(Jungkook POV)
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Silence isn't the absence of sound, isn't the absence of voices.
It's the arid static of meaning, the laughter and cry on the tip of your tongue like a loaded gun with its truth as bullets -- your breath the trigger right before it all goes bang.
Perhaps it was foolish to believe a new language was formed between the spaces of our slow inhales, our hesitant exhales, a language that I thought I was fluent in.
But fluency occurs when you've known each word and I, do not think I've memorized each expression, each conjugation of your trembling tongue.
Because if I had, then I would've been aware by the white, front teeth that tug at your own lips, by the aversion of your lashes that beg to touch your cheeks, by the scribbles of calm fingers upon paper that feels the stabs of its own pen.
And it hurts,
that you're cutting our language, our own mother-tongue by the sound of your voice now,
replacing the silence that once formed between our breaths -- sighs as lyrics to a song we thought was sung -- calling out a faux name,
that isn't even mine.
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