"...has been disconnected or no longer in service. Check the number or try again later."
Fuck.
I toss my phone on the couch.
Why am I even trying?
It's been a week, no signs of Yoongi.
I can close my eyes now and I can remember exactly how he was looking at me that night.
How his eyes were filled with remorse.
A look in his eyes I never thought I'd see.
And I may never be able to change his mind. He may never forgive me. And it is all my fucking fault.
I had this coming.
I deserve it.
And so, I decide to breathe, empty the liquor and cry at the same damn time. I feel so much right now that makes me feel overwhelmed.
I decide to write him a letter.
I take a long sip of my whiskey until my glass is empty, and pour some more and more.
I grip the pen tighter as my hand trembles. The ink smears where my tears fall, blotting words I don't even have the strength to finish. The city glows beyond the windows, but it feels cold tonight—distant. Quiet.
Empty.
Now the glass by my side, half-full. Or half-empty. I don't know now. I've stopped counting how many I've had. The whiskey burns less now, like everything else in my life.
I take another sip anyway.
I stare down at the paper. I've already crumpled ten, maybe twenty pages. I can't keep track. I just keep writing and stopping, writing and crying.
I hate this.
I hate that he left.
I hate that I let him leave.
The way he looked at me that night—so unlike him. Cold. Detached. Like I was nothing but a stranger. I'd never seen that in his eyes before. He always looked at me like he knew me. Like I mattered. Like I was safe with him.
But that night?
That night, I was nothing.
I slam the notebook shut. Tears spill over before I can stop them, and I press my hands to my face, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.
He's gone. He's not coming back.
And I don't even know if he misses me as much as I miss him.
But fuck, I hope he does.
I hope he still does.
•
I blink at my screen for the third time in the last five minutes. My cast itches like hell, I've had nothing but coffee and gum all day, and the last investor call dragged on for nearly two hours. One of them kept calling me Ms. Bae. Like the fish. I was two seconds away from asking if he was doing it on purpose.
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. I have a bit of a hangover. My calendar is a crime scene. Meetings stacked like dominos, fifteen-minute breaks that somehow never happen, and a presentation due tomorrow I haven't even glanced at.
I stand up, ignoring the tight pull of the cast on my arm. My assistant peeks in at the exact wrong moment.
"You've got a meeting with the design team in twenty minutes—"
"Tell them I fell off the planet," I say, grabbing my pack of cigarettes from the drawer. "Or tell them I had to step out to prevent an act of workplace violence."
She doesn't even blink. "Got it."
"I'm kidding, I'll be back in 15." I hear Lee chuckle.
I take the elevator up, shoulders stiff, heartbeat low and dull. I push open the rooftop door and inhale the stale wind of the city. It's quiet up here. The only place where no one expects anything from me.
I light a cigarette and breathe it in like it's the only thing tethering me to the ground. I close my eyes. The concrete beneath my feet feels steadier than the boardroom ever does.
"Thought I might find you up here," a voice says behind me.
I turn. Namjoon.
He's in rolled sleeves again, glasses perched on his nose, a coffee in hand and the ever-present folder tucked under one arm like it's a natural extension of him. I groan playfully. "Don't tell me you're one of those 'smoking kills' types." He walks toward me.
"I mean... it does." He leans against the railing next to me. "Also slows healing. Especially bone fractures." He looks down at my cast.
I scoff and take another drag. "Yeah. My doctor said the same thing. And she had a whole degree to back it up."
He chuckles, and it's soft, easy. "Do you have another one?"
"Thought you didn't approve smoking." I reach out for my pack and open it for him. Giving him my lighter too.
"Yeah, I've also tried to quit, but it's been a while." I glance at him. "Can I tell you something?"
I nod, exhaling smoke.
He smiles faintly. "I admire the way you handle things. The company, I don't think I could do what you've done with B&C."
I chuckle. "So, that means you admire chaos?"
"No," he says, eyes scanning the skyline. "I admire control under pressure. You're... sharp. Charming, even when you don't mean to be." He talks without any other intention behind his words.
I blink at him, lips twitching. "Did you just call me charming?"
"I think the board of investors called it 'intimidating,'" he teases. "But yes, I would say that you are. I saw at least three of them smiling every time you made a joke you didn't think was funny."
I laugh, despite myself. "Great. Now I'm funny too."
"You're kind of everything," he says softly, almost absentmindedly. "Just... worn out." We meet eyes.
I fall quiet. The cigarette's half-gone now. We finish our cigarettes in comfortable silence, admiring the view.
The sky is that dull blue-gray before sunset. I nod toward the folder in his hand.
"What's that? More work for me to ignore until 2 a.m.?"
"Floorplans for Busan. You said you wanted to reconfigure traffic flow to increase foot traffic to the west wing. I drafted a few alternative ideas."
I raise a brow. "Already?"
"I had time."
Of course he did.
"Come on," I say, stubbing out the cigarette. "We have a team meeting and you can show me the floorplans."
He chuckles again, falling into step beside me.
And somehow, I don't feel so tired anymore.
