When the stars align

Whispers on My Cheek

Taehyung sat motionless on the edge of their bed, his fingers curled into the sheets as if the fabric could somehow anchor him in this moment—this reality that felt both too fragile and too loud. Her absence echoed through the room, wrapped around the corners like an old melody he couldn't quite hum anymore. The distant clatter of utensils in the kitchen created a cocoon of domestic stillness, but inside him, a storm raged.

His eyes were red, still wet from the tears he hadn't meant to shed. He had tried to hold them back—tried to be strong, to carry the weight alone like he always did. But this room, so full of her in every corner, cracked him open without asking.

And then came the voice.

"Taehyung-ah?" his mother called softly from outside the room, her voice like a warm knock against the door of his grief.

His head shot up, breath catching. Panic flashed across his face as he scrambled to his feet. With hurried steps, he rushed to the washroom, locking the door behind him just as it creaked open.

He turned on the tap, and water gushed loudly into the sink. Cold, stinging water splashed onto his skin as he scrubbed his face with trembling hands, rubbing away the tears that had etched silent paths down his cheeks.

You're fine. Smile. Just smile.

He stared at himself in the mirror. His lashes were still damp, and the hollows beneath his eyes couldn't lie. But he forced a wide smile anyway—the same one he wore in photoshoots, the one that made people believe everything was always okay.

He stepped out just in time.

His mother stood there, eyes kind, her head tilted slightly. She said nothing about his face or the shadow in his eyes.

"Come, son," she said gently. "Everyone's waiting for dinner."

He nodded quickly, voice tight but controlled. "Mm... Eomma, I'm coming."

They walked together to the dining table, where the golden glow of the overhead lights fell softly on the scene before him. The two cribs had been pulled near the table, and the babies lay inside, wrapped like tiny dumplings in pastel blankets, their faces peaceful and still.

The table was full—his parents on one side, San's parents on the other, and in the centre sat San, adjusting the cushion behind her back. Her hair was loose today, falling in waves over her shoulder, and her eyes looked up at him as he entered.

He sat down beside her, quietly.

Plates were passed, and food was served. The warm aroma of food filled the room. San glanced at each dish in front of her, eyes pausing on the neatly arranged plates. She noticed—everything was vegetarian. Not just her plate, but everyone's. 

Her gaze lingered on his plate for a second too long, but she said nothing. She folded the thought into her mind and tucked it away.