Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jimin wakes with the unmistakable sense that something is wrong.

At seven years old, he has not yet learned the language to explain this feeling, only that it is different from the fear that comes from dreams and different, too, from the ordinary unease of waking in the dark. His eyes remain closed at first, because instinct tells him that seeing will make everything worse, and because some part of him already knows what waits in the darkness.

The night air feels cold against his skin. It presses instead of drifting, heavy and stale. His blanket, tucked carefully around his small body, smells faintly of laundry soap, but beneath it there is something sour and old that makes his stomach twist. When he swallows, the sound is loud in his own ears.

There is breathing nearby.

Not the gentle, rhythmic breathing of his parents through the wall, nor the soft sound of his sleeping cat, but something uneven, as though the lungs producing it are unsure how they are meant to work. Each inhale drags slightly, as if it must be pulled from the air by force, and each exhale leaves behind a faint chill that creeps across Jimin’s face and neck.

He lies perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might draw attention to him, and counts in his head the way his mother taught him after the bad dreams started coming more often. He counts to ten and then starts again, because the breathing does not stop.

Eventually, against his will, his eyes open.

The corner where his wardrobe stands seems thicker somehow, as if the air there has congealed, and within it something tall and distorted gathers itself together. It does not step forward but its presence fills the space enough.

Jimin’s breath catches painfully in his throat.

The figure’s shape wavers, never quite settling into something solid, as though it cannot remember how it once fit into a human outline. Its shoulders slope at an unnatural angle, and its head tilts slightly to one side, held there in a way that makes Jimin’s skin prickle. Where its face should be there are only hollows, deep and dark, and a mouth that opens a little more each time he looks at it, stretching wider without making a sound.

Jimin wants to scream but feels like he cannot.

The thing leans closer, and though it does not touch him, the pressure of its attention settles fully upon him. He understands, without knowing how, that it has noticed him in return.

“Mama,” he whispers at last, the word breaking apart as it leaves him. “M-mama! Mama!” He screams, tears filling his eyes.

The sound of his yell seems to ripple through the room, and for a brief moment, the figure hesitates, its outline shuddering as though it has been startled by the sound of the living, and then hurried footsteps thunder down the hallway outside his door.

The light snaps on abruptly, flooding the room with harsh brightness, and the thing recoils as though struck. Its edges fray and unravel, thinning into wisps that cling desperately to the corner before sinking into the walls, absorbed as though they had never been there at all.

Jimin sobs, the sound tearing itself free now.

His mother reaches him in seconds, gathering him into her arms. Her heartbeat is fast against his ear, and he clings to her desperately.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks softly. “What frightened you?”

With shaking hands, he points toward the corner, his finger trembling so badly he can hardly hold it steady. “There,” he manages to say. “There was something there. It was watching me.”

She follows his gaze.

There was nothing his mother could see. Just the wardrobe, its door slightly ajar, coats hanging neatly inside. Only shadows behaving the way shadows are meant to.

She exhales gently and strokes his hair. “You must have been dreaming,” she says, her voice kind and certain. “There’s nothing here, baby. You’re safe.”

Jimin wants to argue. He wants to insist that he was awake, that he knows the difference, but the words dissolve before they can reach his mouth. He nods instead, because he understands already that this is not something he will be allowed to explain.

When his mother turns off the light and leaves the room, the darkness settles back into place.

Jimin keeps his eyes open long after sleep finally claims him, staring at the corner where the air feels just a little colder than the rest of the room, knowing with a sinking certainty that whatever watched him tonight was real.

Jimin learned soon after that what he had seen that night was not an isolated thing, nor a trick of childhood fear that would fade with time if properly ignored.

It followed him.

At first it started slipping into his days the way damp creeps into old walls. Faces lingered too long in crowded places, their expressions fixed and strained, eyes tracking him with a patience that made his skin crawl. Shapes stood where no one should stand, in mirrors, in doorways, at the edges of playgrounds where laughter rang too loudly to belong only to the living. Sometimes he would hear whispers just behind him, murmurs that brushed against his ears without ever forming words, and when he turned there would be no one there. No one, at least, that anyone else could see.

For a child, it was unbearable.

Jimin cried often in those early years, waking in the middle of the night with his heart racing, refusing to be alone even for a moment. He clung to his parents with a desperation that frightened them, his small hands trembling. When he tried to explain, he never really knew what to say, because how could he possibly describe things he barely understood himself? He said there were people in places where people shouldn’t be. He said they watched him. He said they looked wrong.

His parents listened, at first, with patient smiles and worried eyes.

When his mother found him speaking softly to an empty corner of the living room one afternoon, she laughed, and brushed it off as a child inventing imaginary friends to fill the time.

Imaginary friends were harmless and normal.

But the stories Jimin told grew stranger.

He spoke about a woman who cried by the roadside every evening and whose neck bent at an angle that made his mother feel sick when she pictured it. He talked about a man who stood dripping in the hallway of their apartment building, leaving no water behind, whose chest was crushed inward as though something heavy had passed through it. He described accidents and falls and blood with a specificity that no seven-year-old should possess, recounting details that made his father’s face pale and his mother’s hands shake as she gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.

They stopped laughing.

Jimin was taken to see bunch of doctors and therapists, specialists who spoke gently and asked careful questions while Jimin sat on too-large chairs with his feet dangling above the floor, staring at the corners of the rooms. The adults took notes, nodded thoughtfully, reassured his parents that children processed fear in unusual ways, that stress and imagination could manifest vividly, that nothing was physically wrong.

And they were right.

Nothing was wrong with him.

That, somehow, was worse.

Over time, Jimin began to understand what none of the adults could tell him that this was not something he could explain his way out of, nor something anyone wanted to believe. Every attempt to speak about it only brought tighter smiles, and the creeping sense that the truth he carried made people uncomfortable in ways they could not name.

So he learned to be quiet.

He learned, slowly and painfully, to tell the difference between the living and the dead, noticing the way ghosts never quite fit into the world, how their movements lagged just a fraction behind intention, how they never had a shadow. He learned not to stare too long, not to flinch when someone passed through him in a crowded hallway, not to respond when his name was whispered by a voice that did not belong to anyone with a pulse.

Most importantly, he learned not to speak.

Because the ghosts noticed.

Some of them, upon realizing that Jimin could see them, clung to him with a desperation that bordered on madness, following him, calling out to him, begging to be acknowledged. Others grew angry, resentful of his breathing and his life, lashing out with words sharp enough to leave him shaking long after they faded back into silence. None of them ever brought comfort. None of them ever left him better than they found him.

Talking to them never led anywhere good.

He learned that being a ghost was, above all else, a lonely thing, existing in a world that continued relentlessly without you, unheard and unseen, screaming into a void that did not answer.

Nobody needed to know that Jimin could see and hear them.

Not his parents. Not his friends. And certainly not the ghosts.

Because once they knew, they never let him go.

By the time Jimin reached his final year of college, the world had settled into something predictable enough to endure.

The part-time job at the campus library was meant to be simple.

It paid well enough, fit neatly around his classes, and, more importantly, it was predictable. Books were predictable. Shelves stayed where they were put, the rules were clear. It was easy.

Jimin worked Wednesday mornings and Friday evenings.

On his first day, he arrived early, signed paperwork with a borrowed pen, adjusted his glasses, and tied the library-issued lanyard around his neck with the precision of someone who wanted very badly not to draw attention to himself.

That was when he noticed him.

A young man, possibly around the same age as Jimin, he sat alone at one of the long wooden tables near the back, elbows resting casually on the surface, hands folded loosely together. He wasn’t reading. There was no laptop open in front of him, no notebook, no phone. He was simply sitting there, head slightly tilted, eyes fixed with unsettling intent on Jimin as he moved behind the desk.

At first, Jimin dismissed it as coincidence.

People stared sometimes at him. Sometimes out of curiosity or boredom, none of it meant anything. He went about his tasks, arranging returns, learning the catalog system, answering questions from students who looked half-asleep and vaguely annoyed to be there so early. Still, every time he glanced up, those eyes were on him, unwavering, as though the boy had nothing better to do than watch him exist.

They made eye contact more than once.

The boy didn’t look away.

He was, Jimin thought reluctantly, very pretty. His hair was dark and soft-looking, falling into his cat-like eyes. His features were sharp without being harsh, his mouth curved faintly upward, as though he were perpetually on the brink of saying something amusing to himself.

And then Jimin noticed the floor beneath his feet.

Sunlight spilled across the library tiles in pale rectangles, stretching shadows into long, soft shapes that shifted as the morning passed. Chairs cast shadows, tables did.

The boy did not.

That was enough for Jimin to realize it.

Ghosts don’t have shadows.

Jimin looked away immediately, heart thudding hard once, before returning to its steady rhythm. There was nothing else wrong with the boy’s appearance. No distortion, no visible injuries. If not for the absence of a shadow, he would have passed for entirely, convincingly alive.

Jimin decided to ignore him.

He focused on his work, kept his eyes trained on screens and shelves, and reminded himself of the rules he had learned the hard way. Do not engage, do not acknowledge, do not let them think you see them. It was a strategy that had kept him safe for years.

Except the boy was always there, and it made things harder for Jimin.

He was there again the following Wednesday, sitting in a different chair but watching just as intently. And on Friday evening, too, when the library was quieter. Sometimes he sat. Sometimes he stood by the shelves, arms crossed loosely over his chest, gaze following Jimin as he moved between aisles. Once, Jimin turned suddenly and found him standing far too close, close enough that the cold radiating from him brushed against Jimin’s skin.

It was annoying.

More than that, it was inconvenient.

Jimin kept his expression neutral, his movements precise, pretending with all the skill he had honed over years that there was nothing unusual about being observed so closely by someone who never spoke and never blinked enough. He did not react when the boy drifted after him from section to section, did not acknowledge the faint hum that filled his ears when the distance between them grew too small.

He told himself it was temporary.

Ghosts lingered around the places they died, and then, eventually, they moved on or faded away. This one would grow bored. He would realize he was unseen, unheard, and leave Jimin to his quiet routines eventually.

Jimin just had to keep pretending.

Until, a few weeks later, everything changed.

Jimin enjoyed working on Friday evenings, it was quieter than usual and he didn’t mind it. That night, he was carrying a stack of oversized volumes pressed awkwardly against his chest, and threatened to slip no matter how carefully he balanced them.

Notably, the ghost from the library was nowhere to be seen tonight.

Jimin registered the absence with relief as he moved through the rows, adjusting his grip, careful not to let the books slide. He told himself not to think too much about it. Ghosts came and went. This one, perhaps, had finally moved on and faded.

The history aisle loomed ahead, tall shelves packed tightly together. Jimin turned into it slowly, eyes fixed on the narrow strip of carpet visible between the edges of his load, already planning where to set the books down before reorganizing them properly.

That was when something moved.

It happened all at once. One moment the space ahead of him was empty, the next the ghost boy stepped directly into his path from between the shelves, so sudden and so close that Jimin’s body reacted before his mind could intervene.

He yelped.

The sound tore out of him so sudden, and the stack of books slipped from his arms, crashing to the floor. The noise echoed down the aisle, loud enough that Jimin’s heart seized in panic before he remembered that there was no one left to hear it.

Except—

He looked up and their eyes met.

The ghost froze, his expression shifting in an instant from mild curiosity to something far more alert. His eyes widened, pupils flaring as recognition bloomed across his face with unmistakable clarity.

Jimin’s stomach dropped.

For a breathless second, neither of them moved, and Jimin knew, with sickening certainty, that he had crossed a line he could not uncross.

He cleared his throat hastily, the sound forced and brittle, and dropped his gaze at once.

He crouched quickly, reaching for the fallen books, refusing to acknowledge the presence standing inches away from him. His hands trembled slightly as he gathered the volumes, stacking them carefully, pretending that the cold brushing against his skin was nothing more than imagination.

Behind him, the ghost inhaled sharply. “—wait,” he said.

The voice was clear and too close for Jimin’s liking.

Jimin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up.

“You—you can see me, can’t you?” the boy pressed, disbelief threading through his words. “Hey. Hey—don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t just—”

A hand waved insistently in front of Jimin’s face, stirring the air just enough to raise goosebumps along his arms. The ghost leaned closer, his face dropping into Jimin’s line of sight no matter how carefully Jimin angled his head away.

“Can you see me?” he asked again, louder now, excitement creeping into his tone. “You dropped the books because you got surprised. People don’t do that for nothing.”

Jimin stood abruptly, clutching the stack to his chest, and stepped through him without looking, heart pounding so hard it made his ears ring. He walked away at a steady pace.

The ghost followed immediately. “Hey,” he said, undeterred. “Hey, I’m talking to you. This is rude, you know.”

Jimin said nothing.

“I know you can hear me,” the ghost continued, walking along beside him with infuriating ease. “I’ve been watching you for weeks. You always pretend I’m not there, but you look at me sometimes. Not like other people. You actually look.”

Jimin stopped at the end of the aisle, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“My name’s Yoongi,” the boy said, as if introducing himself might make all of this acceptable. “Min Yoongi. And yours is Jimin, right? Park Jimin. It says so on your name tag, but I’ve also heard Ms. Lee saying your name a few times.” He laughed softly, pleased with himself. “Stop ignoring me,” Yoongi said, his voice dropping closer, more insistent. “Please. Just—look at me.”

Jimin adjusted his grip on the books, his knuckles white, and forced himself to keep walking.

Yoongi does not take the hint.

He follows Jimin relentlessly through the library, drifting too close, cutting corners Jimin hasn’t turned yet, appearing at his shoulder without warning.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, again and again, voice light, almost breathless with energy. “You’re really good at pretending, I’ll give you that.”

Jimin does not respond.

He reshelves books with meticulous care, straightening labels, forcing his hands to remain steady despite the cold that keeps brushing against his wrists whenever Yoongi leans too near. He keeps his gaze trained forward, on inked titles and classification numbers, on anything that anchors him to the living world.

Yoongi leans in anyway.

“Come on, Park Jimin,” he continues conversationally, hovering far too close to Jimin’s ear, “I know you can see me, you almost screamed earlier when you bumped into me. Well, not physically bump, but you know what I mean.”

Jimin’s teeth grind together.

“People don’t scream when they bump into nothing,” Yoongi adds helpfully. “Trust me. I’ve tested it.”

He walks ahead of Jimin, then turns suddenly, forcing Jimin to stop short to avoid walking straight through him. Yoongi’s face is inches away, eyes bright and unblinking, studying him with an intensity that makes Jimin’s skin prickle.

“Why won’t you just admit it?” Yoongi demands. “I’ve been stuck here for—God, I don’t even know how long—and you’re the first person who’s reacted. The first one who actually—”

“Move,” Jimin says quietly, without looking at him.

Yoongi blinks, surprised.

“What?”

“I said move,” Jimin repeats, his voice tight. “You’re in the way.”

Yoongi doesn’t. He just watches, disbelief slowly softening his features. “You can really see me,” he says, almost to himself now. “I’m not… I’m not just imagining this.”

Something in Jimin snaps.

He turns so abruptly that the stack of books he’s holding shifts dangerously in his arms. “What do you want?” he asks sharply, the words cutting through the quiet of the library like a crack of thunder. “What the hell do you want from me?”

Yoongi goes still.

He just stares at Jimin, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly, as though the sound of Jimin’s voice has struck him harder than any shout ever could. There is no annoyance in his expression, no playful insistence, only stunned disbelief.

Jimin exhales harshly, anger surging now that it’s been given space. “I don’t want anything to do with you,” he continues, his voice low and controlled. “Do you hear me? I don’t talk to ghosts. I don’t help them. I don’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “You’re a burden. Every single one of you.”

Yoongi’s expression flickers.

“You should have faded already,” Jimin says, the words bitter on his tongue. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. You linger, you cling, you haunt places that don’t belong to you anymore, and for what? So you can drag someone living into your mess?”

Yoongi opens his mouth, then closes it again, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor as though he’s just noticed the absence of something important there.

“You need to stop following me,” Jimin says, forcing the finality into his tone. “Stop talking to me. And if you can—” His voice falters despite himself, then hardens. “—you should just let go already.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He doesn’t protest or demand attention again. He simply watches Jimin, eyes dark now, searching his face with an intensity that makes Jimin want to turn away, but he can’t.

“I didn’t know,” Yoongi says finally, very softly, “that it was like that.”

Yoongi’s gaze doesn’t waver. He tilts his head slightly, almost as if he’s measuring Jimin’s reactions, and then he speaks again, voice quieter this time.

“I’ve… I’ve been so lonely,” he admits. “I didn’t think anyone could ever see me. Not since I died. I’ve been here, walking around, talking, waiting, hoping maybe someone would notice.”

He swallows, the motion visible even in the slight translucence of his form, and his hands curl loosely at his sides, as if trying to grasp something he can’t hold. “I tried to let go. I really did. I tried to move on, to leave. But something keeps me here. I can’t—no matter how hard I try, something binds me to this place.”

Jimin frowns, tension knitting his brow. He’s heard this story before, over and over, from other ghosts who lingered far too long, tied to the living by guilt, anger, unfinished business, regret, or fear. Some of them clung to him for months, demanding acknowledgment, seeking comfort, refusing to leave when all he could offer was the truth: he could see them, but he could not free them.

“I’ve heard it before,” Jimin says bluntly, not unkindly. He sets the stack of books down carefully, tilting his head so he can look Yoongi in the eyes. “A lot of ghosts, they say the same thing. Something keeps them here. Some feeling, some regret, some chain they can’t break. I hear it. Every time. But I’ve never been able to fix it for anyone. And I won’t be able to fix it for you either.”

Yoongi blinks, but he doesn’t step back.

“You have to figure it out,” Jimin continues. “You have to find what’s keeping you here. You need to face it, or you’ll just keep wandering, stuck in the same place. I can’t do it for you. No one can. You can’t rely on me, and you can’t rely on anyone else. You have to do it yourself.”

Yoongi’s lips part, like he wants to speak, but doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits eventually, almost as if the words frighten him more than anything else.

Jimin straightens. “Well, you have to,” he says quietly.

Yoongi’s eyes linger on him, and for a long moment there’s nothing but silence between them.

Jimin looks away, straightens the books once more, and walks away. Behind him, Yoongi remains where he is, unmoving, as though the words have rooted him to the spot

The dorm room was silent except for the low hum of the laptop, the faint buzz of the radiator in the corner and Taehyung’s light snoring. Past midnight, the world outside Jimin’s dorm room had retreated entirely, leaving only the occasional distant car and the whispered rustle of leaves in the cold wind.

He should have been asleep hours ago, but he wasn’t tired.

He sat cross-legged on the mattress, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers hovering above the keyboard. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, he knew the rules he made. They were there to protect him. He should stay away from ghost, ignore them, keep boundaries. That was the safe way. That was the only way he had survived all these years.

And yet… his curiosity had already won.

He typed the name slowly into the search bar: Min Yoongi, followed by the university’s name. His heart beat a little faster as he hit enter.

A list of links appeared immediately. The first one drew his attention without effort, the title stark against the white background:

“Student Killed in Hit-and-Run Accident; Driver Imprisoned for DUI.”

Jimin clicked.

The article opened, dated almost exactly two years ago. It described the accident in detail: a student, a senior from the music department, walking back to his dorm in the early evening when a car veered across the street next to the campus library, hitting him before skidding into a lamp post. The student was pronounced dead on the scene, the driver immediately arrested and later sentenced for driving under the influence.

Jimin’s stomach turned cold. He remembered hearing about it years ago, back when he was a freshman, when whispers about the music department’s tragedy circulated quietly through the halls. He had filed it away in the corner of his mind.

But seeing it again now made something settle in his chest that he couldn’t name. He pressed his hands to his face for a moment, breathing shallowly. Min Yoongi had died two years ago. And yet…

And yet he was still here.

Jimin leaned back against the wall, closing the laptop slowly, the screen fading to black and leaving the room in half-light. He thought about Yoongi, drifting through the library tonight. Did he know? Did he know that it had been two full years since that night? Was he aware of how long he had been trapped here, invisible to the world?

The thought was heavy, and Jimin felt a strange weight in his chest, a knot of sympathy tangled with unease.

He stretched his arms over his head, blinking against the dim light of the room.

He shut the laptop completely, letting the click echo in the room, and finally slid under the covers. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, letting the dark stretch above him, and wondered how it must feel for someone who couldn’t sleep anymore, for someone who didn’t have that escape.

The next month passed quietly, almost unnervingly so.

The library settled into its usual rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, Jimin felt the kind of calm he cherished. The aisles were filled with the soft rustle of pages, the distant footsteps of students who still lingered past their last class.

Yoongi was there, as always, but his presence had changed. He no longer hovered at Jimin’s shoulder, no longer leaned too close or waved impatiently in his face. Instead, he drifted through the library, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, lingering near the stacks or by the reading tables as though the very walls were keeping him company. He was a shadow of a shadow, a ghost steeped in his own quiet misery, and Jimin, after long practice, ignored him without thought, focusing on the monotony of shelving books, stamping due dates, and straightening chairs.

It was the kind of peace that didn’t demand anything of him, that let him exist without interference.

Until that one evening.

Jimin had been hurrying through a narrow aisle, carrying a pile of books that wobbled precariously in his arms. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about class notes.

His foot caught on the edge of a loose carpet, and in an instant, his balance was gone.

“Ah—!”

He toppled forward, the books tumbling in a heavy, loud heap. Instinctively, he felt a weight brush against him, a hand, or the illusion of one, trying to catch him, and for a heartbeat, he thought Yoongi had reached him.

But it was no use. His body collided with the floor anyway, knees scraping and palms smacking the carpet, and Yoongi’s arms passed right through him as though he were nothing but air.

The impact made Jimin flinch, but he quickly pushed himself up on trembling hands, brushing off his pants. “Ah, shit,” he muttered.

Yoongi hovered beside him, unnervingly still. His eyes were wide, unreadable, and there was something in the way his shoulders slumped that made it clear he felt the failure deeply. He hadn’t just failed to catch Jimin, he had failed to touch him at all, failed to protect him in the most basic way, and it weighed visibly on him.

Jimin exhaled, brushing his hair back and preparing to pick up the scattered books. He intended to keep moving, to pretend this small human clumsiness was exactly that. But then he saw Yoongi standing there, lingering, eyes so sad and heavy that it made Jimin pause mid-step.

He sighed, the sound soft and tired. Slowly, he stepped closer. “Yoongi-ssi,” he said carefully, keeping his voice low, “have you… figured out why you’re still here? Why you haven’t faded?”

Yoongi froze, startled by the attention, his head snapping slightly toward him. His expression flickered with surprise but he shook his head.

Jimin’s lips pressed into a thin line, a mixture of frustration and resignation. He ran a hand down his face and muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Fine.” He straightened and looked at Yoongi. “I’ll help you.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened immediately, a mixture of disbelief and something close to hope shimmering across his features. Jimin has been ignoring him this entire time, and Yoongi has lost hope that he will talk to him again.

“What?”

“I’ll help you,” Jimin repeated, softer this time.

They sit at one of the long wooden tables near the back of the library, the kind meant for group study. It is late enough that the building feels hollowed out, no more students roaming around the library. Dust floats lazily in the air, visible only when Jimin shifts and the light catches it just right.

Yoongi sits across from him, hands folded together out of habit, though they do not quite rest on the table. Jimin wonders if Yoongi notices that, if he ever gets tired of pretending his body still obeys rules it no longer needs to follow.

“Talking about it might help,” he starts, carefully. “Sometimes remembering is what loosens things.”

Yoongi hums softly. His gaze drifts past Jimin, toward the darkened stacks. “I can’t promise I’ll remember everything.”

Jimin nods. “Do you know how long it’s been since you died?”

Yoongi tilts his head, thinking. “It feels like a long time,” he admits. “So… maybe a few months ago? Five?” He lets out a small, awkward laugh, as if guessing the weather.

Jimin exhales through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, bracing himself. “You’ve been dead for two years.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen, his mouth parting slightly. “What…?” The disbelief is unguarded, and it makes Jimin’s chest tighten. “No. That doesn’t—” He trails off, blinking fast.

Jimin nods once.

“Two years.” Yoongi looks down at his hands, at the way they blur slightly at the edges when he focuses too hard. “That’s… a lot longer than I thought,” he murmurs.

Jimin lets the silence breathe before continuing. “Do you remember how you died?”

Yoongi nods almost immediately. “A car hit me. I remember the headlights too bright, and then… nothing.”

“And how do you feel about it?” Jimin asks. “Are you angry? Resentful? Sad?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I was, at first. I think. There was a lot of confusion. But I accepted it.” He frowns slightly, as if testing the word. “I accepted that I died. I just wish I could understand why.”

Jimin studies him closely. Acceptance, he knows, is not the same as peace.

“Where were you going that night?” he asks gently. “And where were you coming from?”

Yoongi sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I was heading back to the dorm. I’d been out with some friends, nothing wild. We had one beer at a bar nearby, just to celebrate passing all our exams.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “We were so relieved.” The smile fades. “Then I stepped off the curb, and the car hit me, I guess.”

Jimin nods. “Do you know what happened to the driver?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No.”

“He went to prison,” Jimin says quietly. “Driving under the influence.”

Yoongi hums in response, absorbing the information. His face doesn’t change much, but something flickers behind his eyes.

“How does that make you feel?” Jimin presses. “Relieved?”

“I mean… sure,” Yoongi says after a pause. “At least he won’t kill anyone else.” He shrugs again, a gesture that feels smaller this time.

Jimin leans forward slightly. “Do you feel avenged?”

Yoongi is quiet for a long time. Finally, Yoongi exhales. “No,” he says. “I wasn’t seeking revenge. I don’t think that was ever it.”

“Then what was?” Jimin asks.

Yoongi stares at the tabletop, at the faint scratches left behind by generations of restless students. “I think…” He hesitates, brows knitting together. “I think I was just sad. That my life was cut short before I got to experience things I always thought I would.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. This—this is something important, something that might keep a ghost tied to the living realm. Regret of not living the life they wished for. “What kind of things?” he asks, keeping his voice steady.

Yoongi shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “Normal stuff,” he mutters. “You know. Being twenty-something and stupid.” He lets out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Something more specific?” Jimin prompts softly.

Yoongi opens his mouth, then stops. His jaw tightens, and he looks away. “Maybe—” He swallows.

Jimin’s voice drops. “Maybe what?”

Yoongi hesitates, then exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “I never fell in love,” he says quietly. “And I’ve always wanted that.”

Jimin didn’t know how to help Yoongi.

He had tried, in the quiet evenings of the library, to imagine ways to give Yoongi the experiences he’d missed, the reckless freedom of youth, the small triumphs and heartbreaks of someone in their early twenties—but it was impossible. Yoongi wasn’t alive. He couldn’t taste the air in a crowded city street, couldn’t feel the wind on a motorcycle ride, couldn’t stumble through mistakes that only the living could make. Jimin could only offer his company, the sound of his voice, the rare acknowledgment that Yoongi existed, that someone could see and hear him.

And so he did.

They began to grow close. Late nights in the library became routine. Yoongi told stories of his childhood, of family gatherings and holidays he remembered only faintly, of music he loved and movies he’d watched. Jimin laughed at some of the anecdotes, teased gently when Yoongi grew embarrassed recounting a failed attempt at cooking, and sometimes just listened. Listening seemed to matter almost as much as speaking.

Yoongi’s presence brightened slowly under Jimin’s attention. He moved with less weight, lingered less in the corners, and his rare smiles seemed to light the empty library in a way that had nothing to do with lamps.

But Jimin knew it couldn’t last.

He would graduate this year. When the day came that he left the university for good, Yoongi would return to the silence that had defined his existence for two years, no one to see him, no one to hear him, no one to tether him to the warmth of life.

And Jimin couldn’t stand the thought.

He didn’t know why he cared so much about a ghost, but he did. It had nothing to do with practicality or reason. Something in him had latched onto Yoongi’s existence, onto the warmth of his voice and his laugh, and he could not, would not, let him remain trapped.

It was a Saturday morning when Jimin found himself walking through the graveyard. He asked around campus whether people might know where Min Yoongi, the student who died two years ago, was buried.

He carried a small bouquet of peonies, their petals just beginning to bloom. The flowers felt almost too alive for the silence around him.

He moved slowly between the rows of graves, and when he finally found the place, his heart gave a small, uneven thump.

There was a man standing by Yoongi’s grave, wearing a dark suit. He was tall and had very short hair. His gaze was fixed on the crypt, hands folded over a small bouquet of flowers, held gently. The man didn’t move as Jimin approached, didn’t acknowledge him. He simply watched in silence.

Jimin stopped a few paces away. He took a deep breath, trying to steady the fluttering in his chest, and finally, he spoke.

“Excuse me,” he said softly. “I… I don’t mean to intrude. I just—” His voice faltered, but he steadied himself. “I wanted to leave some flowers.”

The man finally notices him when Jimin steps closer. His head turns slowly, surprise flickering across his face when he takes in the peonies in Jimin’s hands.

“Oh,” he says, softly, as if caught off guard by the sight. His gaze drops briefly to the flowers, then lifts again. “I didn’t expect anyone else to come today.” There’s a pause, then, gently, “Did you know Yoongi?”

Jimin’s mouth opens, then closes again. He does know Yoongi, but not the Yoongi this man is asking about. Not the living one.

“A bit,” Jimin says finally, the words careful. It’s the closest thing to the truth he can manage.

The man exhales, something tight loosening in his expression, though a faint frown settles between his brows. He steps forward and kneels, placing his own flowers neatly at the foot of the grave.“He didn’t have a lot of friends,” he says quietly. “So it’s good to hear that people still remember him.”

Jimin swallows and nods, kneeling as well to lay the peonies beside the others.

“Can I ask,” Jimin says, hesitant, “how you knew him?”

The man’s gaze lingers on the name carved into the stone. “We were roommates,” he replies. “Best friends.” He adds, a faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Me, Yoongi, and Hoseok—all three of us, we were inseparable before—” He stops abruptly, jaw tightening. He swallows, hard, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

Jimin nods slowly, his heart beating faster now. An idea sparks in his mind.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what Yoongi needs. Someone from his life, someone he loved, someone he never got to say goodbye to.

Jimin draws in a breath. “I know this is going to sound strange,” he begins, already bracing himself, “but I have an… odd request.”

The man looks at him then. “Go on.”

“I can see ghosts,” Jimin says. The confession slips out quietly, but there’s no taking it back. “I’ve been able to since I was a child. And Yoongi—” His throat tightens around the name. “Yoongi’s ghost has been lingering on campus. In the library. He’s been there this whole time.”

The man’s eyes widen slightly, his posture stiffening, but there is no laughter. “You expect me to believe that?”

Jimin swallows, steadying himself. “I know it sounds impossible,” he admits, voice quiet. “But I can prove it.”

The man frowns, skeptical but intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Jimin takes a deep breath. “He told me this story about one night when he and his best friends, Namjoon and Hoseok, stayed up until three a.m., trying to sneak into the music department’s practice room after hours because they wanted to record that stupid remix of the dorm anthem. And I’m assuming you are the Namjoon that Yoongi has told me so much about, right?”

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief, slightly nodding his head.

Jimin smiled at him. “Yoongi told me you got caught by the janitor, and instead of punishing you, Yoongi somehow convinced the janitor to let all three of you record for fifteen minutes. He even told me how you dropped the microphone, and it almost shattered the floor lamp.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen. His lips part, and he swallows hard, jaw tightening. “No one else knows that,” he whispers. “Not a soul. Only us three.”

Jimin nods, quietly. “Then you must believe me. Yoongi… he’s still here. And he remembers that night exactly like you do.”

Namjoon blinks, taking a step closer to the grave, finally letting the disbelief in his expression give way to a hint of sorrow.  “…You’re serious,” he says at last.

Jimin nods. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

Silence stretches between them, then Namjoon exhales, running a hand through his short hair. “If what you’re saying is true…” He trails off, gaze drifting back to the grave.

Jimin’s pulse quickens. “Would you—” He hesitates, then pushes through. “Would you come with me? Just to talk to him. Let him know you’re okay. That he wasn’t forgotten.”

Namjoon looks at the stone one last time, eyes dark. “If he’s still here,” he says quietly, “then yeah. I’d like that.”

The library is quiet when they arrive, almost unnervingly so. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the aisles. Jimin leads the way, moving with the ease of someone who has spent countless hours threading through these shelves.

Jimin feels his own chest tight with nervous anticipation. “He’s usually in the back of the library, near the older stacks,” he explains.

Namjoon frowns. “I haven’t… I haven’t been back here in years.”

Jimin guides him further and finds Yoongi, sitting on the ground with his knees hugged tightly to his chest, head resting on the curve of his arms. His dark hair fell forward slightly, and his body seemed smaller somehow, coiled in on itself as though trying to shrink away from the world.

When Yoongi lifted his head and spotted Jimin, his face broke into a surprised smile. “Jimin?” he breathed, as though he couldn’t quite believe the sight of him in the middle of a day when he wasn’t working. Relief and warmth mingled in his expression, but it faded instantly, replaced by wide, startled eyes when he noticed Namjoon.

Jimin stepped closer, careful not to startle him. “Hi, Yoongi,” he said softly, crouching down a little so he was level with Yoongi. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Yoongi’s gaze shifted between Jimin and the space where Namjoon stood, confusion knitting his brows. “Namjoon?” he asked, voice trembling.

Jimin nodded.

Yoongi blinked, slow and unsteady. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. The disbelief in his eyes grew heavier, more desperate, until it cracked entirely. His shoulders shook, and tears slipped down his cheeks.

Without thinking, Yoongi shot to his feet, arms trembling as he reached desperately toward Namjoon. “Namjoon!” he cried, voice cracking, ragged and raw, the sound bouncing off the shelves and echoing through the empty library. “I… I missed you so much!”

But his hands passed straight through him. The warmth, the solidity, the presence he had dreamed of for two long years, all of it slipped away like smoke between his fingers. Yoongi froze, mouth hanging open in disbelief, chest tightening as if the air itself had turned to stone.

He tried again to clutch Namjoon’s body but his hands kept passing through. Yoongi started shaking violently, shoulders heaving with a grief too heavy to bear alone. Tears streamed down his face, pooling in the hollow of his arms as he fell to the ground again, curling around himself.

“I missed you… I missed you so much,” he gasped between sobs, voice small and breaking. “I thought… I thought you forgot me. I thought no one remembered. I… I missed you every single day, Namjoon! Every single day!”

He buried his face in his hands, trembling uncontrollably, the sound of his own heartbreak filling the silent aisles. For two years he had carried this emptiness, the cold weight of being unseen, unheard, untouchable, and it crushed him with unbearable force.

Jimin stood a few steps back, chest tight, heart aching.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed in confusion, glancing at Jimin. “Uh… Jimin-ssi? Is Yoongi… saying something?”

Jimin swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing a small, fragile smile. His eyes softened as they rested on Yoongi, trembling and crying. “He missed you. Deeply,” Jimin whispered, voice low and breaking slightly. “More than he could ever say.”

Yoongi cried harder, the library around them echoing with a sorrow that could never be soothed.

Jimin exhaled slowly, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips, and shook his head slightly. “Let’s go somewhere to talk.”

They gather at one of the long tables in the very back of the library, where no students wander anymore.

Namjoon and Jimin sit across from each other. Yoongi sits beside Jimin, close enough that his shoulder nearly overlaps with Jimin’s arm, though there is no contact to be made. Still, he stays there, as if proximity alone might be enough.

Yoongi has stopped crying, but the tears haven’t fully left him. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy, and his voice trembles faintly when he speaks.

“How are you,” Yoongi asks quietly. “And… And Hoseok. How are you both doing?”

Jimin swallows and turns to Namjoon, repeating the question aloud.

Namjoon’s expression softens. “I’m okay,” he says after a moment. “I work at a research firm now. It’s not exactly what I imagined back then, but it pays the bills. Keeps me busy.” He exhales, something weary but honest in it. “Hoseok’s good too. He’s still dancing, still stubborn about it.”

Yoongi listens like each sentence is something fragile he might lose if he blinks.

“We don’t see each other as much as we used to,” Namjoon continues, glancing down at his hands. “Life gets in the way. But we try. Every other week, we meet for a drink.” He hesitates, then lets out a small, crooked smile. “We always order a third glass for you.”

Yoongi’s breath stutters. His hand lifts to his mouth, eyes shining again, but this time the tears don’t fall. “You… do that?” he whispers, voice barely there.

Jimin nods for Namjoon. “He says thank you,” he adds softly, when Yoongi can’t seem to find the words.

Yoongi shifts, then looks back at Namjoon with that same aching intensity. “Is he still terrible at keeping plants alive?” he asks suddenly. “You remember the cactus?”

Jimin repeats Yoongi’s words, and Namjoon laughs, startled, a real sound that breaks through the heaviness. “It was a succulent,” he protests. “And yes. Still dead within a week.”

Yoongi huffs out a watery laugh. “Figures.”

Namjoon leans forward slightly. “Does he… know?” he asks Jimin carefully. “About how things ended?”

Jimin turns to Yoongi, who nods slowly. “I know I died,” Yoongi says. “It was fast. And I didn’t feel any pain.”

Jimin’s voice wavers just slightly as he passes the words along.

Namjoon’s jaw tightens. “We were angry for a long time,” he admits. “Not at you. Just… at everything. Hoseok didn’t talk much for months. I kept thinking I’d see you walking into the dorm, late, apologizing like you always did.”

Yoongi closes his eyes. His shoulders sag, relief and grief tangling together. “I’m glad you kept going,” he says.

When Jimin repeats that, Namjoon looks away, blinking hard.

“Have you talked to my family lately?” Yoongi asks, and Jimin repeats.

Namjoon sighs. “Yeah, I still call your mother every now and then to check on her. They are doing better, although still grieving. Your brother opened a restaurant, and they all moved into the building with him. They are close to each other.”

Yoongi nods, a faint smile on his lips. “Good. I’m glad they are okay.”

At some point, the heaviness eases just enough to let something lighter slip in.

Namjoon glances around the library, then back at Jimin. “Can I ask something stupid?” he says.

Jimin raises a brow. “Sure.”

Namjoon gestures vaguely toward Yoongi’s empty chair. “Why… why a library? I love him, but that man avoided books like the plague.”

Jimin snorts before he can stop himself, and Yoongi groans. “Hey. I read… sometimes.”

Jimin laughs, the sound echoing softly between the shelves. “Ghosts can’t really choose,” he explains. “They stay near the place they died. The library’s right across the street from where the accident happened.”

Namjoon’s smile fades, replaced with something thoughtful. “So he just… wandered in?”

Yoongi shrugs. “It was quiet and it felt safe.”

Jimin’s laughter fades too, something aching settling in his chest.

They talk for a long time after that. About stupid college memories, about food Yoongi misses tasting. About music Namjoon still listens to because it reminds him of late nights with Yoongi. Jimin becomes a bridge, voice moving back and forth between worlds.

Namjoon doesn’t stay much longer after that. The sky outside the tall windows has darkened completely, and the library lights hum softly above them. Before he leaves, he stands up slowly, hands lingering at his sides as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“I’ll come back,” he says, looking at Jimin but meaning someone else too. “Next time, I’ll bring Hoseok. I think… I think he’d like that.”

Jimin nods and Yoongi’s eyes widen, something bright flickering there, and he nods back eagerly, lips pressed together as though afraid he might cry again if he speaks.

When Namjoon finally leaves, his footsteps fade down the hall, swallowed by the quiet of the building. The library feels emptier than before, the silence settling thickly between the shelves.

Jimin exhales and turns toward Yoongi. “Do you feel any different?” he asks gently.

Yoongi thinks about it, gaze drifting toward the place where Namjoon disappeared. “I feel… calmer,” he says at last. “It helps to know they’re okay. That they kept living.” He hesitates, then shakes his head slowly. “But I don’t think it helped me fade. I still feel very much here.”

Jimin sighs, the sound tired but not defeated. He rubs at his face briefly, then straightens. “Don’t lose hope yet,” he says, forcing a small smile. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll see each other again soon.”

Yoongi nods, but as Jimin turns to leave, his voice stops him.

“Jimin.”

Jimin pauses and looks back.

Yoongi stands awkwardly, hands fidgeting at his sides, suddenly unsure of himself. He looks down, then back up, cheeks faintly flushed. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For everything. I’m… I’m really glad I met you.” He swallows. “Even if it was maybe too late.”

Jimin feels warmth bloom in his chest, spreading up to his cheeks. He smiles, soft and sincere. “I’m glad I met you, too,” he replies.

Yoongi’s lips curve into a shy smile of his own, and for a moment, the library feels warmer than it has any right to be.

Then Jimin turns and walks away, the sound of his footsteps echoing gently behind him, while Yoongi watches him go.

Jimin is shelving returned books, sliding them back into their places by muscle memory alone. Yoongi lingers close, half-sitting against a low shelf, watching Jimin work the way he often does.

Jimin pauses with a book in his hands. He glances at Yoongi, then keeps looking, eyes narrowing slightly, thoughtful in a way that makes Yoongi shift.

“…What?” Yoongi asks, suddenly self-conscious. He takes a step back, hands tucked into his sleeves. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Jimin shrugs, setting the book in its place. “I was just thinking,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to call you hyung.”

Yoongi blinks.

“I mean, you’re technically two years older than me. But you also… died two years ago.” He tilts his head. “So doesn’t that kind of make us the same age?”

There’s a beat of silence before Yoongi bursts out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet aisle. “What?” he says, incredulous. “That’s what you’ve been worrying about?”

Jimin’s ears go pink.

“Jimin,” Yoongi says, still laughing, wiping at the corner of his eye like he can’t believe this. “Calling me Yoongi is just fine. Really.”

Jimin smiles, relieved, and nods. “Okay.”

The laughter fades, settling into something softer. Yoongi hesitates, then asks, casually, “Hey, when I died, were people talking about it online?”

Jimin shrugs. “I don’t really know. I didn’t look much.” He hesitates, then adds honestly, “I try not to give it too much importance when stuff like that happens.”

Yoongi scoffs. “Wow. Rude.”

Jimin huffs out a quiet laugh. “When you’ve been seeing the dead your whole life, you stop getting startled by it,” he says simply.

Yoongi hums, absorbing that, gaze drifting somewhere far away.

After a moment, Jimin brightens a little. “If you want, I can look up your account. See if people left comments.”

Yoongi looks back at him, surprised, then nods. “Yeah… okay.” He thinks for a second. “My username was mingloss93.”

Jimin pulls out his phone and types it in. An Instagram profile pops up almost immediately.

“That’s you,” Jimin says.

Yoongi leans in instinctively, shoulder nearly brushing Jimin’s, eyes fixed on the screen. They scroll through photos, selfies in bad lighting, food pictures, a few shots with Namjoon and Hoseok. It feels strange, looking at a life that ended but is still preserved like this.

Most of the comments are clustered under the last post that was posted a week before the accident.

yoo.kihyun22: I’m so sorry :(

lee.sungkyunggg: you were too young </3

yijeongXx: I still can’t believe this…

Yoongi swallows, staring at the words. “They noticed,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Jimin glances at him, then keeps scrolling slowly. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Of course they did.”

One second Jimin is staring at the phone screen, thumb hovering uselessly, Yoongi still close enough that Jimin can almost feel him, the next, an arm slings itself around his shoulders.

“Yo, Jiminah, what’s up?”

Jimin yelps, body jolting hard enough that the phone almost flies out of his hands. “Taehyung—!”

Taehyung snatches the phone smoothly, already peering at the screen with interest. “Ooooh?” he says, eyebrows shooting up. “Who’s this hot guy you’re stalking?”

Jimin’s face goes nuclear. “Give that back!” He reaches for it, flustered, fingers barely grazing Taehyung’s wrist as Taehyung lifts the phone higher, out of reach.

Yoongi watches it all from a step away, eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s nobody,” Jimin says too quickly, finally managing to grab the phone and clutch it to his chest.

“Ouch, nobody?!” Yoongi scoffs and Jimin gives him a glare.

Taehyung squints at him. “Nobody?” He grins wider. “Jimin, please. Your ears just turned red. That’s not nobody, that’s somebody.”

“It’s just someone who died,” Jimin mutters.

Taehyung pauses. “…Okay, that took a turn.”

Jimin turns away, aggressively straightening a crooked stack of books. “Just drop it.”

Taehyung, of course, starts rambling instead, words tumbling over each other like always. He talks about a class he skipped, about his boyfriend Jungkook, about how—

“Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “By the way. Jungkook and I are going on a date tomorrow.”

Jimin hums, listening.

“And,” Taehyung adds, leaning in, “there’s this guy in Jungkook’s class. Super nice. Cute. Totally your type. He asked about you.”

Jimin scoffs, shoving another book into place. “No.”

“No as in no, you’re not interested, or no as in you’re scared of happiness?” Taehyung asks.

“No as in no,” Jimin says flatly.

Taehyung gasps like he’s personally wounded. “Come on. Double date! Please. For me.”

“No.”

Taehyung throws his head back with a dramatic groan. “Jimin! When are you going to leave the single life already?”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

Taehyung presses on, relentless. “You need to get out. You need to live a little. Jimin—” he grins, wicked now, “—you need to get laid too.”

Jimin nearly drops the book in his hands.

His face burns, heart stuttering as he becomes acutely, painfully aware of Yoongi standing right next to them.

“Taehyung!” Jimin hisses.

Yoongi’s expression is almost unreadable, somewhere between startled and… something else.

Taehyung just laughs, squeezing Jimin’s shoulder once more before finally stepping back. “Think about it,” he says, sing-song. “I worry about you, you know. You never date! There must be a start somewhere!”

Then he waves and disappears down the aisle, leaving behind the echo of his voice and the heavy quiet that follows.

Jimin exhales slowly, shoulders slumping.

He doesn’t look at Yoongi right away, but he can feel him there.

Yoongi shifts first, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that doesn’t quite belong to the living anymore. “So,” he says carefully. “Who was that?”

Jimin exhales, finally turning toward him. “Taehyung. My roommate. Loud and annoying.” He sighs. “Also my best friend.”

Yoongi nods, absorbing it. He glances in the direction Taehyung disappeared, then back at Jimin, eyes flicking over him with something curious. “Is it true?” he asks.

Jimin frowns. “Is what true?”

“That you never date.”

Jimin’s ears go pink instantly. “That’s none of your business.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Come on,” he says, a grin slowly spreading. “Amuse me. There’s nothing else going on in my life.” He tilts his head. “…Or afterlife. Whichever.”

Jimin rolls his eyes but sighs, shoulders sagging a little. “It’s not like I never dated,” he mutters. “It’s just… hard.”

Yoongi watches him closely. “Why?”

Jimin hesitates. Then he shrugs, picking at the spine of a book. “Because of me. The way I am.”

Yoongi blinks. “What? Perfect?”

Jimin blushes and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I’m talking about this.” He gestures vaguely between the two of them.

“You mean the ghost thing?”

Jimin nods. “People don’t usually take it well when they find out I can see and talk to the dead. It’s… a lot. It freaks them out. Sometimes it ruins things before they even start.”

Yoongi squints at him, clearly unconvinced. “Can’t you just… not tell them?”

Jimin lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Yoongi asks. “Just pretend you don’t see ghosts.”

Jimin looks at him then, and something tired shows in his eyes. “Because ghosts are everywhere,” he says quietly. “In cafés. On buses. In apartments. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they’re… right next to the person I’m on a date with.”

Yoongi goes still.

“I can’t just turn it off,” Jimin continues, voice low. “And I can’t always pretend nothing’s there when something is. I was walking by han river with this guy once, which was supposed to be a romantic walk, and there were dozens of ghosts crying around us. It ruins the mood.”

Yoongi’s grin fades. He nods slowly, understanding settling in piece by piece. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess that would make things complicated.”

Jimin hums in agreement, eyes dropping back to the books.

Yoongi watches him for a long moment, something soft and thoughtful in his expression, before quietly saying, “For what it’s worth… I don’t think it’s that strange.”

Jimin glances up at him, surprised.

Yoongi shrugs. “It’s just a part of who you are.”

Jimin snorts softly, shaking his head. “You’re just saying that because you’re a ghost,” he mutters. “You wouldn’t feel the same if you were alive. You wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

The words land heavier than he means them to.

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away.

He just watches Jimin, really watches him. His expression shifts, something tightening behind his eyes. Jimin keeps arranging the books, suddenly very focused on the order of the spines, on not looking back at Yoongi.

“That’s not true.”

Jimin pauses despite himself.

“If I were alive,” Yoongi continues quietly, “I’d still be standing right here. Still listening to you. Still wanting to know you.” His voice doesn’t waver, but there’s something raw underneath it. “Seeing ghosts wouldn’t change that.”

Jimin finally looks at him.

Yoongi meets his gaze without flinching. “You think people only want what’s easy,” he says. “But that’s not how it works. Not for everyone.”

Jimin swallows. “You don’t know that.”

Yoongi tilts his head slightly. “I know what I feel,” he says simply. “Alive or dead, that part wouldn’t be different.”

The air between them feels suddenly too thin.

Jimin looks away first, heart beating uncomfortably fast. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Yoongi’s mouth curves into something gentle, almost sad. “Why not?”

“Because,” Jimin murmurs, barely audible, “you’re not supposed to stay.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He just looks at him, eyes soft, like he understands that too, and maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Namjoon comes back a week later, but this time he isn’t alone.

Hoseok is with him.

Yoongi sees them both at the same time.

He’s sitting on the floor like always, back against the shelves, arms loose around his knees. The moment his eyes land on Hoseok, his breath stutters, an unnecessary reflex, a habit from a body he doesn’t have anymore. His face crumples before he can stop it.

“Hoseok,” he whispers, voice breaking.

He’s on his feet in an instant. Jimin barely has time to stand before Yoongi is crossing the space between them, hands trembling, tears already spilling. He reaches out again, just like before, and again his arms go through empty air.

This time, he doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

He just cries.

It’s quieter than with Namjoon, but somehow worse, shoulders shaking, head bowed, hands fisted in the fabric of his own hoodie like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I missed you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a prayer. “I missed you so much.”

Hoseok frowns, unsettled. He glances between Namjoon and Jimin. “Okay,” he says slowly, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “So… is this some kind of joke? Or are you, like—” he gestures vaguely at Jimin, “—a medium or something?”

Jimin exhales. He’s tired of this part.

“No,” he says. “I just… see him.”

Hoseok scoffs softly. “Right.”

Yoongi looks up at Jimin, eyes red and shining. He shakes his head once, like he’s bracing himself, and whispers something to Jimin.

Jimin hesitates only a second before nodding. “He says,” Jimin starts carefully, “that you still owe him twenty thousand won.”

Hoseok freezes.

Jimin continues, voice steady now. “From that night you three went out in your first year. You lost a bet because you spilled beer all over his notes and swore you’d pay him back, but then you kept saying you’d ‘double it next time’ instead.”

Hoseok’s breath catches sharply.

Yoongi swallows hard, watching him. “Tell him,” he murmurs, voice barely there, “tell him I didn’t care about the money. I just liked that we kept score.”

Jimin’s throat tightens. “He says he didn’t actually care about the money. He just liked that you kept score.”

Hoseok stares at Jimin like he’s seeing him for the first time. His mouth opens, then closes. His hands tremble at his sides.

“…That was,” he whispers, “that was our thing.”

His eyes fill before he can stop it. He drags a hand over his face, laughing weakly through the tears. “That idiot,” he mutters. “He always did that.”

Yoongi lets out a broken sob.

“I missed you,” Hoseok says out loud now, voice cracking, gaze unfocused like he’s looking at a memory instead of a person. “I really did. Every week. Every damn week.”

Jimin closes his eyes briefly.

Yoongi nods again and again, tears dripping onto the floor that will never hold them. “I know,” he whispers.

They all take a seat at the table in the back after that.

The heaviness eases, little by little, replaced by laughter that echoes softly between the shelves. Namjoon brings up the time Yoongi fell asleep in the recording room and locked them all out. Hoseok adds dramatic hand gestures, insisting he had to climb through a window like some kind of action hero. Jimin listens, smiling, chiming in when he can, repeating Yoongi’s corrections when they exaggerate too much.

When Jimin glances sideways, he sees Yoongi leaning back in his chair, arms folded loosely, eyes warm and bright in a way Jimin hasn’t seen before. The tension in him is gone, shoulders relaxed, mouth tilted into a genuine smile. He looks lighter and more at ease.

That alone makes everything feel worth it.

At some point, Hoseok’s laughter fades into something more curious. He squints at Jimin, head tilting as he openly looks him up and down.

“…You know,” Hoseok says slowly, lips curling into a grin, “you’re totally Yoongi’s type.”

Jimin nearly chokes.

Across the table, Namjoon lets out a startled laugh.

“No, no, I’m serious,” Hoseok continues, pointing at Jimin. “If Yoongi were still alive, he would’ve absolutely hit on you. No question.”

Yoongi’s reaction is instant. “Oh my god, shut up!” he yells, face blazing red as he spins toward Hoseok, hands flailing. “What is wrong with you?! You can’t just say that!”

Hoseok, of course, hears none of it.

Jimin, however, does, and he can’t help it. He laughs, cheeks burning.

Yoongi glares at him, mortified, then groans and drops back into his chair, crossing his arms tightly. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “I die and this is what I get. Public slander.”

Jimin glances at him, still smiling. “You okay?”

Yoongi huffs, eyes flicking away. “…Whatever,” he grumbles after a beat. “I’m just a gay ghost. I can still appreciate a pretty face. And—” he pauses, scowling at Jimin, then adds, “—a nice body.”

Jimin snorts but his ears turn red. “Don’t push it.”

Hoseok laughs again, oblivious.

They don’t linger when it’s time to leave. Namjoon stands first, smoothing his coat, and Hoseok follows more slowly. They both turn toward where Yoongi is supposed to be seated.

“Take care,” Namjoon says, voice steady. “We’ll… see you.”

Yoongi nods, smiling back, small and sincere. He lifts a hand in a half-wave. “Yeah. See you.”

Jimin watches from beside him, chest tight, and then leads Namjoon and Hoseok toward the exit, the library doors closing gently behind them.

Outside, the night air is cold and sharp.

Namjoon exhales slowly. “It’s nice,” he says after a moment, trying to sound sure. “That we can still talk to him. That he’s… not completely gone.”

Hoseok stops walking.

He turns so suddenly Jimin almost bumps into him. His face crumples, all the brightness from before collapsing in on itself.

“Nice?” Hoseok chokes out. “You think it’s nice?”

Namjoon’s eyes widen. “Hoseok—”

“He’s been dead for two years,” Hoseok continues, voice breaking as tears spill over. “Two years, Namjoon. And he’s still stuck there. Still wandering around like nothing ever ended.” His hands curl into fists. “That’s not nice. That’s cruel.”

He breaks then, shoulders shaking as the sobs tear out of him, raw and unfiltered. Namjoon steps forward immediately, pulling him into his arms, holding him tight as Hoseok presses his face into his chest.

“He deserves peace,” Hoseok cries. “He deserves to rest. Not to be trapped in some stupid library just because he couldn’t let go.” He sucks in a shaky breath. “Even if it means we never get to talk to him again, even if it means losing him all over again—he deserves that.”

Jimin’s throat tightens.

He understands what Hoseok is talking about more than anyone else.

Hoseok pulls back after a moment, wiping at his face, eyes red and swollen. He looks at Jimin then, something apologetic and exhausted in his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I can come back again.” His voice wavers. “I don’t think I can do this. Talking to him like that… it hurts too much.”

Jimin nods, offering a small, genuine smile. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I get it. He will understand too.”

As they walk away, Namjoon with an arm still wrapped around Hoseok’s shoulders, Jimin stays where he is for a long moment, staring back at the library doors, thinking of Yoongi inside, smiling, laughing, still here.

Still waiting.

And wondering how much longer that can be allowed to last.

The library is quiet in the way only late evenings can be, just the low hum of the lights and the soft rustle of pages when Jimin turns one.

Yoongi sits on the floor nearby, back against a shelf, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s watching Jimin again, chin resting on his knee, expression lazy and fond.

“You’re staring,” Jimin says without looking up.

“I’ve been dead for two years,” Yoongi replies. “Let me have hobbies.”

Jimin snorts despite himself, sliding another book into place. “You could haunt some shelves in the front.”

“And miss watching you alphabetize the books?” Yoongi shakes his head. “Never.”

Jimin glances over then, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what Hoseok used to say,” Yoongi answers easily, then pauses, like he didn’t mean to bring it up.

The smile on Jimin’s face softens. He finishes with the shelf and sits down across from Yoongi, legs folding beneath him. “You okay?”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s smaller than usual. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird. Talking about my life, it feels like I’m talking about someone else’s memories.”

Jimin smiles, then grows quiet too. Yoongi watches Jimin’s hands, the way he fidgets when he’s tired, thumb rubbing absent circles into his palm.

“You know,” Yoongi says, voice light but edged with something softer, “if I were alive, I’d totally help you close tonight.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You’d reshelve books?”

“No,” Yoongi admits. “I’d distract you. Badly.”

Jimin laughs, the sound echoing softly between the shelves. “Figures.”

Yoongi smiles at the sound, then his expression dims just a fraction. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

Jimin blinks. “For what?”

“For staying,” Yoongi says. “For making things complicated. For not fading like I’m supposed to.”

Jimin’s chest tightens. He reaches out before he can stop himself, hand hovering uselessly where Yoongi’s arm would be. He lets it fall back to his side.

“I don’t mind,” Jimin says quietly. “I mean— I do. But not because of you.”

Yoongi’s gaze lifts, searching. “You should mind,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t get used to someone who can’t stay.”

Jimin exhales slowly. “Too late.”

They sit there, facing each other, the truth settling gently between them. Yoongi looks almost unbearably fond, like he’s memorizing Jimin, every expression, every breath.

“Well,” Yoongi says after a moment, forcing a grin, “if I can’t stay forever, I’m at least going to enjoy this.”

“This?” Jimin asks.

Yoongi gestures vaguely. “You. The library. The fact that you talk to me like I’m real.”

Jimin’s voice comes out softer than he intends. “You are real.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue this time. He just smiles, warm and a little sad, and leans closer, close enough that Jimin can almost forget there’s nothing solid between them.

Months have passed since Jimin first met Yoongi.

Lately, it feels like almost all of his time belongs to the library. He comes even on days he isn’t scheduled to work, tells himself it’s to study, to get ahead, to make use of the silence, but the truth is simpler, and far more dangerous. He comes for Yoongi.

They’ve grown close. Closer than Jimin ever meant to allow. Close enough that Yoongi knows the shape of his silences, that Jimin can tell Yoongi’s moods by the way he lingers or retreats. Jimin knows exactly what this closeness will cost him later, knows the hurt waiting patiently at the end of it all, and yet he keeps choosing it anyway. He doesn’t know how to stop.

Namjoon still visits from time to time. He sits at the back tables and talks about work, about life moving forward in small, ordinary ways, and Yoongi listens, grateful, quiet, smiling in that soft way he does when he is fond of someone.

Hoseok hasn’t come back.

Yoongi doesn’t hold that against him.

He understands why some wounds can’t be reopened, even for love.

The library is quiet again, and Jimin sits on the floor with his back against a shelf, knees pulled up to his chest. Yoongi sits beside him.

Jimin talks.

He talks about graduating in the spring, which is only a couple of months away from now, about how terrifying it feels to be so close to the end of something that has defined him for years. He talks about maybe applying for a job out of town, somewhere smaller. There are fewer ghosts in smaller towns, it would be quieter. He talks about wanting a place with big windows and plants he probably won’t manage to keep alive.

“I think I want a normal life,” Jimin admits quietly. “Whatever that means.”

Yoongi listens without interrupting, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, expression soft. There’s a tightness in his chest he doesn’t comment on, a dull ache that blooms every time Jimin talks about later or someday.

“That sounds like you,” Yoongi says eventually.

Jimin smiles a little. “You say that like you know me that well.”

Yoongi huffs. “I do. More than you think.”

Jimin exhales, fingers picking at the sleeve of his sweater. “I’m scared, though. What if I mess it up? What if I end up stuck somewhere I hate?”

Yoongi turns to him then, studying Jimin’s face.

“You won’t,” he says, voice steady. “You’re too stubborn to fail.”

Jimin laughs softly. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It is,” Yoongi insists. “You survive things other people wouldn’t. You see things most people can’t. Whatever you choose, you’ll make it work.”

The sadness presses harder now, but Yoongi swallows it down. This moment isn’t about him.

“You’re going to do everything you want to do,” he adds, more quietly. “You’ll get that job. You’ll move somewhere bright. You’ll be happy, even on days you think you won’t be.”

Jimin looks at him, something tender and uncertain in his eyes. “You sound so sure.”

“I am,” Yoongi says, smiling, even as something inside him loosens and prepares to let go. “And I don’t need to be there to know it’ll happen.”

Jimin leans his head back against the shelf, eyes closing. “I wish you could be.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He just sits there beside him, listening to Jimin breathe, holding onto the sound like it’s enough.

Jimin laughs, the sound warm and unguarded, and Yoongi watches him like the laugh is something he wants to keep. There’s a beat of silence after it fades, comfortable, unhurried.

Without really thinking about it, Yoongi shifts closer.

Jimin notices only because the air feels different. He glances sideways. Yoongi’s shoulder is almost brushing his arm now.

Yoongi hesitates, then lifts his hand.

It’s an instinctive movement, like muscle memory. His fingers hover near Jimin’s wrist, uncertain, curling slightly.

His fingers pass straight through, and Yoongi freezes.

His hand falls back to his lap, fingers closing into a loose fist. “Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed. “I keep forgetting I can’t touch you.”

Jimin’s heart does something strange in his chest. “It’s okay,” he says quickly. “You can… you can still sit close.”

Yoongi looks at him, searching. “Yeah?”

Jimin nods, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

So Yoongi leans in again, this time their shoulders align, separated by nothing and everything at once. Jimin can’t feel him, but he knows he’s there.

Eventually, Jimin exhales and tilts sideways, resting his head where Yoongi’s shoulder should be.

Yoongi doesn’t move away. He closes his eyes, pretending, just for a moment, that he can feel the weight of Jimin there.

Pretending that if he concentrates hard enough, he can feel his warmth.

“You’re warm,” Yoongi murmurs without thinking.

Jimin huffs a quiet laugh. “You wouldn’t know.”

“I assume,” Yoongi says.

Yoongi shifts slightly, careful, and lifts his arm, not to wrap it around Jimin, but to rest it behind him, close enough to imply what he can’t do. Jimin notices. His breath stutters, then steadies.

They sit like that for a long time, not touching, not quite apart either. Two bodies sharing the same space, pretending the rules don’t matter.

Jimin lies on his bed with the lights off, phone held just above his chest, the glow painting soft shadows on the ceiling.

He scrolls slowly.

Yoongi’s photos blur past his thumb, selfies, late-night food pictures. He has been scrolling through the same pictures for months, and Yoongi looks happy in them. Genuinely, effortlessly happy. Alive in a way that makes Jimin’s chest ache.

He pauses on one photo longer than the others. Yoongi is laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut like the world couldn’t touch him in that moment. Jimin’s lips curve upward despite himself.

“I’m glad,” he whispers to the empty room. “I’m really glad you had this.”

Even if it was short.

The thought sneaks in quietly, cruel and unavoidable, and something inside him breaks. Tears spill without warning, soaking into his pillow as Jimin presses his sleeve over his mouth to keep the sound in. He cries for the life Yoongi lived, for the one he didn’t get to finish, for the strange, impossible love that exists only in quiet corners of a library.

The front door opens.

“Jiminah?”

Jimin hears footsteps approaching him.

“—Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

The mattress dips suddenly as Taehyung sits beside him, panic already in his voice. He reaches out without thinking, brushing Jimin’s hair back, eyes wide as he takes in the tear-streaked face.

“Did someone hurt you?” Taehyung asks. “Did something happen?”

Jimin shakes his head, tries to breathe, but the tears won’t stop. Taehyung’s worry sharpens, his hand curling into Jimin’s sleeve like he’s afraid he might disappear.

“Talk to me,” Taehyung says softly now. “Please.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut.

How do you explain that you’re crying over someone who isn’t supposed to exist in your life? Someone only you can see. Someone already gone.

“I—” His voice breaks. He swallows and tries again. “I’m crying over someone who’s dead.”

Taehyung stills. “What?” he asks quietly. “Who died, Jimin?”

Jimin pushes himself upright, dragging the sleeve of his hoodie across his face. His phone is still clenched in his hand, knuckles white, like letting go of it would make everything spill apart. His heart is beating far too fast.

Taehyung’s gaze drops to the screen. He squints, recognition dawning slowly. “It’s that guy,” he says. “You were looking at his profile in the library that time, too. Who is he?”

Jimin sniffs, voice small. “His name is Yoongi. He died a couple of years ago. There was a car accident, a hit and run. He was a student here.”

Taehyung’s eyes widen. “Oh. Yeah… I remember that.” He shifts closer, rubbing slow circles into Jimin’s back, comforting. “Did you know him?” he asks gently. “You never said.”

Jimin shakes his head. “Not when he was alive.”

Taehyung pulls back just enough to look at him properly, confusion knitting his brows together.

“I can see ghosts,” Jimin says, finally. The words feel unreal even now. “I always have. And Yoongi is one of them.”

Taehyung stares at him, silent.

“He’s not scary,” Jimin rushes on, breath shaky. “He’s kind. He’s lonely. He didn’t get enough time. And I know he’s not supposed to stay, and I know this is going to end badly, but—” His voice cracks completely. “—I can’t stop caring.”

The room hums with tension.

Taehyung exhales slowly, then reaches out and pulls Jimin into his arms without another word. Jimin stiffens in surprise before collapsing into him, sobs finally breaking free.

“You idiot,” Taehyung murmurs, pressing a hand to the back of Jimin’s head. “Of course you’d fall in love with a ghost.”

Jimin sniffs weakly through tears. “You believe it?”

Taehyung shrugs against him. “I believe you,” he says simply. “That’s enough.”

They sit like that for a while, the night stretching on around them, Yoongi’s smiling face still glowing softly on the phone screen between them.

The library is empty when Jimin arrives.

The lights are dimmed for the night, aisles stretching long and hollow, the familiar quiet suddenly wrong in a way that makes his chest tighten before he even understands why. He calls Yoongi’s name softly, and when Yoongi appears from between the shelves, Jimin knows at once.

Something is off.

Yoongi doesn’t settle into his usual place. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t smile. He paces instead, hands restless, fingers curling and uncurling like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He looks thin somehow. Like the space around him is loosening its grip.

“Hey,” Jimin says carefully. “What’s wrong?”

Yoongi stops and looks at him.

For a moment, Jimin thinks he won’t answer. Then Yoongi exhales, slow and shaky.

“I think I’m going to fade,” he says.

The words hit like a blow.

Jimin laughs weakly, because it has to be a joke, because it can’t be that simple. “What do you mean?” he asks. “How do you— how would you even know that?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just…” He presses a hand to his chest, right over where his heart used to be. “It’s a feeling. Like something’s letting go.”

Jimin steps closer, panic already rising, dropping his bag to the ground.“When?” he asks. “How much time do we have?”

Yoongi’s eyes soften. “Not much.”

Something inside Jimin breaks open. This is what he and Yoongi wanted, for Yoongi to find peace and fade, to not be stuck in this place anymore.

But— it’s too soon.

“That’s not fair,” Jimin chokes, tears spilling over immediately. “It’s not fair. You didn’t get enough time. You died, and now—now you’re leaving me?” His voice cracks completely. “Why now? Why are you fading now?”

Yoongi moves closer without thinking, reaching for him, stopping just short when he remembers he can’t touch Jimin. His hand hangs uselessly in the air.

Jimin shakes his head, crying harder. “You didn’t deserve this. Any of it. You should be alive. You should be here. You should—”

His voice collapses completely.

Yoongi watches him with that quiet, unbearable gentleness, eyes soft, mouth curved into something that barely counts as a smile. “Jimin,” he says. “I think,” Yoongi murmurs after a moment, voice thin, “I finally understand why this all happened."

Jimin looks up through tears, vision blurred, waiting for Yoongi to continue.

“I lived,” Yoongi says slowly, “...and I died so I could meet you.”

Jimin stares at him, devastated. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t understand it for a long time. I thought it was cruel and pointless. I was angry. I was sad. I kept thinking about all the things I never got to do.” His eyes drift for a second, unfocused, like he’s watching memories pass through him. “I wanted a career. I wanted to travel. I wanted to fall in love properly. I wanted stupid things, like late-night food runs and loud friends in tiny apartments.” A soft exhale leaves him. “I wanted time.”

Then he looks back at Jimin.

“And then I met you.” His gaze is steady. “And suddenly it didn’t feel meaningless anymore.”

Jimin’s chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.

“I got to be seen,” Yoongi continues. “I got to be remembered. I got to sit with you in quiet places and talk about nothing. I got to laugh again.” His lips tremble just slightly. “I got to fall in love.”

Jimin’s knees nearly give out.

“I’m glad it was you,” Yoongi says. “Out of everyone in this world. I’m glad it was you.”

Jimin breaks. He folds in on himself, hands coming up to his face, sobs tearing out of him like something ripped straight from his ribs. “We could’ve met when you were alive,” he cries. His voice is desperate. “We could’ve had more. We could’ve gone on dates, I could’ve held your hand properly. I could’ve kissed you.”

He looks up at Yoongi, eyes red and wet. “This isn’t fair,” he whispers. “This isn’t fair. You don’t get to tell me you love me and then leave. You don’t get to be gone and still be everything to me.”

Jimin's voice drops to something small and broken. “I need you.”

Yoongi closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, they’re shining.

“If I were alive,” Yoongi starts, “I would’ve loved you badly.”

Jimin presses his hands to his face, shoulders trembling. “I love you,” he says at last, the words tearing free. “I didn’t want to say it like this.”

Yoongi’s breath stutters. His eyes shine, full and bright. “I know,” he says. “I love you too.”

The air around him begins to shimmer, barely noticeable at first, like heat rising.

Yoongi takes a step forward. “Jimin,” he says softly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Don’t go,” Jimin pleads. “Please.”

Jimin doesn’t think. He just moves.

The moment Yoongi’s outline starts to blur, the moment the air around him shivers like it’s about to tear, Jimin lunges forward with a broken sound in his throat, arms closing around where Yoongi should be.

And then—

He feels him.

He feels warmth. Real, undeniable warmth. Solid shoulders under his hands. The rise and fall of a chest that shouldn’t exist anymore.

Yoongi gasps, sharp and startled, eyes flying wide. “Jimin—”

“I can feel you,” Jimin sobs, fingers digging into Yoongi’s chest. “I can feel you, you’re— you’re here.”

Yoongi’s hands come up slowly, almost afraid, and then they’re there too—real, trembling, clutching at Jimin’s back like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing left. He laughs breathlessly, a sound torn between disbelief and awe.

“I—” His voice breaks. “I can feel you too.”

For a heartbeat, maybe two, they just hold each other. Yoongi is solid and alive in Jimin’s arms..

“It figures,” Yoongi whispers, forehead resting against Jimin’s. “I finally get a body when I’m about to lose it.”

Jimin shakes his head violently. “No. No, don’t joke. Don’t—”

Yoongi cups Jimin’s face, thumbs warm against tear-soaked skin, eyes impossibly gentle. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

Jimin does. He always will.

Yoongi’s gaze drags over him like a goodbye that hurts too much to say out loud. “I’m so glad,” he whispers, “that the last thing I get to feel is you.”

Something in Jimin caves completely. He surges forward, pressing his mouth to Yoongi’s without asking, without thinking, desperate and aching and real.

Yoongi kisses him back instantly.

It’s soft and fierce all at once, like he’s trying to pour everything he never got to have into those few stolen seconds. Jimin feels his lips, warm and firm, feels the way Yoongi breathes him in like oxygen, feels hands in his hair, at his waist, holding him like he’s something precious.

For a moment, Yoongi is alive.

Then the warmth starts to slip.

Yoongi pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together, smiling through tears. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For loving me.”

“I’ll keep loving you,” Jimin chokes. “Always.”

Yoongi’s body begins to glow faintly, edges softening, hands already lighter in Jimin’s grasp. “That’s enough,” he says gently. “That’s more than enough.”

His fingers slide from Jimin’s waist. His warmth fades like a memory you can’t hold onto, no matter how tightly you try.

Jimin reaches out, grasping at nothing.

Yoongi smiles one last time, peacefully, and then he’s gone.

The library is silent.

Jimin stands there for a second longer, arms still half-raised, body locked in disbelief, waiting for warmth that never comes back.

“Yoongi…?” His voice is small and hopeful in the most useless way.

Nothing answers.

The realization hits him in a delayed wave, slow and merciless. His knees give out without warning, and he collapses to the floor where Yoongi stood only seconds ago. His hands slam against the carpet, fingers curling into it like he can anchor himself to the spot, like maybe if he stays close enough, he can pull him back.

He can’t.

A broken sound tears out of his chest, raw and animal, nothing like a word. He folds in on himself, shoulders shaking violently as sobs wrack his body, breath coming in desperate, uneven gasps that hurt his ribs. His forehead presses to the floor, tears soaking into the carpet, his whole body trembling with the effort of breathing through the pain.

“It hurts,” he chokes, voice muffled. “Please— it hurts—”

He claws at his chest like he can reach inside and tear the ache out with his bare hands. His throat burns. His head spins. He cries so hard his vision whites out at the edges, sobs coming one after another with no pause, no mercy.

“I need you,” he gasps into the emptiness. “I need you, I need you, I—”

The words dissolve into helpless, shuddering cries.

There’s no one to hush him. No one to tease him gently for being dramatic. No one to sit beside him and pretend the world isn’t ending. The place Yoongi occupied is painfully empty.

He curls onto his side, arms wrapping around himself, rocking slightly like his body remembers being held and is trying to recreate it. His lips still sting with the ghost of a kiss that will never happen again, and that knowledge breaks him all over.

Jimin cries until his chest aches, until his voice goes hoarse, until there’s nothing left but quiet, broken breaths and the devastating certainty that love doesn’t disappear when the person does.

And that he is truly, finally alone.

The graveyard is quiet in the early afternoon. The sky is overcast, soft gray clouds stretching endlessly above them, as if even the weather knows better than to be bright today.

Jimin stands in front of Yoongi’s grave, unmoving.

He looks thinner, hollowed out. His eyes are red and swollen, skin pale from days of crying that never really stopped, only paused when his body could no longer keep up. Grief clings to him heavily, weighing down every breath.

Namjoon and Hoseok stand on either side of him.

The grave is neat. Fresh flowers lay gently on top, white and soft, chosen carefully. Jimin kneels to arrange them even though they’re already perfect, fingers trembling as he presses the stems into place.

“Hey, Yoongi,” Namjoon says quietly, clearing his throat. “We, uh… we brought you flowers.”

Hoseok sniffs, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “You’d complain they’re boring,” he mutters, voice thick. “So don’t. I picked them.”

Jimin swallows hard.

He crouches lower, resting his hands on his thighs, eyes fixed on Yoongi’s name carved into stone.

“I don’t know if you can hear us,” Jimin says, voice barely above a whisper. “But… I hope you can.”

His hands curl into fists. His shoulders shake once before he stills them, breath hitching painfully.

“I hope it’s quiet where you are,” he continues. “I hope you’re not lonely anymore.”

Namjoon kneels too, placing a hand flat against the cool stone. “You did good, Yoongi,” he says softly. “You don’t have to worry about us. We’re going to be okay.”

Hoseok’s composure finally breaks. He scrubs at his eyes angrily, voice cracking. “You can rest now, hyung. Really rest.” He laughs weakly through tears. 

Jimin presses his lips together, nodding faintly. “I’ll… I’ll live well,” he says, the promise tearing something raw out of his chest. “I’ll remember you. I won’t let you disappear. Let’s meet in another life, yeah? One where we are both alive and can grow old together.”

The wind stirs gently, brushing through the trees, rustling the flowers laid on the grave. It’s nothing, just air moving, just nature doing what it always does.

But Jimin closes his eyes anyway.

For the first time since Yoongi faded, the ache in his chest eases just a fraction, not because it hurts less, but because it finally has somewhere to rest.

They stay a little longer, standing quietly together, sharing the weight of loss and the fragile comfort of knowing that Yoongi is no longer stuck between worlds.

He’s gone but at least he’s at peace.

The Han River stretches wide and calm beneath the evening sky, the water catching the last traces of sunlight. The city hums softly behind them, cars in the distance, voices carried on the breeze, but here, sitting on the steps by the riverbank, it feels far away.

Jimin sits between Namjoon and Hoseok, knees drawn up, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket. It’s been a while since he’s let himself just sit like this.

Namjoon exhales slowly, eyes on the water. “I assume there are a lot of ghosts here,” he says, half-thoughtful, half-joking, “People jump in, accidents happen… this place has seen a lot. Right, Jimin-ah?”

Hoseok snorts. “That's terrifying. Why would you say that out loud?”

Jimin offers a tired laugh. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “The place is usually filled with them.”

The word usually catches in his throat.

He stops smiling.

His gaze drifts instinctively across the riverbank, the path, the shadows under the trees, the spaces where figures used to linger. He blinks a few times.

There’s nothing.

No silhouettes. No quiet presences. No ghosts.

Just people walking their dogs, couples sharing snacks, the river breathing steadily in front of them.

Jimin’s chest tightens.

“…Jimin?” Hoseok asks, turning to him. “You okay?”

Jimin swallows. He looks again, more carefully this time, searching not with fear but with habit.

Still nothing.

“I—” His voice comes out thin. He clears his throat. “I don’t see them.”

Namjoon frowns slightly. “See who?”

“The ghosts,” Jimin says, softly. The realization settles into him slowly. “I haven’t… seen any. Not since Yoongi faded.”

The wind brushes past them, gently.

Hoseok goes quiet.

Namjoon’s expression shifts. “What do you think…?”

Jimin sighs, eyes stinging. “I think… when he found peace,” he whispers, “he took that part of me with him.”

For a moment, grief threatens to surge back up, sharp and unbearable.

But it doesn’t.

Jimin exhales, shoulders loosening for the first time in what feels like forever. He tilts his head back slightly, watching the sky deepen into dusk.

“I think,” he says, a small smile breaking through tears, “I get to live now. Because of him.”

Hoseok bumps his shoulder gently. “About time.”

Namjoon smiles at the river. “He’d like that.”

Jimin looks out at the water again, at the reflections, the movement, the endless going forward, and for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s standing between worlds.

Just here.

And at peace.