𝙐𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 ❤ (𝙹𝚒𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 💜)

16) Silence Tastes Like Burnt Coffee

It was the third morning in a row.

Jungkook parked his car in the usual spot and stepped out, sipping the coffee he had picked up on his way. The spring breeze barely touched his skin, and the campus was already bustling with students, loud chatter, and footsteps echoing across the pavement.

His eyes casually scanned the entrance of the main building—an unconscious habit he hadn’t admitted to yet.

And there he was. Again.

Park Jimin.

Dragging himself in through the college gates, a heavy bag on his back, hoodie pulled tight over his frame like it was shielding him from more than just the wind. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that.

But today something looked worse.

Jimin’s face was pale, unnaturally so. His eyes dull, the skin under them darkened like bruises. His lips were dry, slightly trembling from exhaustion or hunger—Jungkook couldn’t tell. His steps were slow, but determined. Not once did he glance around. Not even when some students nearby whispered and looked.

He just kept walking toward his class.

And Jungkook stood there for a moment longer than necessary.

Three days. Three damn days he’s been showing up like this.

No smiles. No sass. No spark.

Just silence and shadows under his eyes.

A bitter taste spread in Jungkook’s mouth—not from the coffee.

It annoyed him. Deeply. Irrationally.

Not because Jimin looked exhausted.

Not because he didn’t greet him.

But because this gnawing ache had started to grow inside Jungkook every time he saw him like this.

Was he not sleeping? Was he not eating?

Why the hell does he look like he's carrying the whole world on his shoulders and yet keeps showing up?

And worse—why does it bother me so damn much?

He shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Pity,” he muttered under his breath.

Yes. That’s all it was.

Just pity.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Before walking toward his lecture hall, his eyes unconsciously still trailing after the boy who refused to fall.

Jimin's pov

It’s been three days.
Three full days of spinning like a cog in someone else's cruel machine.

The café shift ended late again last night—1:03 a.m., to be exact. By the time I punched out, cleaned the counters, stacked the chairs, and dragged myself back to the hospital, my limbs didn’t feel like they belonged to me anymore. My soul was somewhere on the cold tiles of the kitchen, spilled next to the black coffee that had boiled over on the stove.

I didn’t eat. Couldn’t.
I had just enough money for two days of meals—three if I stretched it—and a coffee tin to keep me conscious.

I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
The room smelled like antiseptic and disinfectant wipes, and the small cot creaked like it, too, was tired of my company.

So, I studied instead. Poured over articles, scratched lines into my thesis drafts, added notes in the margins. Anything to make up for the year I’d lost.