BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Again?✿⁠ (Kim Seokjin/Jin)

The first time I meet him, I don't believe him.

We're in the park, late autumn. The leaves are orange and gold, scattered across the grass like pieces of fire. I'm sketching on a bench when a shadow falls over me.

"Excuse me," he says, voice warm and polite. "Do you mind if I sit here? I only have one day."

I laugh, thinking it's some kind of joke, but he doesn't laugh with me. His eyes are deep brown, serious but soft, like he's carrying something too heavy for one person.

"One day for what?" I ask.

"To see you," he says simply.

---

By the end of that day, I'm not laughing anymore.

He tells me he's a traveler - not the kind that needs a passport, but the kind who slips through years the way other people walk through doorways. The rules are strange: he can only return to the same person one day every year, and for him, no time passes between visits.

It sounds impossible. It should be impossible. But when I wake the next morning, he's gone, and the spot beside me in the grass is untouched, like he'd never been there at all.

---

Year Two

I don't expect him to come back. But he does - same brown eyes, same warm smile, same age. I'm a year older.

"You look different," he says, and there's a faint sadness in his voice.

"You don't," I reply.

We spend the day walking by the river, trading stories. I tell him about my job, the book I'm reading, the little things that have changed in my life. He tells me... not much. He can't, he says. It might change the future.

At sunset, he takes my hand. "I'm glad you're still here."

Something in my chest twists, and I realize I've been waiting for this all year without admitting it.

---

Year Four

I skip Year Three. Not on purpose - I'm sick, in the hospital. I think I've lost him for good. But the next year, he finds me sitting on the same bench where we first met.

"You weren't here last year," he says quietly.

"I couldn't be," I reply.

We talk less this time, just sit together, his hand resting over mine like it's been there forever. I catch him watching me sometimes, like he's memorizing my face.

Before he leaves, he kisses my cheek. It's barely there, but it lingers long after he's gone.

---

Year Six

I've stopped dating other people. It's not a decision I made consciously - it's just that no one else compares.

When he arrives this year, I notice something new: the way his gaze lingers on my lips, the way his thumb strokes my palm when we hold hands.

We end up in my apartment, curled on the couch. There's music playing - an old love song from the record player - and the rain outside makes everything feel closer, softer.

"Do you ever wish you could stay?" I ask.

"Every time," he says, and then he kisses me.

It's not hesitant like the cheek kiss from before. It's slow, deep, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. I can feel the restraint in him, like he wants more but is afraid of what it means.

We don't go all the way that night, but we get close enough that when he finally pulls back, my heart is racing and my lips are swollen.

"I don't want this to hurt you," he murmurs.

"It already does," I whisper.

---

Year Nine

I'm thirty now. He still looks twenty-seven.

This time, there's no pretense. The moment we see each other, it's like magnets pulling together. We spend the day in my apartment, the curtains drawn, talking and laughing until words don't feel like enough.

When he kisses me, it's hungrier than before, years of holding back collapsing into the space between us. His hands are warm against my skin, his mouth moving with mine in a way that makes it impossible to think about time or rules.

We end up tangled in my sheets, his body pressed against mine, his breath hot in my ear. It's slow, unhurried, like we both know we have to make every second count.

After, we lie together, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"I wish I could see you tomorrow," he says.

"I wish I could see you yesterday," I reply.

---

Year Twelve

I'm older now. There are faint lines around my eyes, a few silver strands in my hair. He notices, but not in a way that makes me feel less beautiful.

"You're still you," he says, brushing my hair back.

"And you're still perfect," I reply, though it stings a little. He hasn't changed at all.

That night, we sit on the same park bench where we met, the autumn leaves scattered at our feet. I take his hand and squeeze it.

"One day, you'll come back, and I won't be here," I say quietly.

He doesn't deny it.

"I'll still come," he says. "Even if you're not."

---

Year Fifteen

It feels different this time. He's quieter, more watchful. I'm not as quick on my feet anymore, and we spend most of the day just talking in my living room, drinking tea.

When he leaves, he holds me a little longer, his face buried in my hair.

"I'll see you next year," he says, but his voice trembles just slightly.

---

I don't know how many more years we have left. I don't know if I'll ever see him outside of these single days. But every time I hear that old love song, I close my eyes and remember his hand in mine, his voice saying my name, and the way it feels to have a lifetime of love condensed into twenty-four hours.

And I hope, wherever - or whenever - he is, he's remembering too.