BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Monochrome Blue✿ (Kim Taehyung/Tae)

Rain had a way of softening the city.
It blurred the neon lights into watercolor smears, slowed traffic into gentle hums, and turned every streetlight into a halo.

She ducked under the awning of a small jazz café, shaking droplets from her umbrella. The sign above the door flickered faintly — Blue Hour.

She hadn’t planned to stop, but the music drifting through the cracked door made her pause. A low trumpet, a steady bass line, and a voice — deep, rich, rough around the edges like velvet that had lived too many nights.

She stepped inside.

The air was warm, thick with espresso and rain-soaked air. The stage was small, barely lit, but in the center stood a man with a trumpet resting at his side. He wasn’t performing — just watching the room, as if memorizing it.

Kim Taehyung.

He wore a dark suit with the tie undone, sleeves rolled halfway. His gaze lingered on the steam rising from his coffee, not the crowd. When the saxophonist finished, he lifted his trumpet and played a single note — low and soft enough to hush the room.

It wasn’t music meant for applause. It was music meant to be felt.

---

She found herself at the bar, hands curled around a warm cup, eyes on him. The bartender leaned over with a knowing smile.

“First time here?”

She nodded.

“Taehyung’s playing tonight,” he said. “He doesn’t come often — only when he feels like it.”

That made her curious. “Feels like it?”

The bartender chuckled. “He’s a photographer, mostly. Plays when he can’t sleep.”

When he can’t sleep. The words fit him perfectly.

---

After the set ended, the crowd thinned. Taehyung lingered on stage, fingers brushing his trumpet absentmindedly. When his eyes lifted, they caught hers.

It wasn’t a stare — more like recognition. As if he already knew her from somewhere the world couldn’t name.

He walked over slowly, the faintest smile touching his lips.

“You stayed,” he said, voice low, deep, unhurried.

She blinked. “Was I supposed to leave?”

He laughed softly. “Most people do when the music stops.”

“Maybe I wanted to hear the silence, too.”

That made his smile widen just a little. “Then you understand jazz.”

---

He sat beside her, resting the trumpet on the counter.

“Do you always play here?” she asked.

“Not always. Just when my camera runs out of words.”

She tilted her head. “You take photos?”

“Old film,” he said, tapping the camera slung across his chest. It looked vintage — metal edges worn smooth, a small sticker of a blue crescent moon on the side. “I like how film forgets the perfect things and remembers the beautiful ones.”

“That sounds like a poem.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Maybe everything is, if you slow down long enough.”

---

They talked for hours. About music, about Seoul’s sleepless pulse, about the way rain changes color under streetlights.
He spoke like someone who didn’t need to impress — every word measured, but never cold.

At some point, he asked, “Do you believe in timing?”

“Timing?”

He nodded. “How some people meet exactly when they’re supposed to — not a second earlier, not a second late.”

She hesitated. “I want to.”

He smiled faintly, eyes drifting to the rain outside. “Then maybe you already do.”

---

The night deepened. The band packed up. The lights dimmed to a sleepy amber.

When she stood to leave, Taehyung handed her something small — a Polaroid.

It was a photo of the café window, rain trickling down in streaks, lights bleeding into blue and gold.

On the back, in neat handwriting:

> Some nights don’t ask for meaning. They just want to be remembered.

She looked up, but he was already putting his trumpet away.

“Do you always give photos to strangers?” she teased.

He smirked. “Only the ones who listen to silence.”

---

She left the café, the rain easing to a drizzle.

When she looked back through the glass, he was still there — leaning against the counter, camera in hand, watching her through the reflection.

He lifted the viewfinder, clicked once, and smiled.

---

Days passed. Then weeks.

One Sunday evening, she found herself walking past Blue Hour again. The door was open, but no music spilled out — only the faint smell of coffee and film chemicals.

Inside, Taehyung sat at a corner table, photographs spread out before him. He looked up when she entered.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You came back.”

“You never told me you worked here.”

“I don’t,” he said, grinning. “But the owner lets me use the darkroom. It’s quiet.”

She glanced at the photos — blurred streetlights, faces half-lit, reflections caught in rain puddles. Every image looked like it was breathing.

“Do you ever take pictures of people?” she asked.

He hesitated, then held up a small print.

It was her. That night at the window — umbrella in hand, eyes lifted toward the rain.

Her breath caught. “You took this?”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “You looked like the kind of moment that doesn’t come twice.”

She stared at the photo, then at him. “Do you always say things like that?”

He chuckled. “Only when I mean them.”

---

They spent the evening developing photos, hands brushing, laughter echoing softly against the tiled walls.
Every time she looked up, Taehyung’s gaze was calm, patient — like a lens capturing something he didn’t want to rush.

When it was time to leave, he walked her to the door. The rain had stopped, the city glistening in quiet reflection.

Before she stepped out, he slipped a photo into her pocket.

“Open it later,” he said.

---

That night, under the glow of her bedside lamp, she unfolded it.

It was another picture — her hands holding the first Polaroid, the café light bathing her in gold.

Beneath it, written in soft ink:

> You were the color I didn’t know my film was missing.