Jungkook's POV
The art café dates, the park visits, the late-night texts that stretched into early mornings – each interaction with Taehyung was a double-edged sword. Every laugh shared, every knowing glance, every moment of effortless connection was a pure, unadulterated joy that filled the hollow space in his chest. It was like finally breathing after holding his breath for years. But with that joy came a sharp, constant ache. Taehyung was here. He was back in Jungkook's life, more vibrant and captivating than ever. But he wasn't his. Not truly.
He scrolled through his phone, stopping on a photo he'd secretly taken of Taehyung at the café, caught mid-laugh, sunlight filtering through the window and illuminating his hair like a halo. He traced the screen with his thumb, a wistful smile playing on his lips. He remembered that laugh, the way Taehyung's head had tilted back, the sheer unburdened joy in his eyes. It was a laugh he hadn't heard in over a decade, and now it was becoming a regular melody in his life.
He looks so happy with you, Kook, his inner voice whispered, a cruel reminder. Happier than he looks with Jennie.
The thought was dangerous, reckless, but it was true. He'd seen Taehyung with Jennie in photos, on social media. They looked good together, polished, successful. But there was a certain spark, a wildness in Taehyung's eyes, that only seemed to ignite when he was with Jungkook. Was he imagining it? Or was it the desperate hope of a boy who had loved from afar for too long?
He remembered the moment under the oak tree, his confession so close to escaping. He'd chickened out. Again. The fear of scaring Taehyung away, of shattering this fragile, beautiful reconnection, was paralyzing. What if Taehyung recoiled? What if he saw Jungkook's feelings as a burden, as something that complicated his perfect, curated life with Jennie?
He knew he was playing a dangerous game. Every text, every meet-up, every lingering glance was a step closer to a line he shouldn't cross. He was falling, harder and faster than he ever had, for a man who was already taken. The thought was agonizing, a constant thrum beneath his skin. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to pull Taehyung close and never let go. He wanted to tell him everything – about the skipping stone he'd kept for all these years, about the countless nights he'd wondered where Taehyung was, if he was happy, if he remembered their promise.
But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to be patient. He had to be content with these stolen moments, these glimpses of the man Taehyung had become, the man who still felt like his other half. He would wait. He would be the friend Taehyung needed, the confidant, the safe harbor. He would be everything, until he could be more.
He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over Taehyung's contact. He had promised himself he wouldn't initiate contact again today. He needed to give Taehyung space, to let him come to him. But the silence stretched, heavy and demanding. He craved Taehyung's voice, his laugh, even just the simple presence of his name on the screen.
He typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too. Finally, he settled on something casual, something that wouldn't give away the storm brewing inside him.
Just finished a big project. Feeling good. You still up, hyung?
He hit send, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He knew he was being weak, letting his longing dictate his actions. But the thought of Taehyung, even just a text away, was a comfort he couldn't deny himself. He just hoped Taehyung couldn't hear the desperate plea hidden beneath the casual words.
He was so close, yet so agonizingly far from the boy who held his entire world in his hands.