The night felt heavier than usual. The studio lights were off, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of my phone screen. I'd been scrolling through clips from Jimin's live for the past thirty minutes, replaying certain parts over and over. The way he laughed. The way he paused before saying, "Sometimes I think you all know us better than we do."
That line hit something deep. I leaned back against the couch, phone in hand, and exhaled through my nose. It wasn't what he said—it was how he said it. Calm. Honest. With the kind of weight that comes from knowing too much and still choosing warmth.
My phone buzzed again. Jungkook's message popped up.
He didn't say names, but he meant us, right?
I smiled faintly. Of course he did. He's always speaking for all of us.
There was a pause. Then another message. You think people will figure it out?
I looked around the studio. Empty coffee cups. A mic that hadn't been touched since morning. The quiet hum of the air conditioner filling the silence.
They already know, I typed. They're not stupid. But they care more than they question.
No reply came right away. I could picture Jungkook lying somewhere, phone in hand, headphones in, music softly playing while he thought too much. That was his way of processing—quietly, deeply, until everything made sense.
I set my phone aside and walked over to the small window. Seoul glittered below, a million lights spread like stars trapped on earth. I pressed a hand to the glass, cold against my palm. Everything felt surreal sometimes. The fame, the noise, the way we lived in two realities at once—the one we gave to the world and the one that was ours alone.
My reflection in the glass looked tired but calm. I whispered softly, "You did well today, Jiminie."
The phone buzzed again. Jungkook. You still at the studio?
Yeah.
Come home.
That made me smile. He didn't say please or I miss you, but it was there, tucked in the space between words. I grabbed my jacket, turned off the few lights still glowing, and stepped into the cold night.
The drive home was quiet. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few taxis and the faint glow of convenience stores. My playlist shuffled through soft tracks—songs we'd made, songs I'd written in moments like this. The ones that never made it to albums but carried pieces of my heart.
When I arrived, the apartment was dim. The TV was on mute, casting a flickering light across the room. Jungkook was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy, eyes half-open like he'd been pretending not to wait.
"Took you long enough," he said quietly.
"I walked slow," I answered, dropping my keys. "Didn't want to rush."
He shifted, patting the space beside him. I sat down, the air between us warm but full of unspoken things.
"I watched Jimin's live," he murmured after a moment. "He's… brave."
"Yeah." I rested my head back. "He always finds the right words."
Jungkook nodded. "Do you think people will stop guessing now?"
I glanced at him. "They won't. But they'll soften."
We sat there for a while, no words, no noise. His hand found mine under the blanket. Not dramatic. Just simple, steady. The kind of touch that said, we've survived worse.
"You ever think about how much we've changed?" he asked suddenly.
"All the time."
He turned to me, eyes soft. "Sometimes it scares me."
I met his gaze. "Change isn't bad. It means we're still here."
He didn't say anything after that. He just leaned closer until his head rested against my shoulder. The TV flickered again, the room dim but alive with quiet understanding.
In that moment, there was no fear, no rumor, no fan theories waiting to explode online. There was just us. Breathing. Existing.
And that, for now, was enough.