Imagine a World Like That

Right where you left me

Could he exist in a world never touched by you, Taehyung wondered. In the multiversed layers of this cursed existence, could he find one surgically clean of you? Could he delete the multitude of synesthesic reminders you scattered around every corner of his life?

But most importantly, would he want to? He wasn't so sure anymore.

There was a half empty bottle of your perfume on top of his drawer, a single pink sock under his bed, a charger he found behind his couch. He called you one night, trying to lure you into talking to him under the pretense of giving it all back - as if he could! - but you didn't pick up.

Was that how you felt? All those times he didn't pick up when you called or didn't answer your texts, too busy soaking up spotlights and drinking up applauses. Did his silence feel as suffocating as yours?

Taehyung can't breathe. Is there such a thing as too much air? Too much space? He has too much of it all. He doesn't want it. He wants your air, shared between the spaces of your pillow and his. He wants your space, the one he invaded when he threw his leg over yours, clinging to your body like a lifeline.

When did he let go of that? When did he forget his place? His place - not on the stage, not on the lumpy couch of some late night show host, not under hot lights, but right next to you, sinking his fingers into your hips and resting his lips on that one spot where your shoulders met your neck and his world met yours and all made sense again.

He doesn't remember the last time he felt truly rested. He hears the sound of his worried bandmates fretting in the background of his mind but he doesn't know how to help. When did you last eat? Two months ago, when you made him dinner and he didn't show up in time to enjoy it with you, guilt gnawing at his insides as he heated up your delicious food in the microwave. When did you last shower? About a month ago, water falling on both of your bodies as he apologized for another flaked date night and he couldn't tell if you were crying or not.

When did you last... About three weeks ago. All his memories stopped there, on the moment you walked out of the door. His brain rewinds those couple of minutes, forcing him to relive it, haunting him with all his mistakes, making him list all the things he should've done differently.

Taehyung reads through your old text messages religiously, your words a prayer. "Good morning! I love you!" he reads and tries to figure out what in the world he could've been doing that stopped him from texting you back.

A week later, another text: "I miss you". He feels like screaming.

"Are you coming home tonight?"

"We should do something this weekend."

"Let me know when you have some time to call :)"

And again "I miss you."

You words chain him to his (our, he thinks, holding on to the possessive adjective like it meant something) bed. Maybe if he stayed there, where you last left him, you would come back and find him again, like a lost child at the mall. He should stay where he last saw you. He couldn't risk it.

Instead of getting up, eating, sleeping or moving on he types into his phone, knowing his message won't go through just like all the 187 he sent in the past three weeks. "I miss you" he echoes "and I don't even have that right, I know. I miss you and if I had been just a bit smarter, just a little bit less of a selfish, blind asshole I wouldn't have to miss you, because you would've been here."

"Three weeks, four hours and five minutes since you left and I can now pinpoint all of the moments I let you down. I can name them alphabetically or by how badly they hurt to think about. Your disappointment is tattooed to the back of my eyelids. I deserve it. I hope it stays there."

Taehyung types and types, eyes blurred and fingers trembling . He writes like an author desperate for a paycheck, a lyricist with bills to pay and albums to put out, odes and novels to all the wrong things he did. He screams his song of loneliness and regret into the silence of his (our!) bedroom.

"Please come back"

This number can't be found at this moment.

"Please come back"

This number can't be found at this moment.

"Please come back"

This number can't be found at this moment.

"Please come back"

And again, four weeks, three hours, two minutes, 28 showers, 112 meals and a million shallow inhales and exhales without you later:

"Please come back."

11:23 pm. Delivered.

"I'm right where you left me."

11:24 pm. Read.

And Taehyung feels like he can maybe - just maybe, hopefully, wistfully - breathe again.