I woke to the shrill beeping of my alarm, a jarring intrusion into the stillness of the apartment. For a moment, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to summon the strength to face the day. The weight on my chest was a constant ache, a dull throb beneath my ribs. Getting out of bed felt like a monumental task, but I knew staying put wouldn't help. Or at least, that's what I desperately tried to convince myself.
I forced myself through the motions. Brushing my teeth, washing my face, tying my hair back—routine actions, yet they felt foreign, mechanical. I made coffee, not because I wanted it, but because I needed to fill the silence with something. The gurgling of the kettle was a brief distraction, but as soon as it stopped, the emptiness crept back in, heavier than before.
The apartment was too quiet, too still. I couldn't bear it. I switched on the TV, letting its mindless chatter fill the void. I wasn't watching, though. My gaze drifted to my phone on the coffee table, its cracked screen a constant reminder.
I reached for it, my hand trembling slightly as I unlocked it and opened our last conversation. His name at the top of the screen was both a lifeline and a dagger.
I typed a message.
"Good morning. I hope you're okay."
I stared at the words, my thumb hovering over the send button. What was the point? He wouldn't answer. He hadn't answered any of the others. But I pressed send anyway, watching the message disappear into the digital void. It gave me a fleeting sense of connection, even if it was one-sided.
The clock ticked on. I forced myself to get dressed, pulling on the first jeans and sweatshirt I could find. I needed to keep busy. Keep busy, and the pain will fade. I tried cleaning, wiping down already spotless counters, rearranging books, organizing drawers. But no matter how busy my hands were, my mind wouldn't stop replaying everything.
Yoongi's voice. His touch. The way he used to look at me… like I was his entire world. And then, the way he looked at me before he walked out that door—tired, hurt, defeated.
I tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to me, suffocating me. My phone buzzed. My heart leapt, then plummeted. Not him. Never him.
I ignored the notification and grabbed my bag. I needed to escape the apartment, the ghosts of him that lingered in every corner. But stepping outside offered no relief. The city felt too big, too cold. The streets were crowded, yet I'd never felt more isolated.
I wandered aimlessly, my phone clenched tightly. Every few minutes, I'd unlock it, open our chat, and type something.
"I miss you." Delete.
"Can we talk?" Delete.
"I'm sorry." Send.
My messages hung there, unanswered. Sometimes, they stayed unread. Other times, the "read" notification appeared, a fresh wave of pain. He was out there—somewhere—but he wasn't here.
The day dragged on, each hour heavier than the last. By evening, I was back at the apartment, curled up on the couch with his hoodie. The TV flickered, unnoticed. My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, a flicker of hope.
Not him. A friend I hadn't spoken to in days.
"Hey, are you okay? Haven't heard from you in a while."
I stared at the message. What am I supposed to say? "I'm fine. Just busy." Send.
A lie. But easier than the truth. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted him. Every day without him felt like another piece of me crumbling away.
As the hours passed, the quiet of the apartment pressed down on me, heavier than before. My mind drifted back to moments I'd buried. Moments too painful to face.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the silver bracelet around my wrist. The tiny star charm gleamed faintly.
"So you'll always know I'm with you," he'd said, fastening it. I remembered rolling my eyes, teasing him for being dramatic. He hadn't laughed. He'd smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "One day, you'll understand," he'd murmured.
And now I did.
My chest tightened. I held the charm, the cool metal sending a shiver through me. I sank onto the bed, the memories crashing back. The nights he'd stayed up late, calming my fears. The way he'd hold my hand when I was too anxious to face the world. The little notes he'd leave on the counter.
Tears blurred my vision. The fights…petty…stupid…pushing him away…convinced he was holding me back…
"You don't trust me, Yoongi," I'd snapped. His jaw tightened, but his voice was calm. "It's not about trust. It's about keeping you safe."
I hadn't listened. Too stubborn… too consumed by proving I didn't need him. But I did. I always had.
The tears came faster, hot and relentless. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, Yoongi."
I curled into a ball, clutching the bracelet. The ache in my chest… unbearable… a deep void…
"Yoongi," I whispered, his name breaking on my lips. "Why did I let you go?"
The days blurred. Pretending to move forward…spiraling into emptiness…I cleaned… meaningless errands… the TV on… but nothing worked… his absence… heavier… sharper…
At first, I told myself he'd come back eventually. That he just needed time, space, a moment to cool off. But as the days turned into weeks, the silence stretched on, unbroken, and I began to wonder if he ever would.
What if this is permanent?
My breath hitched. The realization…a heavy fog… What if he wasn't just giving me time to figure things out? What if he had already decided to move on? To leave me behind, just as I'd begged for?
I don't need independence… I need Yoongi.
I thought back to all the moments I had misunderstood him, misjudged his intentions. He had never wanted to control me—he had only wanted to keep me safe. To protect me, to love me. And I had thrown it all away.
Yoongi wasn't just my protector. He was my anchor, my balance, the one who brought order to the chaos of my world. Without him, I was lost, adrift in the very freedom I thought I wanted.
I'd do anything… to have him back… to fix it… to prove… I understand now… I'm willing to change…
Tears welled. "I get it now, Yoongi. I was wrong." My voice cracked. "You were never holding me back. You were holding me together."
The tears came faster. I need him…his strength…his patience…his unwavering love…I need to tell him… I can't lose him…not like this…
But how? How can I fix this? How can I show him… I'm ready to fight… for us… for him… after everything?
I picked up my phone again, staring at his name in my contacts. My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling as I debated whether to send another message. I wanted to tell him everything—to pour my heart out and beg him to come back. But what if it was too late?
The fear paralyzed me, and I set the phone down with a shaky sigh. Not tonight. Not yet. But soon.
The silence…not quite as suffocating…it still hurt…but a flicker of resolve…not the end…
A month had passed, though it felt like an eternity. The days blurred, each one a heavier burden than the last, a constant reminder of Yoongi's absence. The ache in my chest was a dull, persistent throb, a weight that never eased.
Sleep offered little respite. Nights were the worst. The silence in the apartment pressed down on me, suffocating. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his last words. Every argument, every tender moment, every mistake—a relentless loop in my mind. Sleep, when it came, was restless, filled with dreams of him—his voice, his touch, the way he used to look at me. Waking up was like losing him all over again.
Food was tasteless, a chore. Cooking was an insurmountable task. I existed on scraps—half-eaten sandwiches, instant noodles, the occasional piece of toast. My body felt the strain, the hollowness inside mirrored by the weakness in my limbs.
Even simple tasks felt overwhelming. Laundry piled up, untouched. Dishes filled the sink, each one a testament to my inability to function. I tried to distract myself, to fill the time, but nothing worked. Books lay abandoned. Shows blurred into static.
One night, the weight became unbearable. I paced the apartment, my hands trembling as I clutched my phone, scrolling through old messages. His words were distant echoes now.
"You're mine to protect."
"You don't have to face everything alone."
"I love you."
Tears blurred my vision. I stopped in the living room, my chest heaving, fighting back sobs. The bracelet he'd given me dangled from my wrist, the tiny star catching the faint light.
"Yoongi," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Please come back."
I collapsed onto the couch, the phone slipping from my grasp. Tears came, hot and unstoppable. My body shook with the force of them, each sob a wave crashing against the shore. This was it—my breaking point. I was utterly lost.
"Yoongi," I whispered again, his name a prayer. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to live without you."
Then, a knock at the door.
Soft at first, I thought I'd imagined it. Then it came again, firmer, sending a jolt through me. My heart pounded. Could it be…? No. It couldn't.
I stumbled towards the door, my knees weak, my breath caught. My fingers trembled as I unlocked it and pulled it open.
There he was.
Yoongi.
He stood there, his face shadowed, his expression calm but unreadable. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes… heavy with something I couldn't name.
"Yoongi," I whispered, his name a breath.
He stepped inside, closing the door. He didn't speak, his gaze sweeping over me. He saw the exhaustion, the red eyes, the days without sleep.
"Have you eaten?" he asked, his voice soft.
The question… so simple, so Yoongi… and yet it carried the weight of everything. Tears spilled over, and I shook my head.
Yoongi sighed. "You always do this," he murmured. He crossed the space between us and pulled me into his arms.
His warmth… the dam broke. I collapsed against him, clutching his jacket, sobs wracking me. "I'm sorry," I choked out. "I didn't mean it—I didn't mean to push you away. I—"
"Shh," he interrupted, his hand smoothing my hair. "It's okay. I know."
His voice was calm, but with a quiet intensity. He wasn't angry. But there was something else…
We stood there, his arms around me. When my sobs subsided, I pulled back.
"You came back?" I whispered.
He looked at me. "Yes, I had to see if you were ready to fight for yourself."
His words… a punch to the gut. No judgment… just sincerity.
"I am," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "I get it now, Yoongi. I was wrong. About everything. And I'm ready to fight—for me, for us. If you'll let me."
A small, familiar smile tugged at his lips. "I'm here now," he said. "Let's take it one step at a time."
The weight in my chest…began to lift. It wasn't gone…but Yoongi was here. He had come back. And maybe…that was enough.