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"There is very little left of me and it's never coming back
There are certain things you ask of me
And there are certain things I'll lack"
Flashes of light burst through the slits in the curtain on a small balcony in Jimin's room.
It's dawn — three, maybe four o'clock in the morning. The street outside Jimin's apartment in this time is not as loud as it is during business hours, but there are still a few cars going by, here and there, and the unmistakable sound of horns. Jimin wastes minutes wondering who these people are and what they're doing — what's so interesting about the streets of Seoul at this hour, and why they're too eager to just wait until morning.
Are they like Jimin: agitated, looking for something that will calm them down? Could it be that they can't sleep either?
Behind him, on the bed, Jungkook stirs in his sleep. He grunts softly, and even that vocal puff of air makes Jimin's heart tug in his chest in adoration. Jungkook snakes his arm even tighter around Jimin's waist, as if he's sensing his uneasiness and wants to stop him from doing what he usually does — get up and go to the balcony chair, where he sits until he watches the sunrise or hears Jungkook's groggy and confused voice calling out to him. Whichever comes first.
(One day a few months ago, Jimin was surprised with Jungkook sitting on the floor next to his chair. It was 4:39am. It was cold, cloudy and dark.
“Hey,” Jimin said, surprised. He tried to stretch the blanket he was covering himself with to cover Jungkook too.
“Can't sleep?”, Jungkook asked softly, his husky voice breaking between one syllable and the next.
Jimin shook his head, trying to give Jungkook a reassuring smile that would assuage any concerns that might arise. “I guess I'm just a little anxious. Being out here helps.”
“Is it the performance?”
Jimin would perform in two days. He had landed the lead role and all the worries that went with it.
“Yes,” he murmured, but he wasn't sure how right he was. It was and it wasn't.
It was the performance, but it was also the bills to pay, the pounds he'd gained, the heel angle he kept getting wrong, the beat he still needed to nail, the texts he still hadn't had time to respond to, and the missed calls from his parents that had not yet been returned. It was the performance and it was Jimin. Everything he still didn't do.
But he didn't say that to Jungkook. He knew he should, that sincerity was expected, that sharing heartaches was encouraged, but he didn't want to worry him about something that stemmed solely from Jimin's inability to be adult and responsible — to be trusted.
Jungkook moved closer to Jimin and rested his head in his lap.
After a few minutes of watching the gray sky slowly lighten up, Jungkook said, "I can't sleep without you. It's cold."
Jimin felt a sinking heart and a debilitating sadness. Of course Jungkook couldn't sleep without him. It was expected that they would have a good night's sleep, that Jimin would be able to rest in the warmth of his embrace, that he would wake up refreshed, happy. Jimin was expected to change, but he keeps making mistakes in the same places.
"Sorry." His voice breaks a little at the end, and he feels stings in different parts of his body — immediate symptoms of his discomfort.
Jungkook must have noticed that Jimin was taking things where he shouldn't — again, as usual — because he lifted his head and, looking deep into Jimin's eyes, said, “No need to apologize, baby. Everything is fine."
It wasn't, his mind insisted. It wasn't. Jungkook deserved someone who could lay down and actually sleep next to him. He shouldn't have to wake up worried at four in the morning and keep Jimin company, not when he had to leave for work in less than four hours. He should be resting. He should have a warm body to cuddle in bed with, someone to warm him up—
“Can we go back inside?” Jungkook asked shyly. "I'm freezing."
Jimin widened his eyes. "Of course! Oh, God, sorry. I didn't realize it was so cold. Sure we can." And then he stood up, grabbing Jungkook's hand and gently pulling him inside. “Come,” he said, leading him to the bed. "Let's go to sleep".
When Jungkook laid down, Jimin put his arm around his chest and threw his leg over his hips, pulling him against him. Jungkook let out a contented murmur, and it wasn't long before he was humming in his sleep.
Jimin closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep for two hours this time. He would try, for Jungkook.
It was all he could do, try. And yet he kept failing)
It's three, maybe four o'clock in the morning, and even though it's dark and silent, rocked by the warmth of Jungkook's grip, Jimin can't sleep.
He does everything: tries to count to thirty, recites children's stories in his head, and snuggles even closer into Jungkook's embrace. Nothing works. Jimin's mind yields to the same abominable speed that assails it during the day, and no matter how hard he tries to close his eyes, no matter how much he begs them to remain closed, it's all ineffective.
There's a deep restlessness in his body, but he tries to lie down because it's cold, and Jungkook likes to hug him when it's cold.
The night passes by in flashes and clatters of horns and brakes, and all Jimin does is try to peer through the cracks, wondering if other people out there feel as inadequate as he does.
He is with his mother in her car, driving through the streets of Busan. He and Jungkook are on vacation from work and decided to go back to their hometown to visit their family. Jungkook was missing his parents, with whom he spoke daily on the phone. Jimin thought he could go a few more weeks without seeing his, but once he arrived at his childhood home, it was like he never left — which was a deeply unsettling feeling.
He discovered immediately that he was, in fact, homesick for his parents. When they hugged and Jimin mumbled an apology for not being able to call more often, it was pleasant and not as awkward as he had imagined it would be.
They didn't ask Jimin about the missed calls and messages that were slow to respond, even though they had the right to do so.
But his parents don't ask. Never directly, anyway.
“We can go buy those buns you like, what do you think?”, his mother asks absently, peering through the window.
“Of course,” he says. "It would be good."
She hums. Then, “How are things with Jungkook?”
Jimin blinks, holding his breath a little. His mom didn't often talk about Jimin's relationships. First, because he never had them; second, because it makes her deeply uncomfortable that Jimin feels attracted to men instead of women.
He clears his throat. "Everything is fine."
“And where is he now?” She asks, still looking through the window, face turned away from Jimin.
“At his parents’ house.” He doesn't sleep over at Jimin's house on the rare trips to Busan, even though Jimin insists it's okay, but he understands. It would be uncomfortable to be there and have his boyfriend's mother ignore his role in her son's life.
That's one of the reasons why he tends to postpone trips like this as much as possible — he doesn't like to be separated from Jungkook for so long, even though they still see each other often. He resents his parents a little for that reason too, but this is far from new.
He's always a little resentful of them.
His mother simply nods her head in agreement. Jimin's body is cold. It's ridiculous that he continues to feel this way, even after so many years, even after working so hard on self-acceptance.
(“But what will family members say, Jimin?” he remembers hearing his mother ask. “What will they say about me?”
Across the table, Jimin remained silent. His mind buzzed. He thought he should be crying. He thought maybe he was.
This wasn't how he'd planned to come out to his parents, but this — this whole moment — was not orchestrated by him. He didn't sit down with his parents and said, "I'm gay." Instead, his mother had sat him down and said, "I know you're gay."
Even then, he couldn't help but feel ripped off. In all his 17 years of life, he had imagined this moment differently—prepared for that moment differently. It wouldn't happen like that.
It shouldn't have happened like this.
But Jimin has always been a bit stupid. He should have anticipated this, of course. It was always there.
“They'll say I was a terrible mother,” she continued. Beside her, Jimin's father was silent, looking at his hands resting on the table. “It's my fault—no, it's your father's fault. He should have talked to you more about women. Jimin- oh, Jimin. You don't know what you want. I don't understand why you would do this to yourself. Don't you know how difficult it is? Do you know what people will say?”
She didn't scream. She didn't look like she was about to throw him out of the house. Her voice remained calm, monotone. Passive.
And Jimin didn't cry. He didn't run away. He didn't argue or defend himself. He looked at the floor, echoing his mother's words in his mind)
“You should call him, one of these days.”
"Hum? Who?"
“Jungkook. Ask him to have dinner with us.” She was still looking out the window.
Jimin breathed in bursts of air, not full air. "Alright."
(“I love you,” she said, much later that day, after Jimin abruptly got up from the table and went upstairs to his room. It was only there, with the door closed, that he cried.
He was sobbing, a desperate cry cutting through the air. His hands were shaking and his chest was tight with pain so deep it didn't seem to hurt.
It was his mother. The same woman who had held him so tenderly and told him she loved him so easily.
And she was also the same woman who would sometimes yell at him and would spend days without looking him in the face or saying a word to him.
She was the only one who could comfort him and the only one who could destroy him in seconds.
Between the tears, he vaguely registered when his father entered the room and, sitting beside him on his bed, comforted him, running a hand through his hair, trying to hug him.
But why didn't he try to intervene sooner? Where was all that show of support when Jimin actually needed it?
Through his tears, he registered as his father was leaving and, from the doorway, said "She loves you very much."
Between the tears, he remembers thinking that this was not love. Love shouldn't hurt so much or have such mean words. If his mother didn't love all of him, she didn't love him at all.
He slept without realizing it, a turbulent sleep. He was awakened at dawn with a hand running through his hair, someone sitting on the edge of the bed, but he didn't open his eyes.
“I love you,” was all she said. She kissed him on the cheek. Stroked his hair. "I love you." And then she left.
Do you? Jimin wanted to ask.
He didn't know if he hated her as much as he loved her, and at some point he imagined that she felt the same way about him. Her love drained him. The love he felt for her was debilitating and confusing. Do you really love me? He wanted to know.
Would that be love: this undecided ambivalence between affection and hate? Did he love her or hate her? Did she love him more than she hated him? Did she hate everything Jimin was and love everything she wanted him to be?
Love was painful. Jimin hated love. He hated being loved)
“He seems like a nice kid,” she said a few minutes later.
"He is."
“Maybe we should take this to Taehyung hyung. He likes those tacky clothes,” Jungkook commented absently, holding up a strangely cute green sweater with white floral designs.
Jimin laughed. “This isn't tacky”. Jungkook raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Okay, maybe a little. But he manages to make everything look good on him, so it doesn't really matter whatever he wears.”
Jungkook shrugged, looking at the other sweaters on the hangers. “Yeah, I guess you're right. And for Hoseok hyung?”
“We have to find the tackiest sweater in the store.” Jimin joked. Jungkook chuckled, his eyes making those curves in the corner that Jimin loves. "Just kidding. Let’s find something really nice for him.”
It's Christmas. Not exactly Christmas, but pretty close. It's close to Christmas and Jimin and Jungkook are at the mall, trying to buy something for their friends.
Jungkook grabs a tie full of red hearts. “I think he would like this one.”
Jimin just rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I'm glad I came with you. I cannot imagine the damage you would have done if you had come alone.”
Jungkook just smiled devilishly. "You know I don't give gifts"
“You always gave to me.”
“Well, yes, but it was different. You're…you” He blushed.
Jimin didn't even try to contain a smile. "And what does it mean?"
It was Jungkook's turn to roll his eyes affectionately. "You know exactly what that means, don't go fishing for compliments." Even so, he pulled Jimin close, squeezing him in his arms, and kissed the top of his head. "You are you. That simple."
Jimin's heart jumps excitedly in his chest. You are you. Jungkook makes it look so simple, like loving Jimin is easy. He is immensely grateful to Jungkook.
“And you are you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Jungkook's waist. He feels tears sting his eyes. He doesn't know when he became so crybaby, but Jungkook always evokes all these emotions that Jimin doesn't quite know how to deal with.
“Um,” Jungkook hums. "And this is good?"
“This is great,” he murmurs.
Sometimes he worries that he can't make Jungkook feel as loved as he makes Jimin feel. He fears he is failing Jungkook somehow, not meeting him halfway.
Jimin loves Jungkook in ways he doubted were possible. Is he doing a good job of assuring him of that?
("Sometimes I think you hate me," his mother once said, long before that incident about Jimin's sexuality. "You look at me like you hate me. You don't hug me and you rarely say you love me. Do you love anyone, Jimin? Because it's for sure too complicated to feel loved by you.”
He felt anxious, desperate. Of course he loved her. Wasn't it obvious? He wanted to go close to her, maybe hug her, but it felt wrong. She was always talking about how elusive Jimin was, and he found out she was actually right. Instead of going to her and reassuring her of his love, which he, at the time, didn't doubt, all he did was shrug his shoulders and lower his gaze.
Sorry, he wanted to say. Sorry for not loving you the way I should)
“I love you”, he tells Jungkook and hopes that Jungkook believes, hopes that he is squeezing him in the right way, that his feelings will somehow scale up exactly the way he feels them and be transferred to Jungkook, so that he know and never doubt. “You know I love you, don't you?”
Jungkook squeezes him tighter. "Of course I know."
“But do you know how much I love you?” he asks quietly, uncertainly. He's afraid he's going to start crying right there, in front of the entire store.
(“Jimin doesn’t love anyone,” his mother once commented out loud to everyone at the table. She was smiling. It was a joke. He doesn’t remember exactly what was being said, but he knows his mother was feeling particularly playful at that day. She was smiling. It was a joke.
It was a joke.
Was it a joke?)
“I know, of course. You love me as much as I love you.”
Jimin sighed in relief. The answer might seem vague to anyone, but for Jimin it was perfect. He doesn't doubt Jungkook's love — and Jungkook was assuring him that he didn't doubt his.
"Thanks." He didn't know what he was thanking.
Jungkook laughed. "Thanks for what?"
“For being you. Thanks for being you.”
Jungkook looked down, deep into Jimin's eyes, and leaned in to kiss him.
“Thanks for being you,” he also said.
That was love: comfort and affection. This love Jimin didn't hate. Of this love Jimin did not doubt.
He spent his whole life thinking he was bad at loving. He believed everything negative about him he ever heard. At first, he was dismissive of the reviews, knowing he wasn't as bad as they claimed. But as they increased in frequency, it was difficult to maintain skepticism. It was inevitable that he would give in. If everyone repeated the same thing or variation of it, then it was true.
It started off being just a little terrible, but it quickly got worse. From 20 to 23, Jimin metamorphosed into a terrible person. He believed everything bad people said about him and reinforced his flaws, because he was used to reacting that way.
Then Jungkook came. Jungkook, who always made everything look easy. Jungkook, who, in fights, did not say terrible things about Jimin, did not make acidic comments about his stupidity, meanness and selfishness. Jungkook, who looked at Jimin like he mattered, like he deserved to matter.
(But what does Jungkook love about him? He doesn't know.
Sometimes this is what keeps him up at night. He fears it will take time to find an answer. He fears never finding it and going to sleep to wake up from a dream, to a reality in which Jungkook doesn't love him, in which Jungkook doesn't grab him when he sleeps and hug him when he wakes up.
Fears losing him before finding out. He's terrified of losing Jungkook before he feels like he deserves him)
“Let's go,” Jungkook said, loosening his grip on Jimin. He quickly took his hand and guided him out of the store. “Let's find gifts elsewhere. Maybe we can find something more fun and head home soon. I have in mind some alternatives on how we should spend the rest of the day together.”
"How was your week?" his psychologist asked, adjusting her glasses with her fingertip.
"It was good. Jungkook got promoted. We went out to celebrate.”
“Looks like it went well. And how is work?”
“Stressful,” he said, playing with his fingers. “I don't know… I… Dancing doesn't excite me anymore. I'm scared that... I'm scared that I've lost the passion.”
She hums in agreement. “But you know this is normal, don't you?”, she asks gently. “You've been doing this for years. It's normal to get a little tired of the routine."
"I know. I know. But it's just… What if It doesn't come back? My whole life revolved around it. I don't know who I am if I'm not… if I'm not a dancer.”
“If it doesn't come back, Jimin, and we're talking about a big if, we're going to find something else. You are still a person offstage, someone who continues to deserve applause.”
He shakes his head vaguely. "Yeah."
“How are you really doing, Jimin?”
“I… I don't know,” he murmurs. “I feel like I'm never okay. I mean, yes, I have good times, but they're just that — moments. I feel like I will never stay well for more than a few days.”
“Have you been able to sleep?”
"… No. I feel so… disconnected from everything. I don't know. It's weird. But it's nothing new. It used to be frequent, back when I was a teenager. As if I was always numb. But it's diminished over the years, and now it's just... Now it's everywhere. I can't sleep a whole night. At most, just a few alternate hours. I always wake up.”
She nods, taking notes in her notebook.
“It's horrible to be on my mind sometimes. I can't stand my thoughts, I can't stand myself. I can't s-stand myself ”, his words are interrupted by an unexpected sob. He realizes then that he's crying.
His cheeks are wet.
"It's so goddamn hard." His hands shake. "I am tired. I'm exhausted."
“You talked about ‘before’, as a teenager. Let's go back there. Tell me what it was like.”
Jimin's life wasn't perfect, but it wasn't terrible either. Jimin's parents weren't terrible, but they weren't perfect either.
Jimin's life was compartmentalized into moments of great emotional significance. A happy childhood, an uncomfortable pre-teen, with everyone around him pointing out his changes,
(“Look at this picture,” his grandmother one day commented fondly, pointing to a picture of a 5-year-old Jimin in the living room portrait. “Your eyes were so happy and your smile was so big,” she said, her own smile slowly shrinking. "What happened, Jimin? Where did that happiness go?")
an inappropriate adolescence, with his friends excluding him, when his mother insisted on reaffirming that Jimin must have done something wrong for that to happen,
(“You push people away, Jimin. You do that", she said, always so sweet. "And then you cry because you pushed them away", then she looked at him, deep in his eyes. "I know you.”)
and a compensatory adult life, when he was torn between giving in to his worst without caring who he hurt in the process, and trying at all costs to validate his feelings, whatever they were — wrong or not.
Jimin was a victim— and then he was guilty. His life is compartmentalized into emotional moments, but each of them can be analyzed differently. In all of his narratives, there are counterarguments — some valid, some not.
But no matter how you look at it, there was only one constant in Jimin's life this entire time: compensation.
He just wanted a love he didn't understand; later, he proceeded to refuse a love he resented. In between, he tried to give a little bit of himself, small parts at the beginning and big samples at the end. It didn't matter if the reason for giving so much was his desperation to be loved or the euphoria to have his pain validated — he gave pieces and never got them back.
For a long time, he didn't know what to do with the missing pieces, the empty pieces he held.
Jimin is still wrong and still tries to make up for it. He still lavishes some of his biggest flaws and refuses to change. He's still hungry for immoderate acceptance, which he knows he won't get.
Many of his defects are, indeed, harmful, and deserve to be criticized.
But in all these years, there's only one thing Jimin never bothered to take a closer look at: love.
He knew he was loved. Loved by his parents, in their twisted ways; by his grandparents, in their demanding ways; by his old friends, in their careless ways.
But he didn't know if he loved. Love always seemed to demand a lot from him, more than he could offer. It was suffocating and deleterious, and he sometimes felt trapped, as if he couldn't escape the attention of a love that wasn't at all loving, a love that was painful, that made him cry and apologize without knowing what he was sorry for.
Then Taehyung, Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon and Seokjin came and Jimin found out he had love to give.
And then Jungkook came and Jimin found that he had where to put it.
“Jungkook,” Jimin murmurs.
It's dawn once more. It's silent and cold and the flashes of light still break through the cracks in Jimin's curtain.
Jungkook wakes up the third time Jimin calls his name.
“Hey,” he says, voice husky and worried. “Did something happen?” he asks, heavy eyes not opening fully even when he lifts his head, looking for non-existent dangers in the limited meters of Jimin's room.
“No,” he said. “I just… I can't sleep. Jungkook, I haven't been able to sleep for a long time. I don't know if I'm getting better... From… You know, from… depression. I'm afraid it will take a lot of time. I want to anticipate and apologize to you if in this time I get… difficult. If I'm being difficult to deal with, please just... Be patient. Sometimes I know I'm being a bitch, but I can't help myself. If I fight you in any of these moments, know that it wasn't you. It was me. It will always be me.” A beat of silence. “Sorry to wake you up, it's just that I… I thought you should know”, he comments, a little embarrassed, immediately regretting his stupidity.
Jungkook manages to open his eyes. He moves closer to Jimin, as if they aren't already completely glued together.
“Hyung, I love you,” he whispers. “I know it's been hard for you. And I know you've been trying, so it makes up for it all. The improvement will come gradually. Everything is fine. I'm also difficult sometimes and I'm going to have bad days too. It's not going to be always your fault. It won't always be you. It will be the two of us. All the time. You and me. No need to apologize,” he kisses his forehead. Jimin's forehead sometimes seems to be Jungkook's favorite spot. "I love you. I love you a lot. Everything is fine. Thanks for telling me.” The outline of a smile. A caress on his waist. “Want to watch a movie? Something to help you sleep?”
“No,” Jimin denies, snuggling closer to Jungkook. "I love you. I love you very much. Thank you, Jungkook. I just thought you should know.”