Lots of Jungkook hurt/sick one shots. There will be many many triggers and I will put every trigger at the beginning of the chapters .
If you have requests , just text me and I'll write them as chapter .
My English isn't the best but I'll try to m...
this story includes things like heavy depressions!
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Jungkook lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, which numbed him further, as if the chill of the air was slowly creeping into his veins, making him feel like a statue frozen in time. Day after day, he lay there, unmoving, his only companions the stray beams of sunlight that wandered through the blinds, casting long, melancholic shadows across his face. He barely noticed them.
There was no grand reason for this solitude, no recent heartbreak or crushing disappointment. His life, by most measures, was enviable. He was successful, adored, living the dream he had strived for since he was a boy. And yet, here he was, swallowed by an invisible weight that seemed to press him further into the mattress, pinning him down, until he was barely more than an outline in his own life.
The hours passed, and he felt as if he wasn't really there, as though his body was an empty shell. Sometimes he would shift his gaze to his hands, turning them over, flexing his fingers, wondering if they belonged to him. He felt detached, like he was floating outside himself, watching a stranger waste away on the bed.
There was a stack of books on his nightstand, journals left half-read and half-written, a bottle of water he hadn't touched in days. The familiar smell of his room, once comforting, now made him sick. Every now and then, he'd drag himself to the bathroom, the hallway lights too bright and glaring, hurting his eyes after hours in darkness. His reflection in the mirror startled him at first; his face seemed hollow, his eyes dark and empty. He'd turn away quickly, as if he could escape from himself.
On some days, when he felt especially restless, he would go to the balcony for a cigarette. It was the only time he stepped outside the walls of his room. He'd lean over the railing, feeling the cool wind against his face, tasting the faint bitterness of smoke on his lips. But even the view from his high-rise apartment, the sprawling city lights, and the distant sounds of traffic felt foreign, as though he was watching it through thick glass. Nothing felt real.
People texted him, friends who wanted to check in, members who worried about his absence. He'd pick up his phone, read the messages, and feel nothing. Sometimes he'd type out a response, but the words seemed hollow, like they weren't his. The simplest things had become impossible. He was tired, bone-deep tired, yet sleep wouldn't come easily. When it did, it brought him no relief, only a deeper emptiness when he woke.
He tried to cry, thinking that maybe tears would bring release, some sort of awakening, but he quickly found himself in a well of dry, shallow sobs. The tears dried up before they had a chance to fall, leaving only a burning ache in his chest. When he finally managed to cry, it was different. He lay in bed, letting the tears soak into his pillow, his body curled up and trembling. But the more he cried, the more he realized that his tears were empty too, just like his days and his dreams.
Time slipped away in a blurry haze. Was it day or night? He didn't know. He barely cared. Sometimes, when his phone buzzed, he'd glance at the screen, seeing a series of missed calls, unread messages from the people who loved him most. The concern in their words tugged at something deep inside him, but it was like he couldn't reach it, as if his heart was wrapped in fog, unreachable. He could almost hear them outside his door, whispering, waiting for him to emerge, to tell them he was okay. But he wasn't. He wasn't anything.
