back to him. “Be honest.”
“I’m just dizzy, Tae.”
Taehyung stares at him, lips pursed, completely unfazed.
“Oh, don’t you start with your reincarnation paranoia,” Jimin grins, rolling his eyes at him. “There are other people named Jimin, you know?”
“But you’re not other people, are you?” Taehyung smiles fondly, bending to pick Jimin’s book off the ground. He runs his fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed heart. “I wonder how many people stare at their own art in museums, listen to music they made in another life, read books they don’t remember writing.”
“Is this about the essay?” Jimin breathes softly, reaching out to touch Taehyung’s hand.
When Jimin gave him the paper to read, Taehyung broke down in tears at the first page. He was beside himself, beyond inconsolable, locking himself in the bathroom for hours before he came out, silently pulling Jimin into a bone-crushing hug.
‘What an amazing gift it is, to be loved so deeply your memory becomes one with that of the world. To star in such a beloved love story, a classic really, even if it’s mere fiction. It is to wonder what Jeongguk would think of it — would he be grateful, to have lived their infinity in the pages of a book or would he mourn it? I daresay he would take it as a promise; a compass to guide them back to each other.’
Fond of the idea of reincarnation and soulmates and other kindred events one cannot explain, the paragraph alone was enough to convince Taehyung his ‘quirky sybilline musings’ might not be so outlandish after all.
“If we’re them, wouldn’t we come back all together?” Jimin wonders, ignoring the weird, electric feeling that goes down his spine, the breeze kissing his nape like a lover.
“Maybe we just need to find each other again,” Taehyung voices with a small, fond smile, tracing the shape of the letter J on the name ‘Jeongguk’. “Makes it more interesting, don’t you think?”
“Stupid of us to come back poor, then.” Jimin teases timidly, throat tight with an overwhelming urge to cry.
“Perhaps,” Taehyung shrugs, eyes still drawn to the book in his hand. “Perhaps we chose a simpler life this time.”
When Taehyung looks up, Jimin steals a moment to truly look at his friend, taking in his gorgeous face, slanted eyes and boxy smile, his auburn hair falling over his eyes when the wind picks up, shining a brighter burgundy as the clouds part and the sun shines on them again.
“If that’s the case,” Jimin whispers wetly, holding Taehyung’s hand against the book, right over the heart, resting his own hand on top. “Thank you for coming back with me.”
—
The tour guide is a nice, bubbly girl that speaks a thousand miles a minute.
Her smile is particularly cheeky when, passing around their visitor stickers, her eyes drop to the name tag attached to Jimin’s uniform and she realises he’s named after him.
She takes them through the front door, their small group following as she starts explaining how the institute came to be. Jimin and Taehyung stick around the back, lingering by the door to Kim Namjoon’s study where it’s less crowded. Jimin doesn’t do well with crowds.
He feels bad for not paying attention to the guide, but Jimin can’t take his eyes off Taehyung.
The way his friend clings to his own copy of the book, the awe with which he takes everything in.
The tears in his eyes, a smile on his lips one Jimin has never seen before.
Something tugs at Jimin’s heart, seeing his friend here.
Like he belongs.
At home.
And so, like an invisible coil, the thought wraps around his chest and pulls — a magnet too strong to resist, an energy that creeps up his chest, squeezing his throat until he can’t breathe.
He turns on his heels to leave, eyes big and shining with unshed tears, but he’s met with his own reflection in the glass of one of the portraits, the mirrored image of his complexion overlapping his —
His rosy lips, his strong nose.
His pitch black hair.
His bunny smile.
His doe, galaxy eyes.
Jimin panics, mumbling something about using the bathroom to whomever is around to hear it before he sprints down a side hallway, knowing there should be a bathroom over there, fourth door to the left.
And there it is, the fourth door to the left.
Thankfully, the bathroom is empty.
Throwing his book and backpack down by the door, Jimin runs over to the sink, hunching over and heaving dry.
He slaps the faucet open, splashing some cold water on his face, trying to clear his thoughts, trying to pretend it’s the water clinging to his eyelashes and not the tears he feels desperate to let spill down his cheeks.
If he thought seeing pictures of the house and reading about it was sometimes overwhelming, nothing compares to actually being here. To see his face in his.
It’s like the place burns into his skin, eating away at his mind, trying to bring down barriers he didn’t know were there, no matter how hard he screams at himself it’s all in his fucking head.
He hears the bathroom door open, letting the loud chatter in for a moment before it’s muffled again by the heavy door clicking shut. There’s a beat of silence where Jimin waits for the other person to go into a stall, his fingers curling over the sink to keep him from crumbling down, but it never comes.
Instead, he feels a presence to his left and a soft, shy voice that asks, “Are you okay?”
It’s another boy, his voice young but manly. Probably from the other school.
Jimin nods, not looking up.
“You don’t look well,” the boy insists, resting a tentative hand on his back.
Jimin shrugs him off, nodding his head once again.
But he’s not okay. He’s not fucking okay. He’s hyperventilating, eyes lost and unfocused, lower lip caught in his teeth — the first glaring signs of an anxiety attack.
Maybe it’s just a dream.
Maybe he fell asleep on the bus and they’re not even here yet.
Maybe it’s just —
“Hey…”
Jimin grits his teeth, cold sweat running down his back, eyes squeezed shut so tight they hurt. It’s like the boy’s voice clogs his ears, ripping open a would that never healed. A wound that isn’t even his to ache for, but aches nonetheless.
“...Jimin?”
The world stops.
His eyes are open but he’s blind. His legs are moving on their own accord, stumbling back and away, lungs screaming for air.
He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
Jimin stumbles into a wall, fingers finding a door handle, the loud boom of a door slammed open muffled to his senses, nothing but a background noise in the turmoil in his head.
He doesn’t know where he is.
It feels like everything is dark, grey and cold.
He’s falling into a maze of concrete with equal ups and downs like a house of mirrors — endless.
And that’s the thing about mazes, they cheat.
In a blink of an eye Jimin is surrounded by nothing but his own clones laughing and crying at him.
They call his name somewhere to the left but it’s fading away.
He tries to call back but he’s choking in his own tears, the trickery shadows pretending to be him calling for him in the darkness.
Jeongguk.
“Jeongguk.”
Jeongguk’s voice is the only thing pulling him back from the darkness and he’s still here. He’s here .
Jimin hears him shouting back, muffled as if underwater.
So Jimin tries louder, stumbling forward, each step further identical to the next — everything seems like a loop, a dead end.
Everything is dark and grey, the floor, the ceiling — nothing but an emptiness that stretches into the grim shadows.
His brain feels like it’s about to explode, the huge gulps of air not really reaching his lungs, smothered by fear and this overwhelming, raw panic that suffocates him.
He claims for a way out, stumbling over his feet, collapsing on his knees, turning here and there, up and down, colliding with himself in these endless walls.
But then, there are warm hands on his wet cheeks and Jeongguk is seeping into his blood, pulling him out of darkness.
“Jimin, can you hear me? Jimin. Jimin?”
Jimin looks up and he’s there.
Jeongguk.
Crouching in front of him in a school uniform that is more a blur of black and navy blue, lips moving and saying things Jimin can’t really hear.
There’s a loud boom and a blur of shadows, vultures behind Jeongguk that he hurriedly sends away, his worried eyes turning to Jimin, thumbs uselessly wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Jimin? Can you hear me? I need you to breathe. Breathe.”
Jimin tries to but it hurts. Everything hurts.
Strong arms suddenly wrap around him, hoisting him up, helping him sit and rest against the wall as he struggles to breathe.
“Come on—eyes on me. Jimin, breathe.” Jeongguk scoots forward in between Jimin’s bent knees, using two fingers to tilt his head back and relieve the pressure on his airways. “Breathe with me, come on. In and out.”
Jimin’s hand flies up and grips Jeongguk’s wrist tightly, unfocused eyes trying to find him amidst the storm. So Jeongguk pulls his hand back and grabs Jimin’s hand properly, knuckles white. Grounding him.
“Jimin. Breathe. Breathe in—yes, slowly. Now exhale—slowly. Slowly. Deep breaths—yes, you’re doing great.”
Jimin is here. He’s here. Somewhere at the Jeon-Park museum.
He’s not fighting a faceless monster in a hospital room, he’s not bleeding from the head, he’s not dying in his best friend’s arms.
He’s not.
He’s here. Here.
With Jeongguk. Just Jeongguk.
Just them.
“Exactly, you’re here with me,” Jeongguk whispers, adding more pressure to their clasped hands. “You’re here with me, Jimin. It’s just us, okay? Just us. Me and you.”
Jeongguk’s fingers are probably going numb under the vice grip but he doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps whispering soft words to Jimin, breathing with him until it’s almost silent, Jimin’s erratic breathing slowing down to a somewhat normal pace.
“You’re with me?” Jeongguk asks softly, fingers tightening around his hand. Jimin nods twice, drawing slow, shaky breaths.
They’re at the emergency exit stairwell.
He’s propped against the corner on the landing between floors.
The boy from the bathroom is kneeling between his legs.
He’s here.
Here.
Relief surges so fast Jimin almost vomits, hand leaving the boy to claw at his arms, grounding himself. His vision fades in and everything is shutting down when Jimin hears a short inhale of breath, “Hey—no, no no. Jimin? Look at me. Keep looking at me, stay with me.”
Jimin nods, still a bit shaken and pale, sweating as if he’d stepped into the shower with his clothes on, but he does it.
He looks at him.
Properly.
Doe-like eyes glisten with worry, hidden behind a curtain of soft, deep black hair, strong brows pinched in a concerned arch, mouth blessed with cupid lips of the most beautiful shade of pink and a set of cute, bunny-like teeth.
Jeongguk is the most beautiful person Jimin has ever laid his eyes on.
“Are you here with your school?” the boy asks, burning eyes roaming all over Jimin’s face, brows furrowed in concern.
Jimin nods.
When the boy shuffles, as if to stand up and leave, Jimin shoots a hand out and grabs his jacket, clawing at the sleeve pitifully, a whiny sob escaping his lips.
“Oh no, it’s okay. It’s okay—you’re okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
“I-I’m so sorry,” Jimin whimpers, realising he’s panicking and acting like a clingy lunatic in front of a complete stranger. “I’m sorry—”
“Hey, hey, hey—it’s okay,” the boy reassures him gently. “You don’t have to apologise.”
“This place is f-fucking with my head. I t-think I even called you—”
“You called me Jeongguk,” the boy cuts in with a youthful chuckle. “You were right, though. My name really is Jeongguk,” he grins sweetly, jutting his chin out to point down at his own chest, Jimin dazedly following the gesture to see a name tag attached to his school uniform that indeed reads Jeongguk.
“Oh—”
There’s the sound of a door and suddenly an older man in a pressed suit and some staff rush down the stairs, Jimin’s professor and Taehyung right on their heels.
“He’s okay — we’re okay,” Jeongguk throws over his shoulder, gesturing for them to stay back as he turns to look at Jimin. “Can you stand up?”
Jimin nods, letting Jeongguk help him up, leaning his weight on the handrail behind them for just a moment before the other boy promptly hoists him up, a strong arm keeping Jimin tight against his chest.
“I’ll take him outside to get some fresh air,” Jeongguk says — informs. His voice is respectful but laced with authority, goosebumps rising all over Jimin’s arms when Jeongguk stands his ground in front of the older gentleman that hesitates to let them pass. “Excuse me, professor.”
Jimin meets Taehyung’s eyes over their own professor’s shoulder as they pass, ready to silently tell him he’s okay, that he’ll try to explain whatever the fuck just happened later when they’re alone, but it doesn’t seem necessary.
His friend’s eyes are shining with unshed tears, a sheepish smile tugging on the corners of his lips, Jimin’s backpack slung over his shoulder, their copies of The Goodbye Book cradled in his arms. He smiles at Jimin like he guards a special secret, like he knows the time is almost up and he can’t wait for Jimin to be let in, too.
—
The hallway is a bit crowded but Jeongguk walks with a purpose, his aura alone making people step aside and make way for them. Ignoring the curious, hesitant glances of staff and visitors alike, Jeongguk steers Jimin away from the tourists, diving down another hallway that was clearly closed off to the public.
It's narrower, with artworks and trinkets all over the walls, a door cracked open at the end of the hall that leads to a beautiful, quiet study.
Bookshelves full of medical books, diplomas and certificates line most of the walls, the afternoon sun bathing the room in a warm glow that seeps through the giant glass doors that line two halves of the room. Expensive-looking armchairs sit in a semi-circle before the desk, and they look so comfortable Jimin almost asks Jeongguk to let him sit there for a moment, completely ignoring the fact they shouldn’t even be here — as if them skirting around several ‘authorised only’ wasn’t warning enough.
But they don’t linger, Jeongguk leading Jimin all the way to the back of the room, a hand reaching out to slide the glass door open. It opens easily, as if never locked.
And there, right there in front of them, beyond the small wooden deck, is the Lily Garden.
It’s unlike anything Jimin could’ve ever imagined.
The blossoming lilies rise in a blanket over deep green shrubs, woven together for all these years, lulled by the dancing birds and fleeting butterflies, swaying in the wind as if dancing to a song only they can hear.
Jimin inhales deeply, letting that sweet, floral scent of home seep into his bones, eyes fluttering close, lungs burning like a baby drawing their first breath after being born.
A wave of emotions hits him there and then, knocking the air out of his lungs, and Jimin would have fallen if not for the hand that takes his arm and holds him upright.
He goes easily when Jeongguk helps him sit down on the deck, the other boy running a hand up and down his back as Jimin leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands cupping his pounding forehead. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he groans, palms sliding down his face to muffle his sobs, eyes glued to the vast field of orange lilies in full bloom.
He can’t stop the tears from coming — they let themselves out, and what scares him the most is they’re born out of an odd, misplaced delight.
The tears one would cry receiving a long awaited gift.
“Why do you say that?” Jeongguk asks, voice low and sympathetic.
“You saw it, I’m literally going insane in this place,” Jimin laughs incredulously, head thrown back, eyes flicking to Jeongguk when he sees the boy stand up, world coming to a stuttering halt when Jeongguk lowers his hand to take Jimin’s, his smile blinding when he kneels before him.
“Would you like me to sing?” Jeongguk asks, squeezing Jimin’s fingers affectionately.
Jimin feels that same odd pull in his chest, words dying in his throat when a breeze comes to caress his face and dry his tears, a breath of the same wind that sweeps Jeongguk’s hair, the same wind that sets the air alight.
“Sing?”
“It usually helps me take my mind off of things.”
“Will my eardrums shatter?” Jimin teases, short of breath when Jeongguk laughs, loud and happy.
“Probably.”
“Then it’ll be an honour to hear you sing.”
Jimin chuckles at his own words — words that come out without consent, dismissing the odd sense of déjà vu with a shake of his head, shying away when Jeongguk reaches up and boops his nose playfully, emitting a cute popping sound.
“Come with me,” Jeongguk says, pulling Jimin to his feet, walking backwards into the garden behind him, haloed by the warm sun.
Jimin follows blindly, heart thundering in his chest when Jeongguk intertwines their fingers, pausing momentarily to toe off his trainers, uncaring where he leaves them.
Jimin does the same, feeling the same urge to feel the grass under his feet, feel the dew seep into his skin even if it dampens his socks.
The moment his feet touch the ground, the turmoil in his mind settles into a brief summer rain.
As if in a trance, Jimin lets Jeongguk bring him deeper into the taller shrubs, the leaves brushing his arms, pollen staining his clothes as they wade into the thicker cluster of lilies, the other boy smiling so bright his eyes are nothing but two crescent moons.
The more he falls into the depth of Jeongguk’s eyes, the more the world fades from existence.
All Jimin sees is Jeongguk surrounded by those beautiful flowers, a blanket of serene, welcoming peace falling over his shoulder with each step he takes, one after the other.
The garden itself buzzes with their presence, the petals shimmering as if doused in stars, and even they fade when Jeongguk tugs him closer, a grin stretching his lips before he sings the first words — words Jimin knows like the back of his hand, his own lungs burning with an urge to follow along, to let the fire in his chest burn its way out of him.
A thrill spreads through his body, all the way to his fingertips, when Jeongguk’s mouth parts in a whisper and he sings, “All of this is no coincidence.”
‘Jeongguk’ is a song Jimin has known his entire life.
He’s heard it many, many times.
In his voice.
But this, this is how it’s meant to be sung.
This is how it was always meant to be.
“When you called me, I became your flower—I sing songs because my soul yearns for you,” Jeongguk goes on in that soft, warm and bright tone. “The destiny is jealous of us—and just like you I’m so, so scared.”
‘Jeongguk’ was never just a love song.
It’s a map.
A heartful of yearning, meant to be carried on until its echoes came to find them.
A path strong enough to not be blown away by the wind, to not disappear under the overgrown ruins of the past and keep alive the trail that would lead them back to each other.
Awestruck, Jimin raises his hand to Jeongguk’s face, carefully brushing his thumbs over his cheek, wiping the tear that escapes when Jeongguk brings his hand up, keeping Jimin’s hand pressed firmly against his cheek.
He leans further into the touch, nuzzling his palm, speaking the words into the lines, “When you see me,” his voice trails off, filled with emotion. “When you touch me.”
They stand there for a really long time.
Just breathing each other in. Existing.
There’s nothing else but them, nothing but Jimin’s hand on his cheek, feeling the muscles move under his hand when Jeongguk smiles, pinning him under that beautiful, fiery gaze.
A more rational, sceptical side of Jimin wants him to wake up from the daydream of a romantic and realise Jeongguk is a stranger.
Just another boy from another school on a trip who had the misfortune of running into a panicky Jimin and is now entertaining his need for comfort and the urge for the touch of another human being.
But his heart, his heart soars, screaming in delight at the intensity of Jeongguk’s eyes, his own tears falling free when Jeongguk curls his fingers around Jimin’s, guiding them away from his face.
Jimin’s mind and heart are at war, the rational brain in denial of something much greater than that of naïve human knowledge.
“J-Jeongguk…”
His grip is gentle when Jeongguk pulls Jimin’s hand down to his chest, sliding his finger under them until they uncurl, pressing Jimin’s open palm against the steady, strong beat of his heart.
“Cause you love me,” Jeongguk smiles, biting back a sob. “And I love you.”
I love you.
Spoken in his voice, right there, inside his mind.
Whatever fear he had left, whatever doubt plagued his mind, leaves Jimin’s lungs in a quivering exhale.
“You f-found me,” he stutters, Jeongguk’s voice ringing clearly in his head.
Jeongguk chuckles, fingers curling tighter around Jimin’s. “No,” he sniffles. “You found me, just like you promised me you would.”
Jimin opens his eyes, unaware he’d closed them, blinking rapidly when he realises they’re not alone anymore.
He feels it — them. The crowd of smiling strangers.
Blind to his surroundings, Jimin hadn’t noticed the people around them, nor the way they stood there in silence. But he does see, right over Jeongguk’s shoulder, as five figures stand out from that blur of a crowd.
One of them is Taehyung.
His dearest friend.
He stands there clutching two purple books, crying freely with a huge smile on his face.
Beside him stands another boy, a bit older than them, in a Disney hoodie and ripped jeans, a typical tourist camera hanging from his neck. He’s clutching one of the exhibit pamphlets in one hand, the other curled tight over his heart.
To his left, stands three other boys. They all wear the same navy uniform as Jeongguk, with black pants and pressed white shirts.
The first boy is thin, with sun-kissed skin and heart-shaped lips, his eyes bright and beautiful, fidgety fingers clutching a backpack against his chest.
The boy in the middle is shorter than everyone, his hair bleached into a minty green tone, combed back away from his face. He holds onto the other boy with all he has, button nose red and blotchy, thin lips quivering, feline eyes watery and bloodshot.
The boy holding him has a broad back and large shoulders, his hair buzzed close to the scalp. His face is soft, friendly, the tears that cling to his lashes unable to hinder his sweet, dimpled smile.
The sight of the five of them makes Jimin choke, blood rushing in his ears, his own cries coming out loud and unbound, Jeongguk’s hands the only thing keeping him from crumbling under the weight of his frantic heart.
And he knows.
The moment Jeongguk pulls him into his chest, his arms wrapping around him to keep him there, to keep him safe, Jimin knows it’s true — the soul remembers.
Someway, somehow, he made it home.
He found them, found him.
“H-How…”
“You called me by your name.”
Jeongguk’s words ring inside his mind, over and over again, every piece sliding seamlessly into place.
The dreams he thought ought to be his imagination. The song that always brought his mother peace. The book that always brought him comfort. The missing someone he’s never met. The homesickness for a home that never was.
Jimin couldn’t remember this place because it was never his home.
It was his.
“You called me by your name,” Jeongguk repeats, lips grazing the tip of Jimin’s nose. He cups his cheek, gently guiding his face close, pressing their foreheads together.
Jimin nuzzles into the touch, parting his mouth slightly, letting Jeongguk’s hot breath fill his lungs while he waits for Jeongguk to sing it.
To tell him what he already knows.
“You are me, I am you.”
The soul remembers.
He has no idea how this lifetime will turn out. But he found him. Found them.
He followed the call and made it home, at last.
The Goodbye Book wasn’t just a romance about soulmates and reincarnation and lifetimes. It was the ticket to their promised, bigger infinity.
And what an exciting adventure it will be.