Everyone belongs with their own. | Min Yoongi FF (Being updated)

Firey Feelings |3|

Song of the chapter - Film out (BTS)

The soft wail of my daughter pierced the quiet stale air of the apartment. I turned to the direction of the heart wrenching noise emitted by such a small being, my body aching from too many nights of broken sleep and too few moments to myself. Cradling the five-month-old against my chest, I rocked gently, murmuring soothing words that I barely heard myself. The baby's cries lessened to small hiccups as she latched on to feed, my tired eyes watching the shadows move across the ceiling. I love my daughter deeply, but in that moment, love felt heavier than joy. 

(Third Person point of view. This is to show how lonely Y/n feels.)

She rested her head against the back of the couch, blinking through the sting of tears she refused to let fall. There was no one else to hold her baby, no one to take the early morning shift or whisper, "Go back to sleep my love, I've got this." The silence in the house was deafening between cries, a constant reminder that she was doing this alone. Every feed, every bottle, every change, every night of pacing the floor was hers and hers alone. And while everyone praised her strength, no one stayed long enough to see how tired she truly was.

As the baby drifted back into sleep, her tiny hand resting against her mother's chest, the woman let out a quiet sigh. She looked down at the soft, perfect face and felt a wave of guilt for wishing it were different — for wanting just one night off, one uninterrupted hour of rest. She wasn't sure what hurt more: the exhaustion or the loneliness that clung to her like a second skin. All she wanted was to feel seen, held, and reminded that she was more than just a body keeping another alive. But for now, she whispered "I've got you," as if saying it aloud made it more true — for both of them.

Min-Ches is 5 months old and her father doesn't even know she exists. She's too young to realize she doesn't have a father. 

Sometimes, late at night when the house is quiet and the baby is finally asleep, she finds herself thinking about him — her baby's father. He was the kind of man who walked into a room and pulled all the air with him. Charisma wasn't even the word; it was gravity. The lead guitarist of a well-known touring band, always in motion, always chasing stages and stadium lights. When they met, it was a whirlwind of loud nights, soft mornings, and a kind of love that burned more than it warmed. She knew it couldn't last — not really — but that didn't stop her from falling hard, or from believing, maybe foolishly, that he might stay.

He had warned her, in his way. Told her about the tours booked two years in advance, the record label breathing down his neck, the lack of permanence in his world. She remembered his exact words: "I'm not built for roots, babe." Still, in the spaces between shows, in the rare silences of hotel rooms and early morning phone calls, it had felt real. And then one day, it just ended. No blowout, no betrayal, just distance that stretched too long and a phone that stopped ringing. She didn't tell him she was pregnant. Partly because she didn't know how, and partly because she didn't want to be the woman who asked a man to choose between his dreams and a child he never planned.

There are moments when she thinks about what it would be like to tell him. To send a letter, an email, something short and sharp: You have a daughter. But then she sees the baby sleeping on her chest, tiny and unaware of the complicated world outside her safe little bubble, and she keeps the silence. He's in another city every week, photographed in magazines, tagged in videos, smiling and shining in a world that has no room for diapers and 2 a.m. feedings. He wouldn't know how to hold this life, not the way it demands to be held.

Still, there's grief in it — not just for the relationship that ended, but for the father her daughter will never know. Not because he died, not because he was cruel, but because timing and ambition carved a canyon between them. She wonders what kind of dad he would've been if life had been different. Would he have played guitar lullabies for their daughter? Would he have stayed up with her when colic kept them both awake? It's a kind of mourning no one talks about — grieving a future that never stood a chance.