The Broken Dancer

Absence Like a Wound

Yoongi couldn't scrub the image from his mind.

No matter how many cigarettes he smoked outside his studio window, no matter how loud he turned up his mixes until the walls rattled with bass, the memory kept flashing before him: Jimin stumbling into the dressing room, makeup streaked down his cheeks, silk shirt half-buttoned and clinging to his skin, mask slipping but not fully fallen.

For days after that night, Yoongi carried the sickness in his chest like a stone he couldn't cough up. He thought of going back to the club, confronting Jimin's father, demanding answers - but then the rage nearly blinded him, and he had to grip the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white. He knew himself well enough: if he walked in there again so soon, he might not hold his temper. And if he lost control, Jimin would pay the price, not him.

So he stayed away.

At first, he told himself it was for Jimin's safety. Then he told himself it was for his own sanity. But deep down, Yoongi knew the real reason: he was ashamed. Ashamed that he'd been going to that club night after night, sipping drinks and pretending he didn't see the cracks forming in Jimin's smile. Ashamed that it took him this long to see what was happening behind those hidden doors.

Music should have been his refuge, but now even that betrayed him. Every melody he tried to shape fell flat, every beat felt hollow. The piano keys looked like teeth gnashing at him, daring him to keep playing. His home studio - usually his sanctuary - felt claustrophobic, walls closing in until he couldn't breathe. More than once he found himself slumped over his keyboard, staring at his reflection in the glossy black surface, and whispering into the emptiness: "Why didn't I stop it?"

The silence always answered back.

When his mother called from Daegu to remind him it had been months since his last visit, Yoongi didn't argue. Maybe a change of air would shake him out of this suffocating fog. He packed a bag with clothes he didn't care about and left his studio light burning, as if pretending he'd be back any minute.

On the train south, he pressed his forehead to the cool glass and tried not to think about smoky rooms and neon lights. Tried not to think about the way Jimin's hands trembled when he fastened his buttons. But every mile the train carried him away from Seoul, his chest ached heavier, as though he'd left something behind that he couldn't survive without.

Daegu smelled different than Seoul. Cleaner air, softer on the lungs, tinged with the faint sweetness of rice fields and earth. The station buzzed with familiar dialects, and for the first time in weeks, Yoongi felt something loosen in his chest. He hadn't realised how tightly he'd been wound until now.

His parents' house hadn't changed since his last visit - the same faded curtains, the same neat rows of shoes by the door. His mother opened it before he even knocked, as though she'd been waiting on the other side, and the look on her face nearly undid him. She didn't scold him for staying away so long. She just reached up with her small hands and cupped his cheeks like she had when he was a boy.

"You've lost weight," she murmured. "Are you eating properly?"

Yoongi forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm fine, Mum."

But her gaze lingered, sharp and knowing. Mothers always saw more than you wanted them to.

Dinner that night was loud, familiar - his father's booming laugh, the warmth of stew filling the air, the clink of chopsticks against bowls. Yoongi tried to let the noise drown out the echo of silence he'd left behind in Seoul. He tried to let the comfort of home seep into his bones, but instead it only made him feel more like an intruder. This house was a place of safety, love, and stability. And he couldn't stop thinking of a boy who had none of those things.