v.
WON'T YOU CALL OUT MY NAME
bts; JUNGKOOK
I'D LIKE TO THINK THAT IN SOME STRANGE PARADOX MILLIONS OF MILES AWAY FROM HERE, YOU'D SOMEHOW FEEL THE SAME WAY I DO. That your heart beats quicker when I'm around you, or that if I'm not looking at you then you are staring at me. I would love for that to be real —really I would be completely happy if it was, but it's not and that just doesn't sit right with me.
Absolutely nothing pains me more then the fear I have of going up to you and telling you that my world has only ever been you. That I have dreams where only you and I exist —dreams that I hate waking up to and realizing reality is nothing close to that illusion I imagined. But, my dearest, I do not possess the strength to ever whisper these statements into your ears. I can't, even if it's the only thing I want to do.
So instead of the real you, I made another.
What people said was true. I've received so much compliments from teachers telling me I'm an excellent writer. 'An impressive mind' they'd scribble on my papers; showering me with comments of creativity and originality. I'm praised for pivotal words I write down in a series of sentences my brain finds worthy enough to be read. So being told to find an outlet in writing is what I did. I was told to write, so I'll write you.
I've tried multiple times to come up with paragraphs that sum up my admiration for you, however, those clumps of words never really could cover everything I needed to tell you. Believe me, I've crumpled plenty of drafts that couldn't come close to the things I wanted to say to you. So obviously letters are a big no, so here comes the next best thing.
A story.
I like stories. Books upon books are stacked all over my room. From centimeter high poetry books to five inch thick philosophical publications by old men. Each novel is significant to my collection. But after countless searching; after wreaking and tearing apart my shelves to discover the one thing I desire to read most, it wasn't there. I was disappointed. I'd felt empty when the one thing I wanted more than you couldn't be found. Therefore I took it upon myself to create it.
I've written a book about you.
It won't be the best thing you've ever read. Maybe not even in the first half of your favorite books, nor will it be something you'll itch to look at again and again. But this story was one I wrote about you but never for you. Does that make sense? Perhaps I should stop stalling and get right to the point.
I have this book to show you but you will not be given a copy to read. A picture will not be sent. You won't see it with your eyes. I'm sorry if I disappointed you but I just don't have the courage for you to read the lines I created.
So on my behalf I'll summarize it into a very short summary;
You were married to a man who treated you kindly. He was nice, respectful to all but especially you. Everything you ever needed in a significant other he was; never once causing doubt in your head.
You only ever cried of happiness. Never were you sad because of him. The kisses you shared were passionate, light, warm in a way only he could give.
He was the man of your dreams yet you never got to see his face. He was nothing but a dream.
You are nothing but a dream to me.
And we both didn't get want we wanted.
THAT'S IT. Well —there was so much more but I couldn't fit it on here. I didn't have enough time. I still don't.
But (Name), before I go please let me say one last thing.
Maybe you and I should've never existed in this paradox. If we possibly lived in another we could've had a relationship together. We could've been great.
And so (Y/N), I'll be leaving soon but not alone. You're coming with me. I'll be there soon.
Until we find the paradox million of miles away, I'll always love you.
—
(Y/N) TILTED HIS HEAD TO THE SIDE. Having read the letter but not quite understanding it, he got up from his chair and turned to head out the door.
"My love. We'll finally be together" were the last words spoken before a bullet was fired.
