BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

After the Curtain Call✿⁠ (Park Jimin/Jimin)

The stage was empty, but it still breathed.

Rows of velvet seats glowed faintly under dim lights, the scent of dust and makeup hanging in the air. The audience was long gone, yet the space felt alive — as if the ghosts of applause still lingered in the walls.

She sat on the edge of the stage, swinging her legs gently, her reflection faint in the dark orchestra pit below. The play had ended two hours ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave.

The night was quiet, until soft footsteps echoed from backstage.

“Didn’t expect anyone to still be here,” a voice said, light and smooth, with a smile tucked between syllables.

She turned — and froze.

Park Jimin stood there, half out of costume, his shirt untucked and his hair damp with sweat. The remnants of eyeliner still framed his eyes, and the stage lights caught on the faint shimmer of glitter that refused to leave his skin.

“Oh— sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—”

He laughed softly, walking closer. “Relax. It’s your theater too tonight.”

He sat beside her, feet brushing the edge of the stage. Up close, he looked unreal — not like the perfect dancer she’d seen under the lights earlier, but something more human. His voice, his small smile — they felt closer.

“You stayed for the encore, right?” he asked.

She nodded. “You were… incredible.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, only sincerity — the kind that made her chest tighten.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, curious.

He looked out at the empty seats. “I always stay after shows. I like to thank the stage.”

“The stage?”

“Yeah.” He smiled at her bewilderment. “It holds me up when I fall, you know? It deserves gratitude.”

She couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You’re poetic.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just sentimental.”

---

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Somewhere above, the sound of a loose lightbulb flickered.

He reached for a bottle of water from the floor, offering it to her. “You look like you’ve been thinking about something heavy.”

She hesitated, then took a sip. “Maybe I have. Watching people chase their dreams makes you question your own.”

Jimin’s expression softened. “And what’s yours?”

She exhaled. “Used to be to dance. I trained for years. But life… shifted.”

He nodded slowly, not with pity, but understanding. “You stopped?”

“Yeah. It felt like I wasn’t good enough.”

There it was — the quiet truth that had followed her like a shadow.

He looked at her then, really looked. “You know,” he said, “most people don’t quit because they can’t dance. They quit because they forget how to love it through the pain.”

His words hit her like music — soft but certain.

She met his eyes. “Do you ever forget to love it?”

“Every week,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But then I remember the first time I stepped on stage — how it felt like breathing for the first time. That memory keeps me here.”

He stretched his legs out, glancing at her with a small grin. “Want to try it again?”

“What?”

“Dancing.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Why not?”

He hopped off the stage, extending a hand toward her. “The lights are ours tonight.”

---

She hesitated, heart pounding. But something about him — the easy confidence, the invitation in his smile — made her want to say yes.

She took his hand.

The floorboards creaked as they stood together in the center of the stage. Jimin dimmed the main lights, leaving only a single spotlight.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered.

She obeyed.

He moved closer, and she felt it — the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the faint brush of his fingertips as he guided her hands.

“No steps,” he murmured. “Just movement. Let the air tell you where to go.”

It sounded silly, but when she let go, her body remembered — muscle memory blooming like spring after a long winter. She spun, slow at first, then faster. The air shifted, her hair catching the light.

When she opened her eyes, Jimin was smiling — watching her as if she’d just brought color back into the room.

“See?” he said softly. “Still a dancer.”

Her breath came uneven, but she was laughing — real, full, alive. “You make it sound easy.”

He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “It’s only hard when you dance for others. Easier when you dance for yourself.”

---

They danced until the music in their heads faded, until the city lights outside dimmed to a sleepy glow.

Jimin sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the empty seats. “I think,” he said quietly, “we all perform for someone — until we realize the best audience is the one inside us.”

She nodded, still catching her breath. “You talk like a philosopher.”

He smiled. “Only after midnight.”

---

When she finally gathered her things to leave, he was still sitting on the stage, chin resting on his knee.

“Hey,” she said, turning back. “Thank you. For… reminding me.”

He smiled faintly. “Don’t thank me. Just promise you won’t stop dancing — even if no one’s watching.”

“I promise.”

As she walked toward the exit, his voice floated softly behind her — not loud enough to echo, just enough to linger.

“Next time you come,” he said, “save me a dance.”

---

A week later, she passed by the theater again.
The posters had changed, the lights had shifted — but under the marquee, taped to the glass door, was a small folded note.

In neat handwriting, it read:

" For the dancer who remembered."
— J