Shot Glass of Tears by Jungkook
TW: Self harm
Y/N's POV:
The silence in the apartment was deafening. Every creak of the floorboards, every tick of the clock on the wall, echoed the hollowness in my chest.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, a stranger with vacant eyes and a haunted look. I couldn't recognize the boy in the mirror anymore.
The boy who laughed easily, who dreamt big dreams, who was overflowing with life – he was gone.
Would I ever be that boy again? The boy who hadn't known a world without Minji in it?
The past few weeks felt like a hazy, painful dream. Every corner of this apartment, every object, every space, held a ghost – a memory of her.
The empty wine glass on the coffee table. The half-finished drawing in the corner, abandoned when her laughter had pulled me away.
The half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter, a testament to her late-night cravings.
My fingers traced the rim of the heavy shot glass on the table. It was cold, as cold as the emptiness gnawing at my soul.
I couldn't stop thinking about her, about the way she'd laugh, her head thrown back, eyes sparkling, hair catching the light.
Her intoxicating scent, the way her body moved against mine – everything was a painful reminder of what I had lost.
"It's like I'm drowning in a sea of her," I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking. "And there's no land in sight."
My reflection blinked, as if sharing my own bewilderment. I felt a strange numbness, a chilling void that consumed me.
The first few days after the breakup had been a whirlwind of emotions – anger, denial, pain, desperation.
A week later, the anger had waned, replaced by an endless, suffocating sadness. It felt like a weight pressing down on my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
My fingers, still clenching the shot glass, squeezed it tight. My tears streamed down my face, a steady, relentless flow.
I felt like a crying child, but there was no comfort to be found, no warm embrace to soothe the ache in my heart.
"These tears are diamonds," I mumbled, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "But there's no one to share the sparkle with."
I raised the shot glass to my lips, my reflection mockingly mimicking the gesture. "I'm drowning in my tears," I whispered again, taking a deep breath. "And there's no one to save me."
Minji was a whirlwind. She lived life on the edge, chasing after the sunrise and leaving a trail of shattered dreams in her wake.
We met at a party, of course. She was the life of the party, the one everyone gravitated towards. I was drawn to her energy, her laughter, her passion. She was a flame, and I felt like a moth, inexplicably drawn to her destructive beauty.
"She got some dangerous hobbies," I said, my voice devoid of anger, of malice. "Like chasing after the sun, and making me fall in love."
The words felt hollow on my tongue. Saying it out loud only amplified the emptiness, the hollowness inside me. It felt like a part of me had died along with our relationship.
"I just want to be numb," I whispered, the words barely audible.
The phone on the table buzzed, and I flinched, startled. The name 'Minji' flashed on the screen. I grabbed it instinctively, but then hesitated. My fingers hovered over the green button, unsure, terrified, torn.
"Maybe she wants to try again," a voice whispered in my head, but it was weak, drowned out by the deafening silence in my chest. I swiped the call to voicemail, my heart pounding in my ears.
I needed to hear her voice, to feel something, anything, beyond this suffocating emptiness.
I needed to know she was still thinking about me. But what if she was just trying to apologize, to make things easier on herself? What if it was just another dance in her dangerous game?
"I'm driving a hundred, with my hands off the wheel," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I just want to crash."
The song that Minji had chosen for our first dance played softly on the voicemail.
A sweet, sad melody that now mirrored the pain in my heart. I pressed play, willing the phone and its tiny speaker to fill the terrifying emptiness within me.
Her voice, light and playful, filled the apartment. Even through the phone, it felt like she was right next to me, her hand on my cheek, her breath on my skin, her eyes holding my gaze. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking reminder of everything I had lost.
"Hey, baby," she said, the tone light and carefree. "Just wanted to say hey. I miss you, okay? I'll call you later, alright?"
The voicemail ended abruptly, leaving me aching, yearning for more. I craved her voice, her presence, the comfort of her familiar touch.
"Maybe she'll call back," I said aloud, the words lost in the silence of the empty apartment. "Maybe she'll say she misses me, too, and that she's coming back."
But the silence was deafening, mocking my hopeful thoughts. I was alone. The shot glass in my hand felt heavy, cold, a tangible symbol of the weight crushing my soul.
"You broke me," I whispered to the empty room. "You left me broken, shattered, and lost."
My phone buzzed again. It was Minji, another voicemail. I played it, hoping, praying, for a sign, a glimmer of hope.
But all I heard was her voice, light and carefree, as she spoke to someone else, her laughter echoing through the tiny speaker.
It was a cruel reminder that she was moving on, that she was leaving me behind in the wreckage of our broken relationship.
"Why did you break my heart?" I whispered, my voice choked with tears. "Why did you leave me with this emptiness?"
The apartment was darker now, enveloped by the shadows of the setting sun.
Another day was ending, and with it, a sliver of my hope. My fingers closed around the shot glass again, a desperate attempt to grasp something, anything, to fill the void that threatened to consume me.
I looked at the reflection staring back at me from the mirror. He looked defeated, broken, lost.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at the cruel hand of fate. But there was only silence, and the crushing weight of my own despair.
"Just let it all go," I whispered, a tear rolling down my cheek. "Just let yourself go."
There was a sharp pain in my chest, a feeling of unbearable emptiness. I felt as though I was suffocating, drowning in a sea of my own sorrow.
My fingers gripped the glass, the rim cutting into my skin. The pain, sharp and physical, was a comforting distraction from the emotional turmoil consuming me.
"Maybe then," I whispered, a faint glimmer of hope flicker in my eyes, "maybe then I'll finally feel something again."
