#tonight by Jin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

not7wu · 11 months

Text

Chapter One: Where Are You?

Where are you? Maybe you’re at home. Maybe you’re sprawled out on the couch or cuddled up in bed. Maybe the TV is playing in the background, or maybe you’re sitting in complete silence.

Is it real silence though? A true absence of sound? Or have you gone deaf to the song your home is singing? Not a metaphorical song of comfort, safety, and warmth, but a soft cacophony of onomatopoeias. The hum of the fridge and clacking of the icemaker, the almost imperceptible high frequency buzz from ancient wired poles outside your window, the combination of creaking floorboards distinctive to the weight and stride of each person or pet. You hear this song so often that it falls into the background, cataloged as white noise until you no longer notice it except instinctually.

And so, instinctually, you know you are not home.

A computer cooling fan is whirring with a coded beep every few minutes, but you don’t own a computer or laptop. Honking vehicles from traffic is muffled through glass, but your home is on a corner with a stop sign. A faucet is lazily dripping close by, but your bathroom is next to the kitchen on the other side of the house.

Your eyes snap open and the first thing you register is pale gray morning light and computer monitors illuminating the room. Strange, since you religiously use black out curtains and usually can’t sleep if you mentally know there’s a light source in the room. That’s why the little red indicator on the TV in your room has black tape over it. There is no TV in this room.

Next on the list of strange are the wooden beams exposed on a vaulted ceiling, a far cry from your cookie-cutter popcorn ceiling. White walls instead of navy painted walls. Even more alarming, the feel of fine silk sheets compared to your Target-brand cotton ones. You didn’t know you could discern how expensive fabric is by skin contact alone, but you decide to put a pin in it because your stark nakedness is taking top priority in the forefront of your mind. Alarmed, you lunge up, jarringly wide awake and alert, dragging the aforementioned silk sheets with you. Expensive they may be, but a poor shield to the cold of the unknown.

The room’s decor is, in polite terms, eccentric. Simple maroon bedspread, no extra pillows, but instead swimming in a sea of Maplestory plushies. Messy desk with a triple monitor gaming PC. An alarming amount of Mario figurines scattered about. It would honestly read otaku frat bedroom if it wasn’t for the sturdy, non-IKEA bed frame, the matching nightstands and reading sconces, the balcony sliding door with actual drapes sashed on either side, and the matching patio furniture beyond. An adult otaku bedroom then, which you honestly can’t judge because your own room is a shrine to seven Korean men who have no idea you exist. You shake your head from that distracting rabbit hole because, hello, you’re naked. Your priorities should be finding clothes, finding your phone, getting home, and THEN daydreaming about BTS.

On the nightstand closest to you sits neatly folded pajamas and a sticky note. The handwritten script is blurry at first. You have to squint and when they come into focus, it almost looks familiar.

“If you’re freaking out because you’re naked, it’s your own fault. You said fuck it and took off your clothes anyway.”

You press your fingers to your temple. Ugh. Of course. Did you get blackout drunk again last night? Are the Consequences of your actions, with a capital C, catching up to you? However, your despair is interrupted because you can’t help noticing the design of the pajamas. Holy shit. This original striped BT21 RJ design is no longer in production, reselling for hundreds of dollars on Ebay, AND it’s in your size.

The sound of a distant door creaking open lights a fire under your ass. With a quiet gasp, you leap off the bed and panic-shove your limbs into the pajamas as you hear footsteps pad in the distance and a door clicking closed. You pause to listen for any other movement. Hearing none, you rummage around for your iPhone, haphazardly stripping the bed of sheets, punting the now scattered plushies to scour under the bed, and combing through the nightstands and the desk. Unfortunately, you come up empty. Without your phone, you feel naked yet again, weaponless without the tool to call for help and no way to accurately retrace your steps from last night.

This could all be a prank, but you don’t know anyone who would take it this far. Your eternal roommate and cousin, Jo, is like a big sis to you and would never go this far. You also couldn’t be at a hookup’s home since lately you haven’t had the energy to get it on. You’re pretty sure the last thing you did was fold laundry with Jo, and then you passed out while listening to “Tonight” on your sleep playlist and hugging RJ, so, drunken blackout/hookup theory was out. But the biggest clue–You unlock the balcony door and step out. Looking around at the sleepy cityscape, you think, “I’m definitely not in smalltown Sheboygan, Wisconsin anymore.”

Clusters of skyscrapers brush the sky. Businesses and apartment buildings crowd each other with scattered green squares of what you assume to be parks. There’s a distant river cut by steel bridges. Taxis and cars wend around wide six-lane streets. The apartment building you're in is frickin’ tall. You’re not used to buildings going beyond ten stories, but you must be at least 20 stories high. You’re not sure if it’s vertigo or the overwhelming anxiety building, but your vision begins to blur around the edges as air struggles to enter your lungs. You force yourself to slow your breathing as your heart batters your sternum like sharp lead and your brain races like a runaway train with its breaklines cut because you can’t make sense of how you could be wherever here is. Plopping yourself down on a cushioned seat, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth barred. You must be having a dream, a very vivid dream. Your forearm scrapes against paper where another sticky note has adhered itself to you.

“This is not a dream.”

….Okaaaaaay. That was convincing. You stumble back inside and weigh your options. Make a ruckus and demand answers from whoever lives here? Or avoid people and sneak out?

Haha, who are you kidding? Of course, Plan Sneak Out wins by a landslide because confrontation is not your middle name. You’re not even sure if you’re not still dreaming despite all these helpful little sticky notes, which you discover also label the three doors in the room.

“Walk-in closet.”

“Hallway.”

“Bathroom.”

Thank you, mysterious sticky notes. You head to the hall and quietly close the door behind you, pausing in puzzlement. Another sticky note on this side of the door reads, “Jin”, which, of all things, almost pushes you over the edge into nonsensical laughter. It’s the same name as your BTS bias. What a coincidence.

The door you exit is the last one at the very end. More doors line either side of the hall, leading to an entryway illuminated by a soft warm light. All is quiet as you slowly sneak towards the entryway, reading the sticky notes that label the doors with increasing incredulity.

“Yoongi”

“JK”

“Tae & Jimin”

“Namjoon”

“Hobi”

Ha. There’s just no way. No. Way. Nope. This is a sign. A sign that you’ve gone crazy. You’ve finally gone full delulu. This is what you get for reading fanfics until two in the morning. Tumblr was fine, but when you got sucked into the trenches of AO3, you knew you were on a one way trip down the Montero stripper pole to hell. You nervously tug and tease a loose thread on your limited edition pajamas and debate throwing your consciousness off the speeding train in your head, wondering if it would hurt as badly psychologically as it would physically. You just wanna return to Jin’s bed–Ha! Jin’s bed–and go back to sleep, hoping it’s all just a weird dream you can laugh about later.

There is no clear exit to be seen. All the doors so far have been labeled. Could it be a trick? Could one of those doors actually be the exit? The thought of having to test those doors with the possibility of finding someone on the other side has you near hyperventilating. Five, four, three, two, one. Okay. The Five Senses trick to deescalate your panic attack. What five things do you see? Five, you see a black leather sectional with a sizeable mess of blankets. Four, you see a dimly lit chandelier over an industrial dining table. Three, you see an open concept living room with an impressively large flat screen TV that almost takes up an entire wall and a modern kitchen with a sturdy island range stovetop. Two, you see floor to ceiling windows that stretch the length of the east wall, if the sun peeking behind the cityscape is any indication. One, you see six sticky notes lined in intervals on the glass wall.

What four things do you feel? Four, the hem of your thin cotton pajamas is becoming damp from your sweat as you rub it between your fingers. Three, the black stone wall is smooth as you run your hand along the length. Two, you press your palm against the biting chill of the windowpane. One, you tug on the crisp yellow paper and read the first sticky note.

“1. You’re in Seoul, Korea.”

The view of the city is incredible and you try to find any foreign indication that the note speaks truth. The signs on the buildings and electronic billboards don’t seem to be in Hangul, but you’re definitely not in Sheboygan. You could be in Chicago for all you know, but the note definitely said Seoul. You’re not really in Seoul, are you? You move onto the next note.

“2. You really are in Seoul.”

It’s almost like the sticky notes are talking to you.

“3. These notes are talking to you.”

A hysterical giggle bubbles in your throat. There are three more sticky notes between this and the last one. There’s no way these sticky notes could predict your exact thoughts. You skip to the last sticky note. Ha! Take that! This is all just in your head after all.

“4. This is not all in your head. Nice try.”

A straitjacket and a padded room suddenly sound like the safest place for you. Okay. Focus on not panicking. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. If you mumble this mantra to yourself enough times, maybe the universe will take pity on you. What three things can you hear? Three, you hear the whisper of wind against the windows. Two, the sound of running water. One, a machine jingles cutely, prompting you to search for the source. No, no, no, you mustn’t wake any of the residents before you can get out.

You rush to the kitchen and discover it’s the coffeemaker signaling the end of its task. After a brief once over of all the complicated buttons, you unplug it because there’s no way you’re gonna find the off button. What two things do you smell? Two, One, the scent of the Biolage shampoo you have on rotation cleanly cuts through the dark velvet of coffee that permeates the large space.

Taste. You’re not a die hard coffee fan. You make the occasional stop at Starbucks, but it’s more for the sugar rush than anything. Still, you pour some coffee into an already waiting mug to fulfill the last step of your panic attack deescalation. You take a careful sip of the bitter liquid, and the warmth that settles in your belly is soothing even though you’re pretty sure caffeine and anxiety shouldn’t mix.

Wait a tick. You poured coffee into an already waiting mug–

The pile of messy blankets on the couch comes to life. Your heart beats a loud thundering bass in your eardrums as a man rises from the couch. If you weren’t delulu before, you are now, because Kim Seokjin is standing not even 30 paces from you, his dark hair sticking up in mussy awkward angles as he rubs his eyes and makes his way towards the kitchen. You jump back to clear a path to the coffee machine. He shuffles past you, half lidded, and sleepily paws at the space where his coffee cup is supposed to be. You slide it onto the counter near him, which his hand magnetizes to almost instantly. You weren’t even sure he was aware of you, but he takes a sip and turns to lazily observe you.

Raspy from sleep, a deep voice you’ve only heard through a screen or microphone asks you, “So, what kind of day is this? Did you skip to Note 4?”

You’re so shocked that THE Kim Seokjin is speaking to you that all you can muster is a dumbfounded, “What?”

Is he talking to you? You surreptitiously scan the room because he couldn’t be talking to you, right? He peers at you with concern over his steamy mug. “Did you skip to Note 4?” He points to the yellow sticky notes on the window wall. Both of you automatically turn to look at the notes and then back to each other.

“Erm, yeah?”

“Ah, it’s a blue day,” Jin says, his plump lips turning up into a doughy smile reminiscent of Yoongi’s. He walks over to the fridge and picks a blue sticky note off. Uncertainly, you take it when he hands it to you. The fridge also has a smattering of green, pink, purple, and orange sticky notes, which he begins to gather.

Jin is shorter than you thought he’d be. Of course, he’s tall, two heads taller than you, but having only ever observed him larger than life through a screen or from a long distance on stage, he just seems so…normal. Double-jointed fingers, most every Jin stan worships, neatly stack the multi-colored sticky notes onto his palm. From this angle, you can see another hall and a door that seems likely to be the exit past Jin, jackets hung on hooks and an orderly shoe rack near it being the biggest clue. You don’t know how you feel that the sticky note on that door has one simple word written on it in big bold letters.

“STOP”

Are these sticky notes trying to stop you from leaving? Why? It’s not like you’ve been one hundred percent on board with these sticky notes so far, but the one on the exit door has you more on guard now than ever. This would be the best time to flee, but you hesitate, glancing at Jin who is now assessing you in a way that feels expectant.

Suddenly self-conscious, you lick your dry lips and run your fingers through your hair. Your fingers snag on a knot as a thought occurs to you. Jin seems much too calm and nonchalant faced with you, a total stranger and potential sasaeng. You clear your throat and test the waters. “Good morning.”

Jin flashes a grin at you. “Good morning.”

Dazed, you bow, stuttering, “Um, I–I’m Y/N.”

He sips his coffee, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, I know.”

“You…know?” He knows your name? Kim motherfucking Seokjin knows your name. “And you’re Kim Seokjin, Worldwide Handsome, also known as Jin of BTS.”

Your word vomit has you wanting to die on the spot. Jin huffs a laugh. “Are you gonna start reciting my birthday, astrological sign, and MBTI results next?”

December 4, 1992. Sagittarius. INTP. You think it, but self preservation has you blessedly silent. His eyes twinkle like he knows what you’re thinking anyway. “...but we don’t know each other,” you continue.

Jin yawns and scratches at his collarbone where the buttons are undone on his pajamas. “We don’t?” he inquires with a lazy grin. Did you somehow forget that you know Jin? That's not possible. Having any sort of relationship with any of the boys would be a dream come true. So then how is this not a core memory?

You recall that Spongebob episode where all the personifications of his abstract thoughts rifled through mazes of filing cabinets in his brain to locate his own name and you imagine something similar is going on in your own head, trying to determine your relationship with Jin. It doesn't help that you can see his collarbone, his unbuttoned shirt, and his disarming grin–it’s distracting. He’s very distracting and you’ve gotta get a grip on yourself. Your sanity is hanging on by a thread and you’re trying not to be the weird demented fangirl that you truly are.

You discreetly suck your drool back in, at least you hope you do, and comment, “I didn’t know you spoke English so well.”

“Of course, I’m amazing at everything I do,” Jin says, stretching. Dear gawd, was that a sliver of belly? “But, alas, we’re speaking Korean right now.”

Say what now? “No, I’m speaking English.”

“You’re speaking fluent Korean and I barely know the English ABCs,” Jin informs you. His eyes suddenly crinkle mischievously. “Hey, why can’t bears live without bees?”

The sudden joke comes out of left field, and for the life of you, you can’t think of a clever response. “Um, because bees make honey?”

“Because without b’s, bears are just ears!” Jin’s windshield wiper laugh fills the room and you simply gape at him. The joke wasn’t all that good, but his laugh sparks mini-shocks through you like fuzzy static and you can’t help but smile. Jin wipes fake tears from his eyes and tilts his head at you. You don’t want to read too much into it, but his gaze on you almost feels fond in a familiar way, which it couldn’t be. Ridiculous.

Jin gestures to the sticky note forgotten in your hand. “You should read that,” he says kindly.

You nod assent and smooth the blue paper.

“You’re safe. You’re okay. Trust Jin, or whoever gave you this note. Joon, Yoongi, Hobi, Tae, Jimin, and Kookie are your friends. Everything’s going to be fine. I gotchu, bitch. - Y/N”

It is clearly your signature. The revelation has you off kilter. You woke up in BTS’ condo in what is apparently Seoul, Korea. Jin knows you. The boys are your friends. You wrote these notes. So you should trust the notes, right? Trust Jin. You look up to meet his bright eyes.

“So, we do know each other,” you state, tentatively.

He tries to reassure you with a smile. “We do. There’s a lot to talk about and catch you up on, but first, I think we should eat breakfast. How about I cook while you go get cleaned up? Your clothes are in the walk-in closet in my room if you wanna take a shower.”

He drinks his coffee as he waits for an answer. Food and a shower sound amazing right now. The conflict of your fight or flight instincts is steadily numbing and you just want to shut down. But, speaking of clothes, “Hey, Jin?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did I wake up naked in your bed?”

Jin chokes and coughs, spraying coffee on himself. His ears turn red and he averts his eyes. The expression on his face can only be described as someone caught between a rock and a hard place, but he quickly schools it into something apathetic. “Oh? You were naked in my bed?" he wheezes, throat rough from coughing. "I don’t know about your sleeping preferences, but what I do know is that you came over for drinks last night...and passed out here. You were naked? In my bed? Hmm, weird.”

Oh yeah. That was absolutely convincing. “And why was I sleeping in your bed instead of the couch?”

Jin sets the coffee down and rips a few paper towels to pat the front of his pajamas. We’re wearing a matching set, actually. He adopts an affronted attitude and explains, “I’ll have you know that I am the perfect host, and as the perfect host, I would never let a guest sleep on the couch. Especially on that monstrosity, which is more modern art than couch.”

The sectional does look uncomfortable. You’re not satisfied with his answer, but the blush of his ears has extended to his neck, the rosy pink deepening into an almost crimson flush. Entertained, you decide to be pacified for now. “Breakfast sounds good. I’ll go shower now.”

It’s almost funny how relieved the set of Jin’s wide shoulders look with your decision to leave the matter to rest–for now. You leave him to his ministrations and head to his bedroom. You read the names on the sticky notes as you once again traverse the hall, now in the opposite direction, and marvel at what your day is now. Closing the door behind you, the kitchen comes to life with muffled clangs of pots and pans.

Leaning against the door, you read the note again. You’re safe. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be fine. Well, that remains to be seen. As interactions go, you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Jin. It honestly could have gone a lot worse. At least you didn’t scream or faint. The glory that is Kim Seokjin is really something else in person. Pictures and videos don’t do the real him justice. You’re slowly coming to terms that all of this is real. The texture of the carpet beneath your bare feet, the sound of the other members rousing, the small ache of hunger in your belly, you can’t deny that it’s all actually happening.

Shaking yourself from your reverie, you become aware that you’ve been on autopilot. You’ve made the bed, stacked the Maplestory plushies, threw blankets into the hamper in the walk-in closet, and are now standing in front of the bathroom mirror, all as if your body is used to this routine. You turn on the shower, wait for it to warm up and then step into the relaxing stream. Jo would love the giant rain showerhead.

Wait, Jo! Does she know you’re here? Is she waking up alone and confused in an empty apartment wondering where you are? Your concern has you clutching the slick tiles. You hyperfixate on the warmth of the water, mentally following the path down your head, from your hair, along the skin of your back over your rump to stream down your legs and over your achilles to lightly pool at your feet. As your body relaxes and the high from your Jin interaction subsides, your thoughts sink into gray worry and cautiousness. Jin said there was a lot to talk about. Answers were coming soon, but still you don’t quite feel right in your skin.

Fact. You are Y/N. You are 25 years old and you’re from Sheboygan, Wisconsin. You work at Kohler Water Spa and you live an ordinary life. You speak English. You don’t know Korean…right? You rinse shampoo out of your hair and mentally focus to discern if you’re thinking in English or Korean, hoping to pin down the voice in your head visually. Results are inconclusive. You can actually feel your brain throbbing in protest.

Fact. You are in Korea. Seoul. Hannam the Hill. You wrote the sticky notes. You can’t help that your thoughts go wild with theories. Maybe you sleepwalked–sleep flew??--here? You were kidnapped? By BTS? Jin allegedly knows you. At least, he didn’t seem surprised to see you this morning, and in fact, seemed downright comfortable enough to subject you to his world famous puns. Ugh, you wish Jo was here. She’d know what to do. You’d call her if you could find your phone.

You soap your body and you think, any self-respecting Army would be ecstatic over something like this happening to them. Acknowledged as a friend of BTS, well enough to be showering in their shower, sleeping in their bed, and eating food cooked by Jin. Given the opportunity, you assumed you'd be thrilled, happy, and grateful. Faced with the reality, you feel alien, like you’re not where you’re supposed to be. The Army in you says fuck where you’re supposed to be. Take this opportunity and run with it. But it would be much more enjoyable if you had your bearings. Sure you could fake like you had your shit together, but shit has literally hit the fan.

Your hands stutter to a halt. Something suddenly feels not quite right, as if the negative thoughts have now physically manifested on your body. You have the same straight hair. The same soft hands and neat nails. The same lithe body, but there are scars on your arms, torso, and belly. What the fuck happened? Were you in an accident? Is that why you don't remember anything? The scars look old though. You can barely see them but the indentations are there, marring your otherwise normally smooth skin. Something to ask Jin about later.

After getting out of the shower, brushing your teeth and generously partaking of Jin’s skincare products, you head over to the walk-in closet. Women’s clothes and shoes line two of the four walls. They might all belong to you because they seem to be the right size and style you favor. After dressing yourself, you step back into the bedroom and almost brain yourself on the door jam because Jin is sitting on the bed next to a tray with two plates of pork belly, white rice, sauteed bok choy and kimchi.

“Ready to eat?” he asks, offering a glass of water to you.

You settle across from him, accepting the glass. “Thank you for the meal.” He smiles and nods. The both of you eat, lost in thought in the quiet. You try to focus on the food in front of you, but his eyes are searing into you, and you squirm a bit, feeling very much like a wriggly amoeba under his microscope.

Giving up your act of indifference, you peer up at him. His cheeks are puffed out like a squirrel as he chews. It’s disgusting how endeared you are by how adorably ridiculous he looks. He stuffs an impossibly huge clump of rice into his mouth. Your expression of disbelief has his face scrunching into the biggest smile, and he starts to laugh, which is a big mistake. He’s now choking on the rice, violently coughing, and you’re pounding his back shouting admonitions at him, as he debates spitting the rice out or forcing a swallow. The door slams open and Yoongi bursts into the room. All three of you freeze, you with your hand mid-air ready to pound Jin’s back again, Jin with his palm open under his mouth to catch the rice he has decided to abort, and Yoongi eyes wide watching the chaotic scene unfold. You don’t know who starts first, but you and Jin are laughing so hard that you’re gasping for air and Yoongi harrumphs, judging the pair of you from the doorway.

“You guys are so weird.” He pushes back his yellow bleached hair and rolls his feline eyes, but you spy the twitch of his lips as he holds back a smile. “Good morning, Y/N.”

So casual. So unperturbed. So normal. “Good morning, Yoongi-ssi,” you squeak nervously.

Ssi. So you ARE speaking Korean.

Yoongi does a double take, eyebrows furrowed. “Yoongi-ssi??”

Jin tells him, “It’s a blue note day.”

Yoongi nods, expression still concerned, but clearing of confusion. “Ah, a blue day. Understood. Let me know if you need anything, Y/N. You have my number,” he offers with a smile and backs out. Before he shuts the door completely, he peeks in again. “Oh, also, if you guys decide to die or kill each other, can you do it quietly? Some of us are working or still sleeping. Later.” With that, he leaves. You and Jin glance at each other, and then sputter into laughter again. Jin is falling over and you have to hold the tray steady from disaster.

When you finally recover your lungs and Jin’s amused hiccups die down, he sets the tray on the floor. “So, you have questions. I’m here to answer them,” Jin says, earnest kindness projected in every word.

Surprisingly, but maybe not so surprisingly, the first question out of your mouth is, “Where’s my phone?”

“Ah. You want to call Jo, right?”

“How did you know? Do you know Jo too?” Jin shakes his head with a smile that says he knows you and knows you well, which both excites and worries you.

"I don't know Jo.” He pauses, then says, “But you shouldn’t call her.”

“Why shouldn’t I call her? She’s the very first person I should be calling,” you say matter-of-factly.

“You wanna call Jo. And then your mom, and then your ‘kids’--cousins, to be precise, but, Y/N. I don’t know how to tell you this except to just tell you bluntly. They…don’t know who you are.”

Something isn’t computing. Synapses not synapsing. Brain not braining. “What does that even mean?” you ask carefully. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t they know me? Jo is my cousin. My mom is my mom. And my other cousins are like my babies.”

“Well, yes…but not here. Not in the real world,” Jin says cryptically.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘the real world’?”

He hesitates, and then sallies on. “Here are the hard facts and truths of the real world. Your name is Y/N. You are 25 years old. You work at Big Hit in the human resources department. You’re an orphan. You have no family. ”

You scoff in disbelief and growing indignation. “You can’t be serious. I’m an orphan?”

“It’s the truth,” he says solemnly. All traces of your previously shared hilarity have disappeared into the ether. “But I’m here for you. We are here for you. Namoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook are your closest friends. All of us are like family and you’re part of that family."

All this information is giving you whiplash. "How am I supposed to believe all that?"

"Please, believe me," he pleads. "You’ve tried calling Jo before, and it didn’t go over so well. Actually, Jo handles it pretty well. She’s really nice. We even flew her to Korea one time. She’s a hoot, but you didn’t handle it very well. You kept trying to make it something that it isn’t and just disappointed yourself because, like I said, Jo doesn’t know you.”

“And what is up with that?” You throw up your hands in frustration.

“With what?”

“That! You keep talking as if this happens all the time. Do I have amnesia? Short-term memory? Am I crazy?” You wonder if you’re going crazy. Have you finally cracked?

Jin gathers your hands in his and your reeling stumbles to a halt. These sensations don't feel dream-like. The boniness of his fingers gripping yours. The warmth of his palms. They feel like an anchor trying to keep you from floating away, but you’re pretty sure the string on your kite isn’t even attached to you anymore. Jin’s thumbs rub circles on your skin. “You are not crazy,” he assures you. “You do have a memory issue, but we’ve got this handled. You’re aware this happens. That’s why you’ve written all these notes for yourself.”

His eyes haven’t left yours for one moment, and there’s a part of you that feels like he’s trying to convey more to you, but you just can’t decipher what it is. You’re at a loss for words. Did you dream up your whole life? Is this really your life?

He gently drops your hands and scrubs his face. “I’m not doing a good job explaining all of this.”

“You really aren’t,” you say with a small smile. You feel your smile involuntarily tremble and you’re embarrassed to find that your eyes are beginning to water, but you do your best to swallow it in, biting your lip. You refuse to cry in front of this man. Jin says he knows you, but he’s essentially a stranger. You don’t really know him. You know idol Jin, but you don’t know Seokjin.

“Look. I know this is a lot to take in,” Jin says gently. “You take all the time you need. I already told corporate that you’ll be taking off this next week, so you can relax and figure things out.”

Relax? In BTS’ condo? “So do I live here with you guys?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. You live a few floors down.” He thinks you’re being ridiculous? In all the realms of possibilities, this, of all things, is a ridiculous notion?

“Then why are my clothes in the closet?” you ask.

“Convenience for sleepovers?”

“Was that a question or a statement?”

Caught, he tries to reel things back on track, explaining, “You’re here about fifty percent of the time anyway. Why wouldn’t you keep some things here?”

“Yeah, ‘some’ things. Not half a closet. And why your closet?”

“Is my closet not good enough for you?” he asks in mock-indignation. You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but you feel like you’re back at square one. His explanations have only given you more questions and you feel adrift. You’re an orphan. The people you thought you knew are strangers. You don’t know anyone in Korea. Jin, Yoongi, and the rest of the boys are all strangers too. You feel alone and–

“Jin. I think I want to be alone right now.” You look to the floor, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to spill, your throat thick.

You hear him get up. He hesitates at the door. “Y/N–” he starts to say, an emotion you can’t figure out coloring your name, but then he thinks better of it, stopping. “Ahem. I have a meeting with my brother I can’t miss, but I’ll be back soon. If you want to go to your apartment, just let one of the guys know and they’ll escort you. Take all the time you need in here.”

And with that, he leaves you. The door clicks shut. You feel like you’re underwater, like you’re sitting at the bottom of the ocean, the pressure squeezing your lungs. You feel fragile, like you’ll shatter at any moment. Slowly, you get up to shut the drapes on the balcony sliding door, blocking out the morning sun now shining cheerfully and the city abuzz. You carefully remove the plushies off the bed and hide yourself beneath the silk duvet. Burying your head into the pillows first, you then allow yourself to weep, gasping on sobs.

None of this makes any sense. How can your most precious memories and relationships be fiction? You’ve always tried your best to be a good daughter, a good granddaughter, a good cousin, a good friend. How could your whole life be a lie? Jin and Yoongi were friendly and seemed to genuinely want to help you, but you have the sneaking feeling that there’s something else going on. Things like this don’t happen for no reason.

You don’t know how long you cry for, but eventually you run out of tears. As you drift into the welcome oblivion of sleep, you wonder if you’ll wake up at home to the sound of your fridge humming, the ice maker clacking, the telephone poles buzzing outside your window, and the floorboards creaking as a loved one gets ready for work.

Join the Taglist - Next Chapter

Back to the Multiverse - Back to Series Masterlist

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #not7wu #not7wu masterlist #not7wu fanfic #not7wu fanfiction #tonight #tonight by Jin #tonight by not7wu #jin fanfic #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x reader #seokjin x y/n

20 notes · View notes