Seven Shots: BTS Oneshots

#2 | KNJ

His feet were already numb; he should have listened to the warning signs whispering in the back of his mind. But now, as he begins to fall, it feels less like a descent and more like plummeting into an abyss—a pit of darkness, an empty void. The realization sinks in that he may never rise again.

Yet, just before he hits the ground, arms reach out, breaking through the suffocating darkness, pulling him back from the brink. Amelia's hands grasp his arms, but her gaze avoids his, a painful reminder that she is not the same person he once knew. She no longer sees him with the warmth of shared memories; she’s turned away, unwilling to acknowledge the bond they once cherished.

The autumn leaves crunch beneath them, mirroring the fragile state of their hearts. With a fierce determination, she forces him to sit, her eyes conveying a message: don’t you dare talk back to me. He looks down, shame washing over him. Guilt seeps in—he cannot forget her unspoken emotions, nor can he bear the thought of becoming strangers. He wishes he could erase the instinct that compels him to read her like a book.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is a whisper, echoing the countless times strangers and acquaintances have asked the same. But this time, instead of masking his pain with a hollow smile, he closes his eyes, surrendering to the darkness that envelops him.

A single sob escapes his chest, raw and aching. Amelia wraps her arms around him, offering a refuge as he buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her familiar scent—a comforting blend of honey and strawberries. His tears seep through her shirt, staining her melanin skin, each droplet a silent testament to his heartbreak.

In that moment, he silently asks, “Why?” Why must he bear the weight of being bullied? Why must he stand apart as the only genius, forever misunderstood? When he believed Amelia would be his anchor, the one to grow old with, why must it be him left shattered?

She knows everything about him—his past, his present, his passions, his vulnerabilities. To Amelia, Namjoon is an open book, one whose pages she can read without effort. If only she would say the words he longs to hear: “Wait for me.”

When Amelia pulls his face back to meet hers, the warmth dissipates, and reality crashes in. The ache in his chest intensifies. His cheeks burn as he wipes away tears with the sleeve of his hoodie, feeling her shiver against the chill of November.

Was he just a fleeting joke to her?

Anxiety coils tightly in his stomach, but he knows he must confront this moment. It doesn’t matter if it breaks him forever; it matters that he says it. He grips the strap of his backpack, pulling it onto his lap.

He doesn’t need to search; he knows what lies within. The book—the catalyst of their love, the reason for their heartbreak. The book that made Amelia feel she could break him like a toy, and perhaps she was right. Doubts swirl in his mind as he holds the soft cover in his large hands.

He closes his eyes again and extends the book toward Amelia, gritting his teeth against the vulnerability of the act. She takes it without hesitation, and he feels a flicker of warmth return, but it quickly fades when he opens his eyes to a version of Amelia that feels like a stranger. Her face, painted with layers of makeup, her pink lips stained a bold scarlet—it all feels surreal, like a memory he can no longer grasp.

No, this isn’t right.

He wants to scream, to demand how she could do this to him after all the love he poured into their relationship. After every promise, every shared moment that felt infinite—how could she so easily walk away? You’re merciless.

He wants to shout it all, but instead, he slips on the mask of RM, the untouchable writer, the one who hides his true self from the world. The mask that shields his heart from further wounds. He knows he must end this; if she can abandon him, then perhaps she doesn’t understand the weight of his words.

“It’s signed, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says, his voice colder than the autumn air surrounding them. He turns to face her, determination hardening his gaze.

“It was amazing, Amelia, the time we spent together—” He chokes on the words, bitterness creeping in. “Of you being my girlfriend—” He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound mocking. “My fake girlfriend. Thanks, really. I won’t be crying for you anymore. In fact, I’m grateful you broke my heart. Broken hearts write the best stories.”

Amelia stands frozen, caught off guard by the venom in his words and the coldness in his demeanor. She has never witnessed this side of him, and perhaps that’s why he feels liberated. He doesn’t want to find out; not now, not ever.

As he walks away, he feels a strange sense of freedom. Maybe this was all she ever wanted—a puppet to extract stories from, a muse to inspire her without ever truly caring for him.

He doesn’t even glance back at Amelia, though she thinks he’s unaffected. In truth, his heart is singing, resonating in the crisp autumn air as he walks away, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trench coat. She can still make out the haunting melody.

“Only fools fall for you, only fools fall
Only fools do what I do, only fools fall.”

Amelia watches him go, longing lingering in her chest, realizing that she may never find someone as complex, as beautifully broken, as Namjoon. Yet she remains seated on the bench, the book clutched tightly in her hands. In this twisted game of hearts, she refuses to relent.