The Broken Dancer

Hairline Fractures

The chamber breathed with the same golden hush as every night before. But Jimin knew it the moment he stepped inside: the silence wasn't what it used to be.

Not the cutting blade of the early nights. Not the fragile shell of last night's aftermath.

Tonight it felt alive. Waiting.

He hated that.

He hated that he could feel it, that he could sense Yoongi's presence differently now - as though the man wasn't just another bidder, another shadow behind the velvet chair, but something steady and unshakable.

And he hated most of all the way a part of him longed for it.

He sat down too quickly, limbs stiff with defiance. If he could fold himself into routine, maybe he could erase the difference. His motions were automatic: smoothing his shirt, tucking his hands into his lap, fixing his gaze on the floorboards instead of the man across the room.

Yoongi didn't fill the silence this time. He didn't need to. It was already shifting, reshaping itself around them.

Minutes stretched. The lamps hummed. The velvet drapes swallowed sound.

And then Yoongi's voice came, low and unhurried. "You don't eat much, do you?"

The question startled Jimin. His head snapped up before he could stop himself. "What?"

Yoongi didn't flinch at the sharpness. His expression was unreadable, his tone steady. "The trays. They go untouched. Every night."

Jimin's stomach twisted. His mask slammed down, words spilling out like a shield.

"Maybe I don't like what they bring."

But Yoongi didn't push. He only hummed, quiet acknowledgment, letting the statement sit as though it were enough.

Jimin clenched his fists. Why wasn't he arguing? Why wasn't he prying? He turned his face away, but the question lingered, buzzing in his chest.

Before he could stop himself, the truth slipped out - softer, bitter.

"I can't eat before... before them."

The words hung heavy in the air. Jimin's breath caught. His eyes widened. What have I done?

He hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't meant to let that piece of himself slip free. He wanted to claw it back, to erase it from the air before it could be used against him. His chest tightened, shame pooling hot and thick in his throat.

He waited for Yoongi's reaction - for judgment, or pity, or worse, that awful silence of disgust.

But Yoongi only nodded once, slow. "That makes sense."

Jimin blinked, startled. "What?"

"It makes sense," Yoongi repeated, calm as stone. "Your body protects itself. That's not weakness. It's survival."

The words landed like water on scorched earth - dangerous, soothing, unwelcome. Jimin's chest ached, his mask trembling. He turned away sharply, nails digging into his palms.

"Don't... don't talk like you know me."

Yoongi didn't apologise. He didn't argue. He only leaned back in his chair, gaze steady.

But Jimin could feel it. The fracture. The hairline crack he had just opened himself.

The night stretched on.

They drifted back into silence, but it wasn't the same as before. Jimin's thoughts spun in restless circles. He hated that he'd spoken. Hated how easily the words had slipped through.