6:45 AM
I woke with a familiar ache, a hope clinging to the edges of my dread. Two days. Two days of silence from Yoongi. No text, no notification. Just…nothing. I pulled on a hoodie and sweats, the familiar weight of the apartment pressing down on me.
He wasn’t a morning person, not really. I took a slow breath, trying to quiet the rising panic, and started breakfast – toast and tea. It was quiet, too quiet. I’d moved to Seoul three years ago, a wide-eyed twenty-year-old chasing a dream. I chuckled softly, remembering the frantic energy of those early days, the thrill of getting lost in the city.
The toaster popped, and I grabbed my toast, filling my cup with tea. I headed to my laptop, setting up the playlist for today’s dance practice. The music felt hollow, a desperate attempt to fill the void.
9:45 AM
Still nothing. I’d finished breakfast, the playlist was set, and a knot tightened in my chest with each passing minute. I sent a text, trying to keep it light.
Me: Hey Yoongs! It’s me, your Hope. Headed to dance. Let’s meet for lunch at 12?
I sent it and headed to the studio, forcing myself to focus on the steps, the rhythm. But all I could feel was the growing coldness of his silence.
11:45 AM
Still no reply. A prickle of fear ran down my spine. It wasn’t just the silence; it was the *wrongness* of it. Yoongi was antisocial, yes, but he always had a barb, a sarcastic comment, *something*. The absence of it felt…ominous.
I hoped, desperately, he hadn’t gone back to hurting himself. I hoped he was just…okay.
My nerves frayed, and I started running to his apartment. Fear, raw and icy, gripped me. I ran through the lobby, up the stairs to the fourth floor, fumbling with my key. My hand shook as I unlocked the door.
It looked…normal. But I knew better. I dropped my bag, calling out his name. Silence. I pushed on, my heart hammering against my ribs.
His room was a disaster. Clothes ripped from drawers, sheets torn from the bed, books and papers scattered everywhere. A keyboard lay amidst the wreckage, pictures smashed against the wall. I walked into the chaos, tears blurring my vision.
I crept towards the bathroom, hesitating, my hand trembling.
“Y-Yoongi?” I called out, my voice a desperate whisper.
Then, I saw it.
I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound ripped from my throat. He was in the tub.
He was gone. My best friend. The man I loved.
I slid down the wall, sobbing uncontrollably, a hollow ache spreading through me. Time dissolved. Hours blurred into a numb, aching void until a neighbor found me and called the police.
They took me in for questioning, suspecting foul play. Then, they handed me a note.
“I don’t want to,” I choked out, unable to look at it.
“It’s addressed to you,” the officer said.
I refused to open it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to see his handwriting, to confirm the impossible. I took it home, leaving it on my bedside table, a silent, accusing weight.
6:45 AM Two Days Later
I woke up, dressed in a suit, not bothering with concealer to hide the bags under my eyes or the redness. I hadn’t slept since I found him. I felt hollowed out, a shell of grief.
Jimin drove us to the funeral. It was beautiful, in a terrible, heartbreaking way. Yoongi looked so pale, so lifeless.
When it was my turn to speak, I walked to the podium, my legs shaking.
“Min Yoongi,” I began, my voice cracking. “The boy who seemed rude and shitty until you stuck with him long enough. He was my best friend…he was my whole world…I was in love with him…but I was too scared to tell him, too afraid of losing him. It’s all become…become too real.”
I stepped back, collapsing into my chair, sobbing until I could barely breathe.
He was gone. Forever.