BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

One liter of tears✿⁠(Kim Seokjin/Jin)

Chapter 4 – The Slow Fade

By autumn the days had shortened; the air carried the smell of damp leaves and chalk dust.
Y/n moved a little slower now. Sometimes her feet tangled when she rushed between classes, sometimes her hand slipped when she reached for a notebook. Small things, but they built a wall between who she used to be and who she was becoming.

The doctors called it progression.
She called it learning how to live differently.

At first, her friends didn’t know what to say. They offered help too quickly or avoided her gaze altogether. Only Seokjin stayed the same. He still met her by the vending machines, still joked about cafeteria food, still walked her home when the corridors felt too long.

One afternoon, the bell rang and the classroom emptied, leaving just the two of them. Sunlight spilled through the windows, painting the desks gold. Y/n was trying to tie her shoelace; her fingers wouldn’t obey.

“Don’t look,” she muttered, laughing to hide her frustration.

Seokjin crouched down anyway, quietly looping the lace for her.
“You always rush ahead,” he said.
“Someone has to.”
He tied a neat bow, stood, and handed her the strap of her bag. “Then I’ll just walk beside you until you slow down again.”

Outside, the wind carried the scent of rain. They walked in silence until they reached the bus stop. Y/n leaned against the post, watching the trees bend and shimmer.
“Do you ever get scared?” she asked.
Seokjin looked at her, thoughtful. “All the time. But fear doesn’t mean we stop living.”

At home, Y/n began physical therapy—gentle stretches, breathing, small victories. Her mother marked each improvement on the calendar, tiny circles of hope. Her father told her stories from his youth, pretending not to notice the exhaustion in her eyes.

Sometimes, when the nights grew too quiet, Y/n wrote letters she never sent: one to her future self, one to her family, and one to Seokjin. She kept them folded between the pages of her notebook, safe and secret.

One evening he found her on the school rooftop, watching the city lights flicker on.
“Skipping therapy?” he teased.
“Just practicing freedom,” she replied, smiling faintly.

He laughed, sat beside her, and together they watched the horizon fade into indigo.

“I used to think the world was huge,” Y/n whispered. “Now it feels… smaller. But warmer too.”
Seokjin nodded. “Maybe that’s what growing up really is—seeing less, feeling more.”

The wind brushed through their hair. Below them, life went on—cars moving, laughter echoing, the world unaware of their small moment above it all.

For the first time in weeks, Y/n felt weightless.
The illness was still there, a quiet rhythm beneath her skin, but it didn’t own her. Not tonight. Tonight she belonged to the sky and the boy who refused to let her fade unnoticed.