The Broken Dancer

Behind Closed Doors

Jimin sat in front of the mirror long after the last notes of music had faded from the club. His reflection stared back at him, eyes wide, tired, and haunted, framed by the carefully applied makeup that hid his bruises along his ribs and wrists. He had learned long ago how to hide pain behind beauty, and tonight, the mask felt heavier than ever.

Why do you keep coming back? he asked the mirror, though the answer wasn't meant for him. It was for the shadow he sensed in the corners of the club, the one he hadn't confronted since the night he'd stormed off.

Yoongi.

He wanted to apologise, but the words were lodged in his throat, sharp and fragile. How do you say sorry to someone who has watched you unravel without truly knowing what's broken inside you? How do you confess that you're still letting yourself be sold, still letting yourself be controlled, and yet... you can't stop dancing?

Jimin traced a finger along the edge of a bruise he'd nearly hidden beneath concealer. The mirror reflected the mask perfectly - a boy smiling, poised, untouchable - but he knew the cracks beneath it. The cracks that Yoongi had surely glimpsed, even from the shadows, had he been watching carefully enough.

He pressed his palm against the glass, fingers trembling. I want to tell you I'm sorry. I want to tell you I didn't mean it. I want... He swallowed hard. I want you to stop looking at me like you already know too much.

The room behind him was quiet, except for the faint hum of lights and the muted sounds from the club beyond the hidden doors. He flinched, suddenly aware of the barrier that seperated the stage from the rest of the world. Those doors held secrets he couldn't share, shadows he couldn't escape, and yet, somehow, Yoongi kept returning.

Why? he thought bitterly. Why do you care when I've made it clear I don't need anyone?

The thought made his chest ache. Perhaps Yoongi didn't understand the cage he lived in - perhaps he never could - but still, he came. Night after night, watching from the shadows, never speaking, never intervening.

Jimin wanted to approach him. Wanted to ask why. Wanted to apologise for pushing him away. But every step toward that shadow felt like stepping too close to the glass - fragile, sharp, impossible to cross without cutting himself.

He looked back at his reflection, the mask of the performer glinting under the dim bulbs. Beautiful, polished, perfect. And hollow.

Somewhere in the club, he imagined Yoongi watching, just out of reach, and for the first time, he wondered if he wanted that shadow closer.

Yoongi leaned against the wall near the back of the club, the muffled bass of the music vibrating through his chest. He didn't drink - not tonight - but the glass in his hand was still, untouched, a prop to make him look like he belonged. Like he could blend in.

And in a sense, he did. He was invisible to most of the crowd, a shadow lurking at the periphery, watching the boy who had captured his attention in ways that should have been impossible.

Every night since the collapse, he'd come back. Sometimes he told himself it was out of guilt, other nights it was simple curiousity - but deep down, he knew the truth: he couldn't stop watching. He couldn't leave Jimin alone to spiral further into the cage he could see but could not touch.

From this distance, Yoongi could watch without risk. He could see every tremor in Jimin's limbs as he stepped onto the stage, every subtle stiffening that spoke louder than words. The way Jimin smiled at the crowd, the perfect performance, the fluidity of movement that hid all the pain beneath it... it tore at Yoongi every time.