(Jimin POV)
"Come downstairs!"
I flinched, hearing my father's voice shake through my ears. The murmur of my mother followed somewhere and I rose to my feet, walking down the stairs quickly -- venturing to conceal the fact my bones were shivering in fear.
The air felt frigid as I stepped into the living room. The beige walls containing framed photos of me smiling throughout the years stared back at me, asking me why I wasn't doing the same anymore.
"Yes?" I cleared my throat, standing five steps away from where my father and mother sat. My father was still dressed in a button down shirt and dress pants, tie loosened hastily.
If I stepped closer and traced my fingers down his face, I would feel the deepening crevices of wrinkles forming and skin thinning. I knew the exact curve around his lips that would turn rough because in this same seat, twelve years ago, I curled up in his lap and heard him sing a lullaby in an effort to lull me to sleep.
Yet twelve years later, I can barely look him in the eyes.
I shifted my gaze to my mother, seeking asylum.
Yet her tired eyes no longer felt warm. Like the shiny crystals and minerals in rocks before they harden, her orbs used to be the only mirror in the world I look into and not see the misery of my own face.
I turned my stare towards my own hands, a numbness starting to shiver through my fingers.
"Your school called me," my father spoke and I could sense the forced restraint on keeping his volume low, "and they told me you got into a fight today."
"Jimin, you've never done this before s--"
"Be quiet, I'm speaking to him," my father warned my mother. I peeked at her face, a sinking rock falling to the pits of my stomach.
My father shifted, his weight screeching against the leather of his sofa. He leaned forward, clenching his jaw. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
I met his eyes, repeating a mantra to myself;
it's okay, it's okay, it's okay
it's okay, it's okay,
it's okay,
it's okay
"Why did you do it?"
My throat was dry and I gulped, licking my lips to wetten them. "Yoongi was bullying someone."
"And how's that supposed to be your problem?"
I blinked at him, heat spreading to my neck and lower back. "It's everyone's problem, dad."
"It's not a real problem."
"Yes, it is. The real problem is that everyone thinks it's not their problem."
He squinted his eyes at me, jabbing a finger to my stomach. "It's the staff's problem. Why didn't you just tell the teachers, huh?" His voice rose.
I looked down again, blinking quickly at the floor to scare back my tears, begging them to not come out.
"Answer me, Jimin!" I flinched, stepping two steps back, as if his loud voice was too much to be near.
Because I'm scared.
"Jimin."
Because I'm tired.
