LACUNA | YOONMIN (Under Editing)

4

*You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I will always love you, that's where I'll be waiting. *
                                                    -Peter Pan

2015 from Yoongi's narration

It was June 2015 when I finally graduated. But I hadn’t yet told my friends that, come September, I’d be starting my master’s degree in Italy.

No time to rest, to breathe, to just be.

The thought weighed on me, and I broke down, crying on my mother’s lap, tears soaking the ground beneath me. It felt as though I was pouring water onto soil that held no seeds—just a patch of mud where nothing could grow. My troubles pooled together like tears, forming a swamp inside me.

Maybe my mother was right.

Maybe I was like a lotus flower, blooming alone, isolated. But I hadn’t bloomed yet. People would say, “Every flower has its time to bloom.” But who would wait for a flower that hadn’t blossomed yet, lost in a swamp?

That night, I needed a beer and someone to just talk to. That’s how I ended up at Namjoon’s ground-floor apartment, standing outside his door with a bag full of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. I never smoke before , but with my mind so foggy, I figured it wouldn’t matter if my lungs were too.

If my mother knew I had cigarettes, she’d be upset. In my mind, I swore never to buy them again.

When Namjoon opened the door, he greeted me with a slight nod and stepped aside, motioning for me to come in.

Namjoon knew I was coming. He always did. Just like he knew everything.

Absolutely everything.

His apartment was cozy, with shelves crammed full of books—even a small one built into the wall of his bathroom. The place smelled like aged paper and ink, as if the books had left their mark on the very walls.

It was one of those hot, humid June nights, and the balcony door was open, letting in the buzzing sounds of the city outside. I had a strange sense that the books were talking to each other, sharing their secrets.

“It doesn’t seem like you live alone,” I said, glancing around as I placed the cold beers on the table, the condensation pooling beneath them.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Loneliness is a choice,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Depends on how you define it.”

I paused, letting his words sink in as I opened one of the beers and slouched into a comfortable couch.

He had a point.

Loneliness, I realized, could mean a hundred different things.

After a moment, Namjoon opened his own beer, settled into the couch across from me, and took a deep, relaxed breath, clearly at ease in his own space.

We drank in silence for a bit, just the faint hum of the city and our occasional sips filling the room. My gaze drifted up to the ceiling, landing on an oddly shaped lamp hanging there. It looked a bit like a lantern—something about it felt out of place, and yet perfectly fitting for this space.

After a while, I leaned back, resting my head against the back of the couch. My voice was low when I finally broke the quiet.

“I bought myself a pack of cigarettes,”
I admitted, almost like a confession.