CIGARETTES AND TULIPS // jikook

24 - coming home

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

the library had an eerie kind of quiet that afternoon, the kind that made every shuffle of paper or quiet cough feel louder than it should. the steady hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, filling the space with a tension that jimin could feel deep in his bones. exam season was always stressful, but this time it felt different, heavier, like the weight of everything he'd been avoiding was pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

he sat at the large wooden table, textbooks scattered around him, his notebook filled with neat but frantic notes. beside him, jin sat calmly, flipping through his pages, a picture of focus. hobi and taehyung were on the other side of the table, their voices low as they whispered to each other about something that didn't quite register with jimin. not today.

taehyung had been distant lately, and jimin couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at him because of it. he knew why taehyung was pulling away—because he was doing the same. 

isolating himself, shutting taehyung out after their argument about dean. taehyung didn't understand, didn't get why jimin had met up with his ex in the first place, why he kept going back to someone who had hurt him so deeply. jimin had tried to explain it, but taehyung's face had said it all: confusion, hurt, disappointment. 

so jimin stopped trying. he stopped telling taehyung anything.

the guilt festered inside him, mixing with the pressure of exams and the overwhelming need to succeed. he had been studying day and night, throwing himself into his books, desperate for excellent grades. it was the one thing he could control, the one thing that made sense when everything else in his life felt like it was spiraling. 

and then there was jungkook.

they hadn't spoken in days. no contact. jungkook thought dean was jimin's new boyfriend, and jimin hadn't corrected him. it was easier that way. 

easier to let jungkook think the worst of him, to let him believe that jimin had moved on, that he was an asshole who didn't care. because the truth—the real truth—was something jimin couldn't bear to share. 

no one would understand. no one could know that he had met up with dean again, that he kept going back to the person who had torn him apart. jimin couldn't handle the judgment. not from taehyung, not from jungkook.

he blinked down at his notebook, the words on the page blurring as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. he had cried every night since cutting jungkook out of his life. every single night. the pain of losing him was a deep, hollow ache that sat in his chest, growing heavier with each passing day. 

but jimin had convinced himself that this was for the best. jungkook deserved better. he deserved peace, happiness—things jimin couldn't give him. and if that meant ripping his own heart out, then so be it. 

he would let himself be the villain in jungkook's story. he would let him believe that jimin was taken, that he was the bad guy. 

anything to keep jungkook from finding out the truth.

the truth that he was meeting up with dean again, falling back into the same toxic cycle, unable to escape. that dean had sweet-talked him again.

jimin's chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. he needed to get out of here, needed space. 

"i'm... gonna go to the bathroom," he mumbled, standing up quickly, his chair scraping against the floor. 

hobi and jin barely glanced up, absorbed in their studies, but taehyung shot him a look—concerned, questioning. jimin avoided his gaze, walking away with hurried steps, his heart pounding in his ears.

he made his way to the nearest bathroom, the cool tile beneath his feet doing little to calm the storm inside him. as soon as he locked himself in one of the stalls, his back pressed against the cold metal door, the panic washed over him in waves. it was too much. everything was too much.

his hands shook as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the small pair of cosmetic scissors he kept hidden there, tucked away for moments like this. his breath hitched as he pulled up his shirt slightly, revealing the faded scars on his right hip—lines he had carved into himself before, when the pressure became too much to bear. 

his fingers traced over the old wounds, his chest tightening as the familiar need crept in. he didn't want to do this. 

but he needed to. it was the only thing that made him feel like he had any control, the only way to release the tension that had built up inside him.

with trembling hands, he pressed the blade of the scissors against his skin, right over one of the faded scars, and dragged it slowly across his hip. the pain was sharp, immediate, followed by the slow, warm trickle of blood. he watched as the red droplets beaded up, spilling over in small, perfect circles before dripping onto the tile below. the pressure eased, just for a moment, just long enough for him to take a deep breath—the first real breath he had taken in days.

there it is, he thought, staring at the blood running down his hip. the release. the sweet, fucking release. 

it felt so harmless, so needed. like a deep exhale after holding his breath for too long. like coming home.

but then, like a cold splash of water, his mother's face flashed in his mind. 

her soft smile, the way she always smelled of flowers from the shop, the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. 

what would she think if she saw me like this?

 the thought hit him hard, harder than he expected. his hand stilled, the scissors slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor with a hollow sound that echoed in the small stall.

his heart raced as he stared at the mess he had made, the blood smeared on his skin, the small puddle on the floor. shame washed over him in waves, choking him. his mother could never know. no one could ever know.

he wiped at the blood hastily, pulling down his shirt to cover the cut, his fingers trembling as he tried to clean up the evidence of what he had done. he couldn't think about it. couldn't let it sink in. he had to move on, had to pretend everything was fine.

jimin washed his hands quickly, scrubbing at the blood on his fingers, the harsh fluorescent light overhead making him feel exposed, vulnerable. when he finally walked out of the bathroom, his heart still raced, but the panic had dulled.

the feeling of nothingsness was back.

when he sat back, no one noticed the change in him. no one asked if he was okay. and maybe that was for the best.

he had to keep going.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊