inseparable︱𝐉𝐉𝐊 ✓

❥ 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧

꧁‿︵‿︵♥‿︵‿︵꧂

LJ - 18

When I got home, it felt like everyone was waiting for me. I barely stepped through the door before my mom was the one who rushed over first, her eyes wide with worry. She didn't say anything at first, just wrapped her arms around me in this desperate hug so tightly I could barely breathe.

"Don't do that to me again, Jieun, please," she whispered. She wasn't just upset – she was terrified, and that made the guilt in my chest burn even more. Her hands clutched my arms like she was afraid I'd disappear again.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled against her shoulder, the words hardly coming out. "I'm so sorry... I won't... I won't ever do this again. I promise."

"We were really worried about you," Dad said. "I understand you were upset, but that's not how you should solve things, Jieun—"

I pulled back from Mom, making the biggest effort to smile at them. "I know, Dad, and I won't try to justify my actions," I swallowed. "Me and Jungkook... we're done. It's over. You don't have to worry about that anymore."

"You...?" Mom started but couldn't finish.

"Yes, and I'm so sorry for everything... we won't ever cause you shame again. We're not... doing this anymore."

Her body sagged a little, like she had been holding her breath this whole time. My dad stood a few steps behind her, looking at me with that same relieved, yet still cautious expression. He wasn't saying much. I think part of him was still waiting for me to break down.

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" he finally asked, stepping closer. "You don't have to talk about it now... we just need to know that you're okay."

I forced a nod, even though my heart was still in pieces. "Yeah, I'll be fine... I'll move on."

They exchanged a glance, one of those quick parent looks that say a thousand words, both holding back a million questions. They were relieved, sure, but the way I said it—the tears that kept threatening to spill and the way my voice cracked—it didn't do much to reassure them. My mom wiped her eyes and kissed the top of my forehead before pulling back to look at me.

"Just don't shut us out, okay?"

I nodded again.

I barely remember how I got upstairs, but the second my bedroom door closed, I broke. The tears came in this flood. I curled up on my bed, burying my face in the pillow so my parents wouldn't hear me. 

The pain was everywhere. It was in my chest, my throat, my head. My whole body ached. The heartbreak was physically tearing me apart. I had tried so hard to hold it together in front of them, and now I didn't have to. 

I cried for hours, until my head hurt and my eyes stung from all the tears. The worst part was that no matter how hard I cried, it didn't stop the pain. It just kept coming. I couldn't stop thinking about everything – the fight, the way I told Jungkook I hated him, the way he looked at me like his whole world was falling apart because of it.

I hated myself for what I said, but at the same time, I was still so angry with him. 

💬"Are you okay?"

💬"Can we talk?"

💬"Please..."

The texts started almost immediately after I got home. But I ignored them. I couldn't handle it. Seeing his name pop up on my phone sent a fresh jolt of pain through my body every time, and I would quickly shove the phone away or bury it under the pillow.

For days, he kept texting, asking if we could talk, if I was okay, if there was a way to fix things. I opened the messages sometimes, stared at them for minutes, but I never replied. What was there to say? That I was miserable without him? That I hated myself for pushing him away? That I didn't know how to move on?

Eventually, the messages stopped. A part of me had been dreading that. It was like the final nail in the coffin, the proof that it was really over, that he had finally given up trying. 

The next few days were exhausting. I went through the motions—school, home, dinner with my parents—never really present. I was stuck inside my own head, trapped in the same loop of memories and regrets. 

I dragged myself to class, did the bare minimum to get through the day, and then went home to repeat the same thing. I was sad all the time. I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't shut up, and the silence in my room at night was the worst part. I missed him. I missed him so much it hurt, physically. 

People kept asking me if I was okay, if I wanted to hang out, yet I couldn't bring myself to care. I'd say I was busy or that I had too much homework, but really, I just couldn't deal with pretending to be fine. 

It went on this way for months. 

Yes, I didn't hear from my own brother for months.

My parents would drop little bits of information here and there, casually mentioning how he was doing, that he was keeping busy, and that medical school was now in his plans. It wasn't like they were trying to hurt me with these updates, just that every time they spoke about him or said his name, there was a feeling of a knife stabbing my chest.

They acted like he was thriving. As if cutting me off had been the best thing for him. And maybe it had. Maybe he was happier without me complicating his life.

It dawned on me like a slow, creeping realization that seeped in during one of those casual updates from my parents. It wasn't a sudden, dramatic moment of clarity. It was more like this quiet understanding settling into my bones: he was fine. He was moving on, focusing on his future, while I was still stuck, hurting.

That's when it really sank in—I had to let him go. For real this time. I couldn't keep waiting for a text that wasn't coming, couldn't keep hoping he'd suddenly show up, apologizing or saying that he missed me. I needed to do the same, even if the thought of it felt impossible.

The rest of the year was a slow crawl forward, but somehow, I found myself making it. At first, it didn't feel like anything was changing—I was still waking up each morning with that weird feeling in my heart, still forcing myself through life, but little by little, things started to shift. 

My friends and school kept me busy, whether I liked it or not. The routine became a kind of anchor, something I could rely on. I'd get up, get dressed, head to class, listen to the teacher's drone on about finals, graduation requirements, and all the stuff I needed to wrap up. My grades weren't perfect, though I kept them up. 

It was slow. A gradual thing, almost. Some days, I'd notice that it hurt a little less. That I wasn't thinking about Jungkook every second of every day. Other times, it was just as bad as before.

But those days became fewer and further between.