Dance With Me

1

⚠️WARNING: this fanfic includes themes of self-harm, suicide, depression, abuse, mental health issues and things of that nature. If any of these things are triggering or make you uncomfortable than I suggest you do not read this book. ⚠️
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Yoongi's Pov

I open my eyes and see Namjoon standing above me still shaking my arm. I give him a sharp glare but he continues anyway.

"Do you have a death wish? I will fucking end you Kim Namjoon." I say with an annoyed tone.
"No, and I doubt you will. I'm your best friend, how could you ever hurt your best friend?" He says.

     I give him a go to hell look and throw my blankets off. I walk into our shared bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I have slightly puffy eyes that look sleep deprived and have messy hair. I run my hands over my face before turning on the shower and making sure it's the perfect temperature before stripping down and getting in.

     I wash my body lazily and get out. I dry my body off and then wrap the towel around myself and walk out and go into my room. I go to my dresser and grab a pair of black jeans along with a black long sleeved T-shirt to cover my scars, I pull them on quickly and grab a black hat and put it on along with my socks and shoes. Once I'm done I go out to the kitchen and grab an apple from the fridge, taking a bite from it as I go back to my room. I go over to my desk and start dropping the items I'll need for the day into my open backpack on the floor beside it, taking bites of my Apple as I go.

     I grab the journal in the middle of the desk and read over what I had written the night before. I seem to like writing most at night but still do it during the day to get more done or if I just get randomly inspired. I shut it and toss it in the bag as well and pick it up, setting my Apple on the desk. I zip it up and swing it over my shoulder and pick my Apple up once again. Before I leave my room I grab my earbuds and phone, shoving them into my pocket and go to the kitchen. I toss out my mostly eaten apple and see Namjoon standing by the door with a smile. I show half of one and we walk out to the hallway and go to the elevator. We go down to the main floor and start walking to class.

    We live in dorms at The University of Seoul. I'm only here because my dad wants me to be, he want me to have a "backup" plan or whatever. But he thinks I'm majoring in business when I'm actually majoring in music production. I've loved music since I was 12, and since then I've been trying to pursue it, without the help of my parents. It just makes me feel a bit better thinking that maybe I can make music that people can relate to, that people can feel comforted by and maybe even lessen their overall pain that they feel. It makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, I can make some small difference. Which probably sounds cliche and stupid but it really does make me feel a bit better.
     I've never particularly liked my self in all honesty. Well at least that's the nice and easy way of putting it. In reality I have a deep rooted hatred for myself. Somedays I just simply can't stand to look at myself.
     I really do appreciate my friend namjoon though. He's always been really nice and he's helped me a lot, unknowingly of course. He doesn't know what happened though when I was 15 with my parents and I'd like to keep it that way. He knows my mom abruptly left but he doesn't know why. No one needs to know about that. I feel slightly guilty for not telling him but I think it's for the best.
     I snap out of my daze when I notice we're walking up the steps of the music building. We push open the doors and go up the elevator to the third floor. We walk down the hall passing all the other departments and classes and go to the music production room. We take our seats which are sadly across the room from each other and set our things down. Everyone else crowds in and takes their seats as well and the professor walks in.
"Hello everyone, as you know, today we will be starting our collaborative projects today." He says with a smile on his face.