Move On

7.

I press my lips together as I walk towards the end of the pier, digging in my bag for my car keys. I'm hoping to find a gym or pool that I can pay admission to use the shower and get cleaned up in. It's the best I've been able to come up with since I left Busan, and so far, it works, but it won't last.

I have to find some arrangement before I plan to stay a little longer.

Thankfully, there's a gym not too far from the beach, and with a five-dollar admission fee—I have full reign of all their facilities. After working out for an hour, I take a long hot shower, letting the water soak my skin.

It feels good to just close my eyes and catch my breath for a second before I have to struggle to breathe again. When I open my eyes again, a gasp falls from my lips as the water bleeds red into a puddle near the drain.

My legs giving out as I stumble back into the shower wall and sink to the floor, my hands shaking as my gaze shifts to my wrists, and I immediately exhale when I realize there is no blood. It was only my imagination, a signal to get out of the shower and back to some kind of reality.

I quickly rinse out my hair using one of my towels to dry off. It's not long until I'm dressed and outside again, the air fresh in my lungs as I climb into my car. I drive along the water until I find a new place to park for the night and climb into the backseat.

It feels like I've been awake for days, and the exhaustion hits me as soon as I lean into the backseat. My chest suddenly tight, anxiety running over my skin as I reach into my bag for my phone.

For the last few days, I've been avoiding the inevitable. I left my family with nothing, and they've been trying to call me until they eventually got the message, I wasn't interested in talking.

They made it hard.

My mom has been nothing but concerned, and her worry felt like a ton of bricks sitting on my chest.

And Yoongi hyung, he tried—he did—but I couldn't talk to either of them without feeling like I was crazy. I wanted things to be easy, and leaving seemed like my only option, but as I look at my phone screen, and the photo of Yoongi hyung and I together on the back of our friend's boat—I know I can't leave them in the dark forever.

I dialled his number. After two rings it was picked up.

"Jungkook-ah, Where are you? Oh my god!."

"Hi hyungie," I whisper as I lay down, resting my head on my pillow as I pull the covers up to my shoulder. "I miss you."

"You miss me?" He exhales. "Where are you?"

"It doesn't matter Hyung." And really, it doesn't. "I just... I needed to leave and I know you don't understand why, but I promise I'm okay."

"We thought you might be..."

"De@d... No hyung I am fine...and...I'm sorry."

"Please come back home."

"I can't." I shake my head and force the tears down. "I just wanted to call and tell you I'm okay, and I love you."

"Ggukie, you–"

"I'm sorry," is all I can muster out before ending the call and immediately powering my phone down, holding it to my chest. The longer I stare at the ceiling of my car, the harder it is to breathe.

I left for me, and no one else.

I needed to do this for myself, and until I feel like myself or find some version of myself that feels better than this, I can't go home.