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choiwrites · 2 years

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jjk | when it clears

Words: 7k Genres: sequel to when it rains, slight angst i guess, fluff, NOT A SMUT so i apologize Warning: language

Summary: Because after a heavy storm comes the sun that heals all the wounds and heartaches. You two meet again in better circumstances.

A/N: Before you correct me on anything, I am aware that Harry Styles composed and wrote 'Falling' but for fictional purposes, we say Jungkook wrote it. This has been long awaited and it's been a year since the last one, I was just really waiting for that grip to inspire me to write this "sequel" and then Jungkook drops a freaking cover while I was in the middle of this lmao. This isn't proofread, spare me. :(

He had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. That's what the old magazine at Lonepine Diner said. Life is separated into parts, and he gets to choose what he does with these parts. Years had passed since he had gone to that diner, but the quote had been a wine stain in his head.

'Has it really been that long?' he'd ask himself whenever the blazing heat in New York reminds him of the worn out pages lying near the counter of that diner.

Years. In those years, he had managed to pick himself up, piece by piece. The first year was tough, he and Namjoon had only started out the band and they would sing from hotel lounge to carnivals to stupid birthday gigs. It was rough starting over in a big city such as New York, but it was New York. How could he dream of so much better than New York?

The second year had shaken the team. Namjoon wanted to call it quits. No one will ever listen to their music, he was convinced. He admitted that there was no soul keeping the band together and they all agreed. They broke up six months after they were formed. It was devastating, but he will always remember that quote from that magazine no matter how hopeless he will feel. The place he was staying downtown started getting blue, and he was counting the days of his stay before the landlord kicked him out. He had no gig, no balance, only empty cans of stouts.

There were times he'd think maybe it really is over and the universe had sent him all the signs to give up his ambitions, but the only thing stronger than those signs was his passion to sing. He'll sing someday, alright. He'll sing somewhere people could hear him.

The last week of July that year, the same week he's about to get his ass evicted, he wrote. With only the company of his last can of beer and guitar, he wrote. The lyrics on that pizza box were barely readable, but it didn't matter because he knew them well enough in his heart as though the lyrics were only asking to be written out.

The night before his landlord came, he'd gone out of that stinky place and went around the big city. This was his last shot and if it wouldn't work out, then damn, could he get any lower than rock bottom? So, there was Rossi who had fished him out of that deep slump. Gave him a deal to write songs and got him to agree to sell the songs. It was a shit deal, nobody wants to be the ghostwriter. But he was in desperate need so he made it work out.

Then the third year came. Month of August, he was making demos and not one was ever thrown out the window. Everybody liked everything he wrote, even the big names were asking for him to write them a song or two. He was starting to get used to being unknown, maybe it's meant to be. To not be heard, but to be present; to know that his contribution was out there and is reaching people even though it wasn't heard from his own voice. It was fine by him because at least he gets to listen to his lyrics on the radio.

He may not have been successful the way he imagined it, but he could afford a place and is able to eat three times a day.

But there was something that got lost after that year. He had spent many nights drinking and trying to forget what he wants. He would just go from one bar to another, head down on the counter asking for one more glass from the bartender. The high was there and he becomes content for a while, but he sees the face of that son of a bitch boss he has and he just wants to get back to drinking. He never lets him release the raw demos, afraid that someone will find out that some singers are a fake and they lose their jobs.

He'd just feel drained so much sometimes that alcohol fills him the thirst he needs. That picture of the hopeful boy, he looks for a way to break it. Because it isn't him anymore. It's a little hard to find a door out when everything is too dark.

Tonight on the 30th of September, he sips the remaining champagne from his glass and tries to endure the squeakiness in his date's voice. Her name was Roxanne. And she loves the beach. It's all Jungkook has gathered from the past hour. "We had a vacay at Laguna, it was so so so pretty there!" "Have you been downtown Los Angeles? It's a must-see!" "My dad bought a beach house in Malibu and it's literally perfection!"

He couldn't get a single word in. At this point, he just wants to get a good night fucking and get it over with. She was his type, physically. Everything else didn't quite hit the mark. She has a great pair of breasts and luscious lips that make him hard just thinking about having it around him.

"Hey, it's getting late, don't you think?" he cuts her off from another beach talk.

She nods, looking at her watch. "Oh, uhuh. Are we going somewhere else?" The brunette winks, and he somehow didn't find it attractive at all.

"I'm kind of tired. Had a long day. I was at the gym earlier." He lied. His day started at three in the afternoon and he slept right after his cereal.

"That so?" She pulls out her purse and quickly takes a look at herself on her phone. "I'll go to the restroom first and we can go wherever you want." She smirks, he finds that annoying again. She just couldn't take a hint.

"Take your time." Once she leaves her seat, he exhales so hard the people on the other tables turned.

He was picking the leftovers from his plate with his fork. Then the nuance outside turned his head upwards. He watched the people run with their hands and bags over their heads. The ground starts to get wet. It was raining. Perfect. Just perfect. He was planning on bar hopping after he sends Roxanne home but the weather doesn't seem to be in favor of that.

In the blurry sight of heavy showers in the streets outside the windows of the cozy restaurant, he swears he sees a shadow. It always happens whenever it rains, whenever he feels a cold breeze of air. He was like Gatsby, reaching out to something amidst the darkness. That shadow happens to be the past he tries to bury; his life three years ago was something he wasn't proud of. He hated that place. He hated Lonepine. He hated the walks from his job to his crappy apartment.

'It's stupid,' he tells himself. He's not gonna get himself into that shithole again, he's never returning. Not after that one rainy night he can't seem to forget.

The shadow was that sobbing girl under the angry clouds. She's on the ground hugging her knees. But in plays on repeat, her sobs washed away by the loud thunderstorms. He knows it will keep playing and playing all over again because this time he makes the choice to keep walking, to ignore that silhouette of the crying girl in heels.

Roxanne comes back, her lipstick retouched and her eyes more lively. She takes a look outside and she grunts in disappointment.

"It's raining?"

'No shit,' Jungkook replies in his head.

"Yeah, we should really get going."

She agrees and Jungkook spends the drive listening to more of her stories. All about her co-workers being annoying, her exes being dicks, and her parents being controlling. Even when he turned the volume up on the radio, she would still manage to talk over it.

Once he had sent her home, he thinks about you again to fill the silence. It wasn't a choice, but a habit. He would draw messy circles over your face like a picture just to get the details of your features forgotten. But it never really occurs — the forgetting. Even when the thought of you doesn't match the song on the radio, you still flicker in the back of his mind like a parasite.

The thing he loved about summer was not that he could be a brand new person, but because there was less rain that reminded him of the ghost of you.

Why was he so caught up with you?

Why you?

Couldn't there be anyone else to repair the broken pieces that he is?

There will be someone out there, he'd pray. You weren't special, not really. You're not unique. You only knew how to make perfect smiles on caricatures that makes them feel so warm even when they're just... caricatures. You put too much sugar on both of your coffees and he hated that. He would wake up earlier than you just so he could skip the shit omelets you make. You knew how to drive a conversation away from you so well he doesn't realize it at times.

You're just you.

You weren't a popular actress in West Hollywood. You're not a very good singer, but you were good at talking to your plants. You serve his sandwiches with a death stare that he always finds sexy.

Sure, you weren't special. But you were to him, because you were like the one-paged-girl in a book that really teaches the reader a thing or two. And those kinds of characters were details to a thick book.

He might not say it out loud or wishes it before he sleeps at night, but if you listen closely to his heart you'll hear the desperate need to just see you one last time.

What happened to you? What are you doing now? Why didn't you ask him to come back?

Rossi had invited him as a plus-one for the Minerva Cacelli Exhibit. He's hungover, he spent last night drinking six cans of Budweiser. He was only awakened by the loud thumping of his neighbor, which was fortunate because Rossi wouldn't be happy with him being late.

He had never shown any interest in physical forms of art, he loved listening to art however. That's why he had no idea why Rossi would decide to bring him today, he could've brought the new intern Joey.

There was a lot of introduction, mundane and boring which made his headache worse. The exhibit starts just before his knee fails him. He couldn't decipher a thing or two, all he understood was that there are sculptures. In the middle of the space stand tall Minerva's works, mainly angels in an eccentric pose with bits of gold pigment. He acted interested.

They're not as good as...

There was an angel centerpiece not looked at by many and it captivated him. An angel with sunken wings as he reaches out like trying to catch something. With both hands in each pocket, Jungkook strolls around the centerpiece.

Once he had reached the hand of the angel again, there was you.

No, really. There you were standing five feet away from him, admiring the sculpture. The hand of the angel as though about to touch your face.

He took a moment to make sure the details are in-tact, because his dreams of you were always a blur and in loose strokes. But you really are here, in all its glory, carrying a serendipitous wonder in your eyes. The minute had spun around his appraisal of you and your little black dress hoping you wouldn't notice him because if you did his world might just break.

And you broke it into shards, an awe in your eyes and an unexpected smile. He smiles back without forethought, stuttering before he could even speak.

"Jungkook," you call him like it was yesterday. "What are the odds?"

"What are you doing here?" His breath hitches, and he hopes you wouldn't notice.

"Am I not allowed to be here?"

"No, what are you doing here? What happened to you? What happened?"

Your cheeks remained smiling tight as you inhaled. "A lot." Shaking your head, furrowing your brows. "I imagined running into you in New York, but I would have never imagined it like this."

What's with that smile? And why was it so sure and true? Did the three years never happen to you? Was it a blip? Why weren't you as surprised as he was?

"When... when did you move here?" He's lost in trying to understand the situation. In your calmness, he finds heartache. That rainy night still so fresh he could feel the breeze and the void you'd left him when you told him it would never work. It seemed to him that you don't remember it at all. It was so hard to smile back seeing you smile, but he felt like he had to.

"I didn't move here. I live in Edison currently. I just had to," you point around the museum, "see this whole thing."

"Don't tell me you're Minerva?"

"No! No, not at all. Minerva was a college friend and I got an invitation." You take a sharp breath. "Again, this is a weird coincidence." You laugh.

"I'm still shocked."

"So am I."

"You don't seem that surprised," he scoffed before he could think of a better thing to say.

You tuck a strand of your hair. "I just don't know what to say. Are you still mad at me?" Wandering over the missing jewelry on his brows and lips, seems like a lot has changed.

He dug for an answer. Was he? He's not exactly sure whether what he's feeling was anger or confusion or pain. One thing's for sure, he was feeling. And it was good to feel again.

"I'm not mad at you. I think this whole thing is just too overwhelming to process."

You nod. "How have you been?"

Like shit, but with more money.

"Great. I do what I love, sorta. What about you? Are you still-"

"Stripping? Yeah."

"Seriously?"

"I'm kidding." A giggle comes out of you as you place a pat on his arm. "It ended that night."

Oh.

"You and me, it was never meant to work out, right? I mean look at us, so much better than what we were."

"Yeah," he exhaled a shaky breath. "I'm glad it happened." He gulped.

"I work at a pottery store near Roosevelt Park. And at night, I go home."

He couldn't suppress his wide smile. "That's amazing. You're also sorta doing what you love."

"Yes, the owner is really nice. She's an old lady from Japan. We make these little plates and souvenirs."

He nods as you explain. "I write songs. Well, most of them are ghostwritten, but it makes money."

"You think I've heard any of them?" Your eyes narrowed in a teasing manner.

"Most probably," he winked. "You'd know, y/n. You'd know if it were written by me."

A comfortable silence works its way into the conversation. He could tell you were just as unprepared as he was. Who could have prepared for this moment? If he knew this day would come, he would've prepared a rehearsed argument why you chose to be left behind.

"Wanna talk over some coffee?"

He signals to the exit with his head. "Let's do it."

He's laid back with brows in knots still confused as to what the hell is going on. You're stirring your coffee as you keep nodding to his endless stories about how he did that and bought that.

Coffee shops weren't his thing in the afternoon, mostly because the silence was boring. Coffee shops in the morning he finds chaotic and too noisy. He had ordered only one slice of strawberry pie covered in thick chocolate frosting because you said you had a big breakfast today. He orders a caramel macchiato and you get yourself a cappuccino.

He begins asking questions after his first sip. He doesn't miss a second without knowing what happened, he's asking as though your life was a big movie.

"I regretted that night," you suppress a giggle. "But I also think it was a page turner. I called my sister and asked if I could live with her for a while. The money I had left I spent on my way to the south. Looking for a job took me ages by the way. And moved to New Jersey because... I think it's because I just like to move."

"Then I got another job, the one I talked about at the exhibit earlier. That's pretty much it. Not a lot of spice and drama." You take a sip.

"I think you're sparing me the details." The story pulls him away from you for a bit. Three years could do so much to a person. He's starting to realize the bittersweet truth of this meeting — the change. He would be an idiot to expect the same you he knew from that place, and he's an idiot.

It's not true what that one quote says. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's not true at all. Absence makes the heart hallucinate all the good parts to heal itself from the ones it broke.

When he looks at you, there wasn't a hint of an unresolved past. You seemed to have buried it all properly and when you smile at him, not an ounce of pain that he still has. Now that seems unfair.

"Well, in the middle of those events, I also became a spy who had to get inside the CIA and steal a microchip. But that isn't important." You wiggle a brow, taking another sip.

"Why are you lying?"

He knew the question would increase the intensity of the conversation and he knew that it would take you out. He couldn't help it, the coffee had poisoned his tongue and he wasn't able to resist its venom. You pull your hair back, trying to compose yourself.

Here it comes, he says to himself.

"Because I don't think it even matters anymore."

To him, it does. Every single thing mattered to him. The small parts of you he remembered so deeply sometimes it felt fucking ridiculous because you were nowhere near him. Writing too many songs about someone who didn't even bother as much as he did. He wants to blame you for stealing a large part of him but the presence of your mistakes were as absent as you were.

"Why not?" He forced a lighter tone.

"Because it's in the past. You told me that."

He did. And it's an embarrassment because he couldn't apply it to himself.

"Yeah," he nodded and pursed his lips, "just surprised you'd even remember what I told you."

"I remember a lot of things." You push your shoulders forward with a hint of excitement. "A lot of your plans about playing with a band and the stories about your brother."

Not exactly what he wanted to hear but it's better to know that you care even less, it's better to know now. There weren't many details, were there y/n? For a handful of seconds of silence, he was feeling content. Some of his questions are continuously being answered by the silence that glooms over the space between the both of you. That night, you were just a shit of a person, and it's all coming to him now that nothing was real ever.

The 'It's not you, it's me' line? Why did he even believe that in the first place?

Then you spoke again after stuffing your mouth with frosting. "Your singing voice, it's breathy. I'd go to sleep and your chest just makes everything feel comfortable. And no one tucks their hair like you do, I missed your long hair. It used to tickle my neck."

He doesn't know what to think or say. He doesn't try to. Because whenever he thinks of one thing, you say something else.

"The cake is really good," you add, wiping the residue from the corner of your lips.

"It is."

He forgets staring at you, he observes the street outside as if he doesn't see it everyday. You should have just kept your mouth shut. He shouldn't have asked you anything about him because all it does is ruin him. All those years wasted trying to chase an unfinished song that is you.

"I'm sorry. That was really weird. I just thought we'd laugh over it."

He pulls the cake, taking a piece with the fork. A smug look falling over his features. "It is weird." He complies with a grin that deepens the side of his cheek.

"Yeah, I shouldn't even talk about it."

With his mouth full, he asks, "Why not?"

If it all seemed casual to you, why shouldn't you look back to all the funny things you both did?

"Oh, it's weird because we weren't a thing. Knowing too much about someone but also having nothing between you two is..."

"Hmm." He agreed. "That brings the question." He twirls the fork onto the surface of the plate with his index, gazing at you over the interest of his brows. "You seeing anyone?"

"Yes."

He hums in response. "What's he like?"

"He's alright, I guess. What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. What do you want to tell me?"

You think for a moment, what's appropriate and what's not.

"We've been dating for a year. And so far, it's a smooth ride."

"Where'd you meet?"

"Uh... we've known each other a long time before we started dating so I don't really remember."

"It's raining," he says.

It wasn't a gloomy afternoon, the sun stays ablaze as the road darkens from the scattered showers.

"Feels familiar." He chuckles.

"Good thing I brought this." You open your bag, pulling out a red umbrella.

"Y/n, finally prepared for something."

You roll your eyes. "Where's yours, Mr. Ready for everything?"

"I don't find them necessary anymore. I have a car now."

"Before I forget, are you dating anyone as well?"

He holds his breath. He doesn't really know what he'll answer but he lets his mouth loose. Whatever comes out, comes out.

"Yes." He fails to hide the instant regret plastered on his face. "For months now."

"How is she?"

"She's pretty," he observes the gouging eyes you have like he was the only person you've ever seen. "I like to watch her sleep in the morning when the whole world is quiet and she's just... herself without worrying about anything."

"Sounds interesting."

"Yeah. Yeah." He paused. "She's interesting with all the little things that make her."

"When did you two meet?"

"Last May... maybe June."

You thin your lips and nod. "I wish you both the very best."

"And you two."

You watch the rain and he watches you. Admiring like how one does to a picture before burning it. All these years, he thought that when he sees you, he'll do his best to finally make it work. But now in front of him, he sees the truth. That it's not meant to be. He loved you longer than he knew you and that fantasy must be set on fire, to ashes, to smoke that dissipates in air never to be seen again.

If this is the end, it has to be better than the last one.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He hesitates. "You look like you're enjoying the rain."

You didn't seem convinced and he hated that forced smile you returned.

"Who's the lucky guy?"

Your eyes glowed, so much spark in one question that it made his stomach rot. He regrets asking that because when you answered, there was nothing but enthusiasm and joy with every word. Did you ever glow like that when you talked about him with someone else? Did you ever talk about him?

"Remember that night when I was crying and you thought I was crying because of a guy?"

"Mhm."

"I was crying because I saw my ex in there and he was getting married. It was a bachelor's party before they go to France for the wedding."

"That's what you were crying about?"

"Well, partly. And then my best friend was there too. His name is Taehyung."

He doesn't care.

"He's a pilot and we used to take classes together. He's rarely home."

"You live together?"

"You can kinda say that. He's rarely home so I don't really know if it's living together."

The sun came back peeking through the heavy clouds and the ground felt hot again.

"Do you wanna leave?"

"Where are we going?"

"There's an arcade that I would go to when I'm off work. It's pretty cool."

The ending has to be right this time. No unnecessary drama, no unsaid words. But he seems to fail the latter part because there's just so many and they keep piling up on top of each other, fighting to break their way our of his lips.

You lost the race again and ko0k97 wins the leaderboard. Even with thorough focus, you couldn't beat his ass. He doesn't even try to beat you, he's either making fun at the way you stir the wheel or just plainly observing the way you play.

"You should give up. It's never gonna happen."

"I'm gonna make that leaderboard someday."

He laughs when you hit the wheel, completely frustrated. Before you can swipe the card again, he stops you.

"Come on, there are other games. Maybe hockey is for you."

"Oh, no. You did not just maybe my hockey skills. I am the god of hockey."

This was a mistake. He shouldn't have done this. Because now he had opened the opportunity to see you in a different light. Somewhere far away from the dark he always remembered you in. You're becoming the bigger picture he never knew. It's not the same as serving him breakfast at Lonepine or seeing you under those fluorescent lights.

He wants to say, "We should've tried this sooner." But that would be weird. He wants to say, "I wish we're like this forever." But that's just desperate. In time, the right words will come, and he hopes it soon.

"Winner gets to what?" he asks.

"Loser pays for dinner."

He rolls his eyes and then smiles cheekily.

"That's your way of asking me out for dinner?"

"Don't be so cocky. I know a five-star restaurant you wouldn't want to pay at."

Get it together, Kook. She has a boyfriend.

As much as he would love to continue the banter, he takes the game into a life-or-death situation. He's eager to win this, but you keep on owning the goal. He might have been distracted with your snarky remark.

"Someone's losing serious money tonight," you comment, a hand behind your back as you lean closer to the table.

In all honesty, he doesn't give a fuck about the money he's gonna lose. It doesn't matter. What matters is dinner. Tonight. With you.

"Don't be too comfortable," he says as the monitor signals that the game is over and Player 1 wins.

"Take that! Hah!" You put on imaginary shades and gave yourself a pat on the back.

"Okay, one more game."

"Nope!"

"Yes."

Before he swipes the card again, you approach him and pull him toward the claw machines in one line together with bright lights beside each window. He doesn't focus much on that but your hand on his wrist that takes away everything from him.

"I've been eyeing this freaky guinea pig thing ever since we arrived."

You let go of his wrist, all the focus now on trying to get the stuffed animal. Once, twice, you fail. He's fascinated with the way you play. With one hand resting on the machine and the other on his waist, his eyes go from the animal that's barely reached by the claw to the frustrated wrinkles in your face.

You release an exasperated sigh, hand clawing your face like a maniac. "It's so freaking cute."

Then you fail again after the fifth try.

"This is rigged."

"You have to wait until the claw is steady. You keep landing it when it's still shaking. Here, let me try."

He swipes his card and starts to play. He's actually focused, for a moment he takes his mind off of you and it felt relieving. It didn't feel too bad to have something else to be focused on.

He successfully picks up the toy, a chagrin smirk painted across his proud face.

"It isn't rigged. You're just not good enough."

You squeal as you reach the bottom of the machine for the plushie.

"Where are we eating?" he asks, pulling his mind away from the innocence that wraps the guinea pig.

"You like Thai food? Thai Villa is on 19th street."

"Sure," he replies. And during the car ride on the way to 19th street, he thought of the defining moment of how it came to be, the falling in love:

"Why not?"

"Because," your shoulders rise, "I have a shift."

"That's bullshit. You get off early."

"I take extra shifts." You wink, making his bed. "Put your shorts back on." You roll your eyes at the sight of him standing there naked with pride.

He doesn't comply. "When's your day-off? Come on, I really want you to see me perform."

"I would love to. I really would. But I don't have day-offs."

"Liar."

Scoffing, you face him. His hands are on his waist, lip between his teeth, waiting for your response.

"I can't talk to you with your dick out like that."

He chuckles, just slightly before he forgets the subject. "Y/n, your job is not going anywhere. Take a day-off and eat with me."

"That day-off is not gonna pay my rent. You can perform right here."

He fakes a laugh. "You're unbelievable."

"You're having so much fun showing it off like that, huh?"

"Why are you trying to do so many things all at once? It's just one day. You're living to work, it's fucking bullshit."

"No, I don't," you grin, "I have sex with you when I get home."

"You're like once... twice..."

"Three times a lady?" You raise a brow and he makes a run towards his red electric guitar.

He positions himself on the couch and you throw a scornful look at him.

And he breaks into a gleeful chorus, "You're once, twice, three times a lady,"

In a happy beat, you break into jumping and hopping around trying to dance to the song. And to him, the moment feels incomparable like the universe wouldn't do such a thing twice. Him singing out of pure joy, and you dancing like the rest of the world isn't there. There's just so much magic in a shutter of a second, that he feels overwhelmed to decode this kind of emotion.

"I love you, yeah, you're once, twice, three times a lady,"

"I love you," you both sang in unison.

"That was good," slumping next to him, "that's what you sound like when you sing."

With your head over the curve of his couch, eyes peering at his, there's not a lot to do but to kiss you as bliss takes over the surface of his thoughts. He thought, 'So, that's what it feels like.' A mixture of vulnerability and protection, with a taste of perfection — like breaking into a kaleidoscope of colors and vibrance.

But he doesn't decide, he discovers it, that you have made home inside his broken heart. And his momma always said, "Love starts with the heart breaking."

Once the engine had stopped purring, and the rain had evaporated into thin air with little traces of its existence, he opened the door for you. For a moment, it felt like youth and security, like it's what he's supposed to do and he's supposed to always watch you walking out of the car door.

"Didn't expect you to open car doors for women."

"I'm offended," he shakes his head before closing the door, "I've been nothing but a gentleman to you."

"Yelling at me for breaking my antenna doesn't scream chivalry."

"Christ, let it go, y/n."

You laugh at his dismissal. Over the course of dinner, many stories were exchanged. For the most part, it was silent. He blames himself for not telling you what he wants to tell you, but he doesn't really know what to say either. It's always just the thought of wanting you like this forever, but it was so wrong.

In the selfish part of him, he wished it was him. That tonight, while you both sip champagne and laugh over some pad thai, he realizes that this is what it could've been and what should've been, and you won't have to be someone else's.

"Your job, you enjoy it? Writing for other people takes a big part of you."

"For some time, I did feel bad but does it pay a lot? It does."

"I don't understand ghostwriting. Really. What a concept. You'd want your art to be a piece of who you are and what you want to say, it shouldn't be something you let other people partake in while they get all the credits."

"Come on, really? You? Talking about what a job gives and takes from the person that you are?"

You drop the utensils on the plate, scoffing at his remark. He giggles his way to a drink, the strawberry shake leaving some foam on the top of his lip.

"Stripping was shit, but I earn the money. No one else gets the credit for my amazing moves."

He chokes on his drink, pure joy rolling from his throat to an actual chuckle from a joke you had just made.

"Amazing moves?"

"Oh," you roll your eyes before taking a bite from the fork, "you just didn't have the opportunity to see me."

He continues to laugh through exhales and sighs as he tries and proceeds to eat without

"What about sculpting? How's that working out for you?"

You cover your mouth, struggling to gulp down the big bite you just had. "So the Japanese lady, Melody, she took different classes back in Tokyo, I think."

He nods.

"And I saw her cute little stall and went to see 'cause I was job-searching. She just looked at me and asked me if I could paint and I said sure. But I sucked at painting, I rely a lot on glaze."

"No, you don't. I really like the colors you use."

"Nah, I think they're dull and soapy."

"You're really good, I swear."

"Whatever you say, Kook. You're still paying for the meal."

He groans in disagreement.

"You know, the songs you write, you should really sing them."

Not this again, he says. As if he hadn't thought of that enough. As if hearing his songs on the radio and not being credited for it doesn't hurt him whenever it happens.

"Right now. Can you write one right now?"

The idea that sparked into your mind takes him away from eating. He goes back to drinking the half-empty glass of water.

"Like what? A song?"

"A riddle," you huff, "of course, a song!"

It wouldn't be hard when all the inspiration he needs is sitting right across him. He asks the waiter for a pen and the next thing you know, he's writing on a tissue paper, in a slanted manner. He'd look at you from time to time as though you were a muse to a painting, modeled into words and rhymes. There's an intricate emotion when an artist looks at you for inspiration, piece by piece you're stitched together by their masterful hands, and that feeling is a different kind of flattering.

He reads his work, breathing in, breathing out, a little nervous with a little doubt.

Your hands clasp together and your cheeks rest upon them.

"What am I now? What am I now?"

"Kook, really? You gotta sing it. It's a song."

"You want a melody right now?" he asks in disbelief.

"Yes."

Though that should've shaken him, he still knew what to do. There was this certain melody that played that night he couldn't forget: the melancholy for a person and the symphony of pain washed away by the loud thunderstorms. And your sobbing as he walked away that he tried his best to forget.

In his failure to forget, he sings that very melody with the song he wrote now. If there's anybody that should listen to it first, it should be you.

What am I now? What am I now?

What if I'm someone I don't want around?

He breaks into a frustrated smile because you were staring.

I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling

What if I'm down? What if I'm out?

What if I'm someone you won't talk about?

I'm falling again, I'm falling again

He looks at you, ruining the tissue paper as he places the cold drink over it.

I'm falling.

Your eyes twinkle twice before applauding him quietly, trying not to make a scene.

"That is... I almost forgot how good you sound singing."

"Pft," he blushes, lips quivering in hiding the biggest smile of the night.

"I think if you want to say something, you have to say it while people are listening to you. While you can say something, you have to act on it."

"You stole that quote from A Star is Born."

"Well, it's fitting. I don't care. Oh, I have a secret to tell you."

You lean in to his ear, closing the gap between you two that is the white table, "I think you're a songwriter."

Giggling, you went back to your seat.

"I am a songwriter."

"No, you're ghostwriting. It's not the same."

You wave your hands to his face. "I swear to god if I hear those same lyrics in another singer's voice, I would go back to New York and look for you, and I'm gonna kick you in the balls."

He almost forgot you weren't gonna be here forever. Tonight, you'll leave and that ends the story of you two. Like he promised himself this noon. He'll let it end here and everything he feels about you will sleep tonight and never wake up.

"It's already dark. Could you believe it? How time flies these days."

"Yeah," he agrees. "But New York is more alive when the night falls."

Your expression was unreadable.

"Wait, were you trying to tell me you should be going home?" he adds.

"No. Do you want me to?"

"I was... I was planning to show you Times Square. But if you need to go home, I can drive you."

You shake your head and the next thing he knows are the lights that flows over your head in the middle of Times Square.

When he bought that ticket thinking you would come, this was how he pictured the moment of both of your arrival in New York.

Exciting. Spontaneous. And boundless.

It's done and it's nearing the end of the book he failed to finish before you came. You're here in Times Square, although a little different in the circumstance he daydreamed of, it still happened. And ain't that the sign of conclusion? A dream coming true?

"I should've come with you but I was too scared." The thick soles of your shoes make your footsteps echo.

You stop by a food truck, awaiting his cowardly eyes to look up.

"What do you want me to say to that?" His nostril flares a bit but he sighs away from it.

"If I let myself go with you, I don't think I can handle the pain you'll cause me. I was too broken to love you."

His stomach swirls. You loved him too. But he can no longer use that sort of expired reciprocation. It somehow hurts more.

"With the shit my ex and Taehyung did to me and how miserable I turned out, I don't know what I would do to myself if you hurt me. I don't think I'm capable of that."

"But why now? Why him? What difference does it make?"

"Because I didn't think he could hurt me as much as you would have."

"You can't keep doing that."

"What?"

"Lying to yourself. What? You're just not gonna let yourself be happy because you're afraid that once that happiness stops, you're gonna go back to that slump life you had? Or worse?"

Your lips quiver. "I don't know." Your shoulders rise. "I don't know. I don't know if you're right or wrong."

"You can't keep running away from what you deserve, y/n."

"And what do I deserve?" You huff with a hint of a sarcastic laugh. "You?"

"Happiness. The kind where you don't lie to yourself... or anyone."

You purse your lips together, unable to form a coherent response.

"Let's go," he adds. "I think we should go home."

A McDonald's ad comes on the big screen and the yellow light flickers above you two as the two of you walk to the car that will later separate the both of you.

In hellos come goodbyes. Jungkook, as he arrives at the lamp post where you asked him to stop, realizes that today didn't need the perfect ending. Whatever it was — the sound of your belt unbuckling or the sound of the car door opening — it just felt enough. Some goodbyes aren't perfect, some are enough.

"Hey," he says rolling down the window.

You turn back, confused. "Huh?"

He takes a moment to say something. "I just wanted to take another look at you."

A wide grin shows up on your face. Your index is automatically winding up against the shape of your nose. And you turn around again, leaving him behind.

The night doesn't end in the said separation but in the beginning of a morning that seemed different than the rest.

As he pours milk over his cereal, Jungkook thinks of what you said and he makes a call he never thought he would again.

"Can we meet?"

And that voice, so remarkably deep, answers.

"Of course," replies Namjoon.

9 months later.

The summer heat burns his skin as he exits the van. It's crowded during the morning in New York and the city deafens his ears as much as exhaust him. Today was tiresome and it has barely begun. He rolls his eyes at the sight of Angela laughing by the food truck.

"Hey," he exclaims, "where's my drink?"

"Calm down, bonehead. Why are you so worked up?" The girl with the thick eyeliner gives him the soda.

"Because she's ten minutes late. Again."

"What exactly does she do for the band? Oh, right. Nothing."

"She brings the clothes? She dresses the team?"

"And guess what? All of you still look like idiots."

"You're the worst assistant ever, you know that?"

"I'm very aware." She gives a mischievous grin before taking a sip from her diet coke.

He watches the rest of the group from outside prepare their instruments. There was Francis tuning his guitar, Namjoon mixing the speakers, and Roi playing subtle beats with the drums. Out front, some staff members of the bar are decorating the posters, their posters. 'Mikrokosmos' it says in ransom font.

"Hey," he nudges Angela, making her almost spill her drink. "Where's Veronica?"

"Veronica? Oh... the pianist." She laughs at herself. "She ate out. She said she wants chinese for breakfast."

He finally opens the can and takes a sip. "I thought she's ditching."

"Why are you so worked up today?"

"I'm not worked up."

"Sure, there will be cameras this time around, but your band will still suck balls either way."

He dismisses her comment before she gets on his nerves. Instead, he focuses on the posters. They were there standing in it with a cliché stern pose for a band picture. Everything was perfect and organized, it's going quite as he planned months before. Credit should be given where it's due, and he knows exactly when all this began again.

The place gets packed as it gets darker, with the cameras, people from outside are intrigued. So it went on, until it was full and loud and busy. Until he couldn't remember a face anymore or decipher a single conversation.

Before the show starts, he takes a glance behind him, Namjoon gives him the cue. And it starts, the warm strumming of the guitar by Francis. For once in the room, it was quiet.

Like the world was finally hearing him and it was going to listen.

Please, don't see

Just a boy caught up in dreams and fantasies

Please, see me

Reaching out for someone I can't see

Roi begins to hit the hi-hats gently.

Take my hand

Let's see where we wake up tomorrow

Best laid plans

Sometimes are just a one night stand

I'll be damned

Cupid's demanding back his arrow

So let's get drunk on our tears

The strings start, something that Namjoon had composed in his laptop.

Jungkook turns to Angela who nods and gives an approving smile. Something she'd never done.

And, God, tell us the reason

Youth is wasted on the young

It's hunting season and the lambs are on the run

Searching for meaning

But are we all lost stars?

When he closes his eyes from the blinding glare of the lighting that was focused right in front of him, he loosens as he tightens the grip on the microphone.

He thinks of when he met Namjoon for the first time during college. It was the sight of him making music then that gave this direct path to where he is now.

Trying to light up the dark?

Who are we?

Just a speck of dust within the galaxy

Woe is me

He thinks of when he went with him. And Namjoon taught him that there are so many things you can be and on top of that is being happy.

He smiles into the microphone.

If we're not careful turns into reality

Don't you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow

Yesterday I saw a lion kiss a deer

He opens his lids slowly and under the wind chimes was you, lost in the music and found in the crowd. Your arms carefully folded against your chest until you gave him a wave.

You were mouthing a sentence through a beam, and although he couldn't understand, he felt relieved.

Turn the page

Maybe we'll find a brand new ending

He had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. All at once, you two were in that same place again, under the single shed of light, that hope was never banished, but only replenished.

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