You Infire Me

Chapter Fourteen: Christmas in NYC

"Until you step into the unknown, you don't know what you're made of."
— Roy T. Bennett

The snow in Hunsaker falls, and falls, and falls, and refuses to melt. Your feelings for Yoongi grow, and grow, and grow, and refuse to wash away. You finish out the semester side by side, preparing for finals together and taking plenty of study breaks together (at Yoongi's behest). So far, you've gotten the grades you hoped for, despite how much he tends to distract you. You've never been the type to let a guy get in the way of achieving your goals.

But if one were to get in the way . . . it would be Yoongi.

One day, while you're sitting together at a table in the library's quiet study room, he gets a phone call and walks outside to answer it. When he comes back, he looks at you, perplexed.

"What is it?" You ask him, eyebrows raising in worry.

"That . . . that was the band. The guys from BTS," he explains. "They found me."

You hold in a gasp.

"They said that all they want is to see me. To meet up with me in New York City. They said the label doesn't know I'm in Hunsaker—they didn't tell our boss."

You sigh in relief. "Well that's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he contemplates. "You're right. It is good." He crosses his arms, deep in thought. "What do you think? Should I meet up with them? I think I might have missed them more than I realize."

If I encourage him to go, and he goes, they could win him back. And I could lose him. Forever.

"I think you should," you tell him truthfully, despite the gaping hole in your heart that's beginning to form. "You spent years together with them, after all. They're a big part of your life."

"I just wonder if they'll try to convince me to come back."

Your stop typing, fingers resting on your laptop's keyboard. I don't know if I'm prepared to talk about that possibility. Saying it aloud makes it real. But you know you have to say something, so you muster up an ounce of grit and ask him: "Have you ever considered going back?"

He sighs deeply. "In all honesty, yes. I have." His voice carries worry—worry that his words will wound you. It's a worry that both comforts you and makes you feel uncomfortable. "But I always end up at the same answer," he continues. "And it's this: That part of my life is over. I left for a very valid reason. I don't want to go back to feeling all that pressure to perform a certain way, to deliver a product. I just want to perform as I see fit."

You nod. "Well, they may try to get you back. They've probably missed you. But you'll just have to be honest with them. They've probably wondered, for all these years, why you left. They deserve the truth," you smile weakly, trying to be supportive while your soul is harrowed up.

Harrowed up, because your brain won't stop asserting that he'll leave forever.

"You're right," he agrees, his smile sweet and appreciative. "That settles it then. I'm going to New York."

"When did they want to meet up with you?"

"The day before Christmas Eve."

Your heart jumps into your throat.

"Same day as your writing conference," he smiles, soft lips staying closed. Then he bats his eyelashes at you as he says: "So it looks like I'll be coming to New York with you."