Yoongi's Point of View
When I left her that night, I told myself it was the only way. I told myself it was for her—that she needed to understand true independence. I thought walking away would somehow lessen the pain, but the truth was, it tore me apart.
The first few days were brutal. Her name lit up my phone constantly, messages arriving at all hours. I'd stare at them, my thumb hovering over the screen, a desperate urge to reply warring with a deeper, more unsettling fear.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
I told myself she needed space. That answering would only hinder her growth. But deep down, I knew it was my own weakness. I didn't trust myself. Each message was a fresh wound, a reminder of the pain I'd inflicted—and the pain I might inflict again.
Sometimes, I couldn't even open them. The fear of her words—anger, desperation, or something worse—kept me paralyzed. I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into my palms. I shoved my phone under a pile of papers, the metallic tang of frustration rising in my throat. I hated myself for it, for leaving her in the silence.
I was consumed by thoughts of her. Was she eating? Sleeping? Was she crumbling under the weight of the freedom she'd craved?
I threw myself into work, hoping it would be a distraction. Late nights in the studio stretched on endlessly, the music blaring, but it couldn't drown out her voice in my head. I wrote songs that weren't about her, yet every lyric, every melody, echoed her presence.
Nights were the worst. I'd lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying that night. Her eyes… wide with a mix of defiance and fear. I hated the thought that I might have put that look there. But what else could I have done? I'd tried so hard to protect her, to show her… but all I'd done was smother her.
I had to face it: I'd been holding on too tightly.
Admitting that wasn't easy. Control was second nature. I justified it as caring, as wanting to keep her safe. And I did care. But it was more than that. It was fear. Fear of what might happen if I let go. Fear of what she might discover… without me.
Those weeks apart forced me to confront those fears. Protecting someone… it doesn't mean bubble wrap. It means letting them stand on their own, even if they stumble. It means trusting them to find their way… even if it's not your path.
That realisation wasn't easy. Letting go wasn't easy. But it was necessary.
I spent time reflecting on myself, on us. I thought about the arguments we'd had—the times I had dismissed her feelings because I thought I knew what was best. I thought about the moments I had pushed too hard, expecting her to bend without ever considering how it made her feel.
I wasn't proud of those moments.
In the quiet, I began to understand. Love isn't control. It's balance. Partnership. She didn't need me to shield her—she needed me beside her.
The decision to come back wasn't sudden, but it wasn't planned either. I woke up one morning, and the silence felt different. It wasn't the kind that pushed me down anymore—it was the kind that nudged me forward.
I didn't know if she'd changed. I didn't know if she'd be ready to fight for herself, for us. But I knew I had to see her, to know for sure.
And when she opened that door, looking at me like I was both a stranger and the person she'd been waiting for all along, I knew I'd made the right choice.
She wasn't okay—not yet. I could see it in her eyes, the way they shimmered with a mix of relief and exhaustion, like she'd been holding on by a thread. She still needed me—but not to carry her, not to fix her. She needed me to be there while she found the strength to pick herself up. And I wasn't going to let her do it alone.
And for the first time… I could breathe.
My Point of View
The morning after Yoongi returned felt surreal. I woke up to the sound of soft footsteps coming from the kitchen, the faint clatter of dishes pulling me out of sleep. He's here.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, trying to steady my breath. The apartment didn't feel as cold, as empty, as it had for the past month, but it wasn't exactly warm either. There was a tension in the air, an awkwardness that clung to me as I got out of bed and shuffled towards the kitchen.
Yoongi stood at the counter, his back to me, quietly pouring coffee into two mugs. He looked calm, almost like he belonged here, but I could see it—the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful way he moved. This moment was fragile, like a glass balancing on its edge.
"Good morning," I whispered.
He glanced over his shoulder. "Morning." Neutral tone. He placed a mug on the table. "Coffee."
"Thanks," I mumbled, sitting down.
The silence stretched between us—tentative but not uncomfortable. I curled my fingers around the mug, needing its warmth to ground me. "Did you sleep okay?"
Yoongi's gaze flicked to me, then away. "Yeah. You?"
"Not really," I admitted. "But…it's better."
"I know this feels…weird," Yoongi said. "But I wouldn't have come back… if I didn't think we could make this work."
My chest tightened. "I want to make it work too. I just… I don't want to mess this up again."
Yoongi leaned back, his gaze softening. "It's not just on you. We both have things to work on. This isn't about being perfect—it's about trying."
I swallowed. "I'm ready to try."
For the first time that morning, the tension eased—just a little.
The first few days after Yoongi's return felt careful, almost tentative. We were learning how to be around each other again, tiptoeing through conversations as though afraid of stepping on something that might break.
One morning, I decided to take a walk. I was halfway to the door when his voice broke the quiet.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked, his tone calm, measured.
I paused, my hand hovering over the door handle. The old Yoongi would have insisted on coming, whether I wanted him to or not. But now, he was giving me a choice.
"No," I said finally, turning to glance at him. "I think I'm okay on my own."
He nodded without hesitation. "Alright. Be careful."
There was no judgment in his voice, no trace of doubt. Just trust.
It made all the difference.
I noticed changes in myself, too, though they came slowly, creeping up on me when I wasn't looking. Decisions didn't feel as daunting as they once did. I stopped second-guessing myself at every turn, stopped waiting for someone else to tell me what I should do.
One evening, I stood in the kitchen, cooking dinner—something simple but intentional. The air smelled warm and comforting as I moved around, focused and steady.
"You look different," Yoongi said softly, making me jump slightly. I turned to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"What do you mean?" I asked, stirring the pot before glancing at him.
"You look like you believe in yourself," he said simply.
I smiled faintly, turning back to the stove. "I think I finally do."
Yoongi leaned casually against the counter. "Good. That's all I ever wanted."
It wasn't the words alone that hit me—it was the quiet, genuine way he said them. This was different. This was real.
Yoongi wasn't here to fix me, to carry me, or to fight my battles for me. He was here to walk beside me, to meet me where I was.
And for the first time… I wasn't afraid…
As I leaned into him, feeling the quiet hum of his presence, I realised that this—this fragile, imperfect thing we were building—was stronger than anything we'd had before.
I reached out, my fingers brushing Yoongi's cheek. His skin was warm beneath my touch, a familiar comfort. "I like who we've become," I whispered.
Yoongi's smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned into my touch, his gaze softening. "Me too," he murmured. "It's not perfect, but that's what makes it real."
I nodded, my heart feeling lighter than it had in months. "It's us."
"It's us," he echoed.
It wasn't the end. It was a beginning.