Invisible Affection | Taejin

40. This version of me

Taehyung looked out over the city, which sprawled out before him like a colorful quilt of buildings, bustling activity, and shining lights. It was late afternoon, and the sky was still bright and clear, making the skyline appear calm and peaceful. He had always appreciated Tokyo; it felt vibrant and organized, yet not overwhelming.

Among all the places he had traveled to over the years, Tokyo held a special nostalgia that he couldn't quite put into words. It was a city where he could roam freely without attracting much attention, and he appreciated that.

Behind him, the conference room had fallen silent. His team had just wrapped up their presentation about an important plan for a new infrastructure project. This was a big undertaking that included improvements to public transportation and the use of smarter energy systems, exactly the challenging and innovative work that kept him excited and motivated.

Taehyung had taken the lead, speaking with steady confidence, laying out complex concepts in a way that felt approachable. In the past, he might have second-guessed himself, softened his voice, or sought too much validation. But not now. Now, he spoke with the quiet assurance of someone who had grown into his own voice. He didn't need to command attention; it came to him naturally.

He rolled up his sleeves as he stepped away from the window, tugging lightly at the collar of his shirt. His suit looked good on him—well-fitted and simple, yet sharp. He chose his clothes carefully these days, not to show off, but to feel more comfortable and confident in the places he entered.

A soft chime from his phone caught his attention. It was a message from a coworker asking if they could meet later that evening to go over some details. He replied briefly, then set the phone down on the table and took a sip of the tea that had gone lukewarm beside him.

He wasn't in a rush to leave. Meetings like this had become a rhythm he could rely on, a quiet proof of what he had built with time, effort, and intention. Nothing about his success had been handed to him. He had built it, night after night, year after year, through missed sleep, quiet frustration, and a quiet stubbornness that refused to let him quit, even when everything else in him wanted to.

There were times, especially in the early days after the breakup, when it all felt like too much. When getting through the day felt like walking underwater. He hadn't expected the silence to be so brutal, not just because Seokjin was gone, but because of what that absence left behind.

Letting someone go was one thing. Living with that choice was another. He told himself it was necessary, that it was for the best. But he couldn't pretend it didn't leave a hollow space inside him.

He didn't talk about that part of his life very much. People thought he had moved on without any trouble, and he allowed them to think that way. But grief works on its own schedule. There were times when memories would suddenly overwhelm him, especially on quiet nights or when he caught a whiff of a familiar scent unexpectedly. Often, it was the simplest things that triggered these memories, yet they powerfully affected how his body reacted to them.

Seokjin was his first real love, not the kind based on fantasy or surface affection, but one that developed in difficult moments, through shared mornings and vulnerable confessions. Letting go of that kind of love left a mark that never really faded.

Despite everything, he held it together. He sat with the discomfort, letting it teach him what it needed to. He began to prioritize himself, not in rebellion, not out of bitterness, but out of understanding. The way he used to care for others, he slowly learned to turn inward. His journey to healing wasn't perfect, but it was sincere, and over time, it became more stable.

He stopped searching for perfection and instead focused on showing up for himself. Some days, that looked like waking up early to make a meeting. Other days, it looked like taking the long way home just to be in motion. He gave himself permission to not have every answer. He let his progress be enough, even when the ache still visited him.

In the days leading up to the wedding, he had found himself wondering what it would be like to see Seokjin again. He didn't expect a dramatic reunion, but he had expected something more destabilizing. Instead, what he felt when he finally saw him was far quieter—an ache, yes, but not the unraveling kind.

Seokjin had looked beautiful, of course. Still graceful. Still impossible not to notice. But there was a space between them now, shaped by time and distance, that neither of them tried to cross.

Taehyung found himself watching him more than he intended, not out of longing exactly, but out of memory. There were brief conversations, the kind that held more meaning than they revealed. Moments when their eyes met and neither looked away. It had made Taehyung wonder how much Seokjin had changed. From what he could tell, the change had been real. There was a steadiness in him now that hadn't always been there. Taehyung could recognize it because he had fought for that same steadiness in himself.

******

Later that night, after having dinner with several partners from the Tokyo branch, Taehyung returned to his hotel suite and set his briefcase down beside the armchair. He didn't bother turning on the overhead lights; the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the glowing city below, was enough to illuminate the room.

He loosened his tie and threw it onto the coffee table, then walked to the small bar in the room and filled a glass with whiskey. He didn't do it from habit; instead, he had come to appreciate enjoying things in moderation, a lesson he had worked hard to learn.

He relaxed on the couch, with a drink in hand and his phone set down next to him, screen facing down. Tonight, he didn't feel the need to check his messages. There was no one waiting for him to share his thoughts or feelings. He was simply present, enjoying the calm around him and taking deep breaths.

For a long time, he struggled with sitting in silence because it felt uncomfortable. But recently, silence started to change for him. Instead of feeling empty, it became a space where he could be himself. This new quiet allowed him to think deeply and ask himself difficult questions without holding back.

Like how he really felt after seeing Seokjin, the truth was, he didn't know exactly. Not completely. The question had lingered since the moment he left the estate, refusing to leave him alone even as the noise of his schedule picked up again.

How did he really feel after seeing Seokjin?

There wasn't a clean answer. It wasn't something he could name with one word. The feelings came in layers, some clearer than others. A little bit of missing him, a little peace, a quiet curiosity that pressed against the edge of his chest. It wasn't enough to be painful anymore, but it was enough to remind him that some things never truly disappear. They merely settle in and become a part of him.

He didn't feel drawn back into the past. He didn't have the desire to pursue what once was. However, he couldn't ignore how Seokjin's presence had awakened something within him—a lingering awareness that remained long after their time together had ended.

There was no bitterness left, only memories. The kind you could live with, even if you still carried pieces of them wherever you went. Seeing Seokjin again had reminded him that love like that doesn't die just because it ends. Instead, it becomes quiet and transforms into something different. It helps you learn things about yourself that nothing else can teach you.

He found himself thinking about whether Seokjin had experienced the same feeling he had. That brief moment of familiarity, that unexpected warmth of being close to someone who used to know him deeply. It didn't have to signify anything beyond that. Sometimes, people return to your life just to remind you of how much you've both grown and changed over time.

Maybe they would meet again, or maybe they wouldn't. It wasn't necessary to plan for it or to worry about the outcome. What truly mattered was that this time, the past didn't tear him apart. It didn't overwhelm him with regret. Instead, it flowed through him like something familiar and forgivable.