Seven Shots: BTS Oneshots

#3 | PJM

— He remembers it, like a well-worn novel, each page dog-eared by the passage of time.

Her auburn hair dances with the wind, each strand illuminated by the moonlight that spills through the gaps when she'd lay her head in his lap. Those hazel eyes, like shimmering jewels, gazed up at the canvas of the night sky painted with the deep hues of black, gray, and silver stardust, brimming with curiosity and wonder.

He recalls how her hands fit perfectly within his, a warm puzzle piece in a world that often felt too cold. Her fingertips caressed his scalp during their passionate kisses, igniting a fire within him that he never knew existed. Her lips—soft and delicate—felt like home, as if they were destined to intertwine.

But now, all that exists are echoes in his mind, whispers of a love that lingers like the fading scent of perfume. In the journal he keeps, where words become memories, and in the rhythm of his heart, where her remnants pulse with every beat. She haunts his dreams and nightmares alike.

She changed him, then vanished like a shooting star, leaving Park Jimin standing in the darkness, helpless as she toyed with his heart. She awakened a love within him that he had long forgotten, a feeling that fluttered in his chest like a fragile butterfly.

The rough texture of the leather-bound book pulls Jimin back to the present. He finds himself in her room, a canvas painted in soft, innocent white. The white bed, white sheets, and walls adorned with constellations echo her obsession with purity, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his heart.

Questions whirl around him like autumn leaves, and he senses that the answers lie within these pages. What could she have written? Whatever it is, he yearns to know, for Grace had a way with words that spun memories into enchanting tales. Her voice, sweet and soothing, wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. He wishes he could hear her again, for she spoke as if crafting a masterpiece.

He recalls a day on the rooftop, where the world melted away, leaving just the two of them under the twilight sky. Grace shared her belief that nights were more enchanting than days, claiming the moon and stars whispered secrets only they could hear. That was what captivated him—her thoughts spun from stardust and dreams.

"You know, you make stories sound like art," he had said, smiling as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting her skin in golden hues. "Coming from you, it truly is an art. I can picture everything you say with my eyes closed."

Her laughter had been a melody that echoed in his soul, and she had responded, "You're the artist, Jimin. You sing, you dance, you paint. You create beauty."

With shyness dancing in his veins, he leaned in to capture the sweetness of her lips—those golden petals that had become his everything.

But now, those moments linger only in memory, like fireflies trapped in a jar. He opens the leather cover of the book, rough like the reality that greets him each time he opens his eyes to the emptiness where Grace once stood.

Memories, gone.

Those words echo in his mind as his fingers skim over the pages, trembling as if they might shatter his already fractured heart. Yet, he sighs and flips through the pages, desperation urging him on.

Death is inevitable.

I wish I could say this to you, but I can already picture you pouting like a child. You’re beautiful in every way.

I’m starting to write this because I know death is inevitable. It arrives uninvited, stealing souls away, leaving sorrow in its wake. If I’m going to die, I want to spare you the pain of losing someone you love. So if you’re reading this after I’m gone, please don’t cry, Jimin.

I might still linger in the whispers of the wind around you or in the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. I’ll be there, watching you break down, and it will hurt me, so please—live your life.

Read this, and let’s remember all our good times.

Tears threaten to spill from his eyes. Why would she write about dying? Why would she even contemplate leaving him? Why would time dare to end? His heart aches as he turns to the next page, yearning for answers.

The time we met is a fire that burns in my mind. You wore a white dress shirt and tailored trousers. I knew then that white would become my favorite color.

I don’t know what captivated me more—the swirling passion in your eyes, your skin shimmering in the dim lights of the office, the innocence of your face, the rings that adorned your fingers, or the pink of your lips. Perhaps it was all of you.

My focus was a gift. If I hadn’t been an observer, we might not have collided. Your hands wouldn’t have wrapped around my waist, and I wouldn’t have pressed my head to your chest, listening to a heartbeat that remains engraved in my memory—an old symphony.

We met in the sunlight, yet my heart believes we met in the twilight between day and night—a realm crafted just for us and our love.

When I first saw you, I didn’t just see a handsome face or an angel on Earth; I glimpsed my future. Our future.

Tears stream down his cheeks like a river of sorrow, her beautiful words cutting deep. With trembling hands, he turns the page, his eyes flickering as if a candle is being lit to illuminate his darkened world.

I always knew no one could be perfect. I realized early on that no matter how hard I tried, there would always be differences in our efforts. So I stopped chasing perfection.

After we collided that fateful day, I noticed you more and more. You were always near, your presence wrapping around me like a warm blanket as I worked. I remember you singing quietly in the park, your voice a sweet serenade. You taught me that perfection isn’t a destination; it’s a journey.

After I accidentally knocked my can of Sprite onto you, we became friends. I still can’t believe you’re so kind. Any other stranger might have demanded recompense for their Gucci shirt, but you—the moonlight in my darkest nights—apologized instead. You asked if I was okay, and that’s when I knew you were an angel.

I fell for an angel.

Jimin flips through the pages, each filled with memories now tethered to the past. They are a collection of “was,” “could,” and “would”—words that once breathed life into their love. Because Grace is no longer with him. Tears flow like a gentle rain as he sits there, his cold hands open for her embrace, wishing she would return to warm them.

Memories are far better than reality.

It etches itself into his mind, as if Grace has inked it on the last page of the book. Her scent still clings to the pages, the only thing his heart recognizes as his vision blurs with tears. He loathes the stark white of this room as much as he once cherished it. Grace had infused that color with meaning, but now it feels hollow.

White had once symbolized purity, hope, and love; now it is a canvas painted with sorrow and the weight of a lifetime without her. Yet, it also serves as a reminder of the moments they shared—their laughter, their love, their dreams, now forever etched in the silence that surrounds him.