I used to think the stage was the safest place for me. The lights were so bright that no one could see past the performance. But lately, when I stand there with Jungkook at my side, I feel both exposed and alive. Every smile, every glance, every small mistake feels magnified.
During the last concert, I almost reached for his hand before the final bow. I stopped myself. The crowd was roaring, phones were raised, and I could already picture the headlines if I slipped. So I turned it into a wave, casual, nothing unusual. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and I knew he understood.
After the show, back in the green room, the air smelled of sweat and perfume from the bouquets fans had sent. I sat on the couch scrolling through my phone, reading the flood of posts. Some fans were editing clips from the concert already. Pausing at the moment I leaned too close to Jungkook. Adding slow motion. Adding circles. The internet doesn't miss anything.
I felt a knot in my chest. Not anger, not shame. Just the weight of being seen too much. I looked up and saw Yoongi watching me. He didn't say anything. He rarely does. But when I met his eyes, he nodded once, like he was telling me, "You're fine. Don't overthink." That small gesture calmed me more than any words.
Later that night, I went live. I didn't plan to. I was still tired, voice rough, hair damp from the shower. But I wanted to connect, to reassure. I sat in my room, dim light behind me, guitar across my lap.
"Today was good, right?" I asked the comments. Messages flew by. Some thanking me, some teasing me, some saying how happy I looked. I smiled, strummed a soft chord, and let the music do the talking.
I didn't mention Jungkook, but I didn't need to. He came into the frame anyway, halfway through, hair messy, holding a bag of chips. He sat beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Fans exploded in the chat. I tried not to laugh.
We didn't touch. We didn't say anything special. But we shared space, and that was enough.
When the live ended, he leaned back against the headboard and sighed. "Do you ever get tired of hiding?"
I looked at him, at the boy I'd known for years, at the man he was becoming. "It's not hiding," I said. "It's protecting. Protecting us, protecting the group, protecting the music. We're bigger than one story."
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on me, full of questions he didn't say aloud.
I reached over, brushed a crumb from his cheek, and whispered, "One day, we'll decide how the story goes. Until then, let's write it quietly."
The room fell silent except for the hum of the city outside. My heart felt heavy and light at the same time.
Tomorrow, the cycle would begin again. Rehearsals. Cameras. Interviews. But tonight, it was enough to know that we had something real, even if the world only saw hints.