Jimin's resistance was clear from the moment I grabbed his hand, but I was done with his cold behavior. I was angry—angry that he was hurt and angry that he kept pushing me away without any explanation.
He pulled his hand back, trying to hide it under the table, his face turning away from me.
Jimin: "I told you to stay away from me." He didn't even look at me when he said it, his voice edged with frustration.
That was it. I don't know what came over me, but the next thing I knew, I was holding his face between my hands, forcing him to look at me.
YN: "I'll leave you after this." My voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.
I grabbed his injured hand and dragged him out of the classroom without another word. He didn't fight me, but I could feel the tension in his body.
Jimin: "Where are you taking me?" His tone was annoyed, but I ignored him, my mind set on one thing.
I dragged him straight to the medical room and pushed him down onto the bed.
Jimin: "I'm not sitting—"
YN: "Sit." I cut him off, my eyes daring him to argue with me.
Reluctantly, he sat down, his lips pressed into a thin line as I grabbed the first aid kit. His hand was clenched into a fist, but I gently took it, ignoring the way he tensed. I started cleaning the wound on his knuckles, the silence between us growing heavy.
He winced slightly when the antiseptic touched his skin, but I didn't stop.
YN: "You're so stubborn," I muttered under my breath, focusing on treating his hand.
He didn't say anything, just watched me with an unreadable expression. After a while, he finally spoke, his voice softer than before.
Jimin: "Why are you doing this?"
I glanced up at him, my hands still gently working on his wound.
YN: "Because I care, even if you won't admit it."
I sighed, pulling away as I finished cleaning the wound.
YN: "I'll stay away from you if it bothers you so much."
Jimin's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. His silence hung in the air, suffocating the room. I wanted to stay, to wait for him to say something, anything, but I couldn't take it anymore.
I stood up, grabbing my bag.
YN: "This is it. I'm done trying."
Without waiting for a reply, I left the room, closing the door behind me. My footsteps echoed down the hallway as I walked away, my heart heavier than I expected.
Few days passed everything seemed fine on the surface, at least for a while. But deep down, I couldn't shake the frustration lingering inside me. It wasn't just about Jimin's behavior; it was the way he affected me without even trying.
One afternoon, needing a break, I headed up to the college terrace for some fresh air. The sky was cloudy, with the hint of rain in the air, and the cool breeze lifted my spirits a little. I sat on the bench, taking in the peaceful scenery, feeling happy for the first time in days.
As I looked around, something on the wall caught my attention—a small scribble that hadn't been there before. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stood up, walking toward the wall to get a closer look.
In faint, uneven handwriting, the words read:
"Why does no one ask me what I want?"
A sad smile tugged at the corners of my lips after reading the scribble on the terrace wall, I couldn't stop myself from replying. I grabbed a marker from my bag and wrote underneath the sad question:
"What do you want?"
It felt strange talking to the wall, but somehow, I knew someone would see it. Maybe the person who left that message needed to know someone was listening, even if anonymously.
The next day, when I went back to the terrace, a new reply had appeared beneath my question:
"Does it even matter?"
I paused, staring at the response. There was pain behind those words, a kind of hopelessness that I understood all too well. I decided to reply again.
"It does. Maybe not to everyone, but it matters to someone."
When I returned again the following day, there was a new scribble:
"Someone...who?"
I smiled softly, feeling the weight of those words. Whoever was writing this was hurting, but they hadn't completely given up.
I wrote back quickly:
"Someone who cares enough to ask."
By now, this exchange had become a part of my routine. I found myself thinking about it even when I wasn't on the terrace. That day, the response was shorter:
"Maybe."
I smiled. There was hope in that word. It wasn't much, but it was something.
I took a deep breath, my heart racing a little as I leaned back against the wall, staring at the scribbles. I replied, letting my fingers glide over the rough surface of the bricks:
"Maybe? That's an improvement. So, what do you want?"
After a moment, I added, "You can always talk to me, you know."
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