BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Our song✿⁠ (Min Yoongi/ Suga)

I wasn’t planning on being here tonight.
The last place I expected to end up was in an arena packed with tens of thousands of screaming fans, clutching a light stick like it was a lifeline.

The music is loud, the stage impossibly bright, and I can’t seem to stop my eyes from finding him.

Yoongi.

It’s been years. Years since the night we ended things, years since the last time I heard his voice outside of a speaker. Years since I helped him write the song that changed everything for both of us.

I thought I’d buried that part of my life, but when my friend surprised me with a ticket, curiosity won over common sense. Now I’m here, and there he is, only a few meters away — older, sharper, more sure of himself. But still Yoongi.

And then the opening notes start. Our song.

---

Two Years Ago

It was past midnight, and the studio was quiet except for the faint hum of equipment. I was curled up on the couch, watching him work.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up from the keyboard.

“You’re working,” I replied, smiling. “Big difference.”

He chuckled under his breath, tapping out a melody. “Come here.”

I slid into the chair beside him, and he handed me a pen. “Write something,” he murmured. “Something that feels like us.”

It was supposed to be a love song — warm, steady, the kind that feels like a hand fitting perfectly in yours. But somehow, in between the lines about holding on and never letting go, I slipped in an undertone of fear. Of knowing that even the best things can end.

When we finished, he leaned back, eyes scanning the lyrics. “It’s perfect,” he said softly. Then he looked at me, and for a second, the air felt too heavy to breathe.

That was the night we kissed for the first time — slow, lingering, like the song itself.

---

Now

The crowd sings the first chorus, but his voice is what cuts through me. He sounds the same and different all at once, like the song has aged with him.

And then it happens.

He looks into the crowd, scanning faces, and his eyes land on mine.

It’s like being caught in a spotlight. For a moment, he falters — just slightly — before continuing. But I can feel it. He’s not just singing to the crowd anymore.

He’s singing to me.

---

One Year Ago

The fight wasn’t explosive. It was worse — quiet, cold, the kind where you say too little instead of too much.

He’d been busy, more absent than present. I’d been tired of feeling like an afterthought.

“You’re asking for too much,” he said finally, his voice flat.

“I’m asking for you,” I replied.

Neither of us moved toward the other. Eventually, I walked out, the song we’d written together still playing in my head like a cruel joke.

---

Now

When the song ends, the lights dim, and the stage shifts for the next number. I tell myself I imagined it, that the look was nothing. But my phone buzzes.

Unknown number: Stay after the show. Side stage.

My pulse spikes.

---

The concert ends in a blur. I follow the instructions, nerves buzzing, until I’m led into a quieter hallway behind the stage. The air smells faintly of sweat, fabric softener, and something familiar I can’t quite name until I see him.

Yoongi is standing there, towel around his neck, hair damp from the show. He doesn’t speak right away — just looks at me like he’s trying to reconcile the memory with the reality.

“You came,” he says finally.

“My friend had an extra ticket,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Right.” His lips twitch in a humorless smile. “And it just happened to be tonight.”

I shrug, but my heart is pounding. “You sang our song.”

“I sing it every night.” He steps closer. “But it didn’t feel the same until now.”

There’s a long pause. I should say something — anything — but then his hand is brushing my arm, slow and tentative.

“I thought you hated me,” he says quietly.

“I tried,” I admit. “Didn’t work.”

His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. “Same.”

We stand there, the noise of the crew packing up fading into the background. Then he leans in, not quite kissing me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath.

“I don’t know if we can fix everything,” he murmurs.

“Me neither,” I say. “But maybe we can try.”

His eyes search mine for a moment longer before he smiles — small, but real. “Yeah. Maybe.”

When I leave that night, I don’t know what we are. But I know the door isn’t closed anymore. And that’s enough for now.

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Multiple updatesss😂🎀
You guys, guess who's finally done with schoollll🎀
Anywaysss, I'm sorry for not updating as much so I made it up!
They may be quite short but they are enjoyable trust me 🙃❤️.
Okay now,byeeee🫶