Finding Me

It Happens Again.

Caught up in it all without the intention to, they are there to help, as it is their single purpose. No one looks at them as if they have their own mind, and they're okay with that, with being trapped in the whirlwind of stories, again and again, being the ones to fix other people's problems although no one sees theirs.

The sponges of the world, soaking in negativity and anything unpleasant so those around them can be happy although they themselves are drowning. It's a tiring job to be there for everyone, but it's rewarding. Until it isn't. Until they break down and finally feel.

Jungkook painted. He drew. He was an artist; art was what he loved. He didn't remember when that fact came to be, but he knew that it was completely true.

He was also a perfectionist, never satisfied with anything he made, tearing himself to shreds with doubt. On good days he would smile at his work, proud of his persistence, his utter passion. On bad days, he would rip his drawings apart or give up on paintings. That was one of those days, his wastebasket full of discarded sketches.

He sighed and threw his head back, laying on his bed, tears threatening to escape from his eyes, but he wouldn't let them. He never lets himself cry.

Jimin was a musician. He played various instruments, favoring none over the others. He wrote songs, songs that would hold meaning in sentences that contradicted with his clear, sugary voice. Songs that meant things.

Sometimes he would play and feel as if the whole world was in his hands as he plucked strings or pressed keys, feeling as if his thoughts could transcend language and time and space, and he was just himself. He was free.

Other times he felt as if he couldn't think, anxiety coursing through veins as he relaxed his grip on the polished wooden neck, seeing the oil collecting on the fingerboard, rosin dusting the strings and bridge, bow placed gently in his case. On those days he couldn't practice. On those days he was trapped.

That was one of those days, instruments put away as he put on shoes and a jacket, heading outside into the cool morning air, watching his feet as he moved along on the sidewalk.

Jungkook watched as the fan whirred above him in his room, in circles, air ventilating in the room, making his already cool skin even colder.

He shivered slightly, and then it wasn't so cold anymore.

"What are you doing in my room?"

Jimin shifted so he was lying on Jungkook's chest more comfortably. "Your mom let me in."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jimin nuzzling his cheek into the crook of Jungkook's neck, and the younger reveling in the warmth the older provided.

"Bad day?" Jungkook asked.

"Yeah," Jimin answered. "More like bad everything."

"I feel the same," Jungkook stated. "It's like, no matter how hard I try, nothing is working out the way I want it to."

"Me too," Jimin said. "It's as if I'm just stuck, unmoving, while everyone else is having the time of their lives."

Silence surrounded them once more, comfortable and welcome as they become consumed in thoughts of others, of the feeling of utter exhaustion seeping into their bones.

"You feel like that a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah."

They both felt like that.

That.

That.

It's the kind of That that tires you slowly, a That that builds up until you can't hold it in anymore, when you're sick of being kind, of being nice when the whole world steps all over your attempts at happiness.

A That in which you know you're trapped, for it is the essence of your nature to be someone people use, take advantage of. You are a sponge that soaks up the tears and frustrations of everyone else only to be looked down upon when you do the same.

You can't be sad or angry because you are known to be happy, because people can't stand knowing that you are human, like them. People don't like knowing that sometimes roles don't apply. They don't like knowing that you aren't a counselor or a computer, giving out answers and advice all the time.

And that's when That feeling arrives. It comes after the rage of being misunderstood. It comes in the form of a lingering doubt, settling into your skin and resting in your bones. It is the muddy water you soak up into your spongey pores as if on instinct.

And, as if on instinct, you let it out.

"Am I useless?" Jimin asked. "If I'm not being nice?" They had moved spots now, both boys resting their backs on the headboard of Jungkook's bed, legs stretched out in front of them.

"No. Not at all," Jungkook replied, turning to look at Jimin. "You're so much more than that."

Jimin rose his eyebrows, not believing him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he replied immediately, clutching on to Jimin's hand. "You're sweet and adorable and insightful."

"You're everything."

Jimin smiled. "Thanks."

"Am I just a douche if I'm not talented? If I don't try to help people as often as I do now?" Jungkook asked.

"No way, Kookie," Jimin replied. "You're beautiful, and nothing can change that."

"Thanks," he muttered as Jimin squeezed their joined hands.

The doubts remained, but were calmed for a little as the two boys sat hand in hand, leaning on to each other as if they only needed that.

That.

That.

That can be the overwhelming feeling of self doubt, of never meeting people's standards, of being trapped in a world where all people did was take and take and take.

But That can also be the simplicity of sitting in a room with someone you love, of noticing the tiniest things and valuing them, of feeling like you're enough. That can make you feel like you're no longer drowning in an ocean of worries and are instead floating gently in a stream of pleasant memories.

Jimin and Jungkook sat there, tired, spending their time caring for people who never even glanced at them.

But they know.

While some people take and take and take and give only bad things,

Others give and give and give their whole hearts to the world around them, to caring, and that's enough.