Jungkook sat on his couch, fingers swiping across his phone, fully aware of your presence behind him. You stood motionless, a silent sentinel, your stillness as unyielding as stone. He didn’t speak, the weight of shame and discomfort chaining his tongue, stifling any attempt at conversation. The air between you was thick with unspoken truths, but even in this heavy silence, Jungkook knew you were now a permanent fixture in his life. Your constant presence, once unthinkable, had woven itself into the fabric of his daily routine, a shadow he could neither shake nor ignore.

He wasn’t naive. Jungkook understood the reality of his world, shaped by the relentless churn of the internet. He saw the comments, read the posts, and felt the sting of words hurled at him from faceless strangers. To millions, he was an idol, a beacon of talent and charm, adored with a fervor that bordered on worship. But fame was a double-edged sword, and for every fan who lifted him up, there was another voice tearing him down. The haters were merciless, their words sharp and deliberate, slicing through the armor he tried to wear. “Overrated,” they called him. “Fake.” “Arrogant.” He scrolled past these barbs, his face a mask of indifference, but each one lodged in his heart like a splinter, too small to kill but too deep to ignore.

He told himself he was fine, that he could handle it. He was Jungkook, after all—global superstar, performer extraordinaire, untouchable. But the truth was heavier than the image he projected. The cruel words festered, their poison seeping into his thoughts when the cameras were off and the crowds were gone. He could smile for the world, but alone, in the quiet of his home, the weight of those judgments pressed down on him. Fame had a price, and for Jungkook, it was the erosion of the fearless young man he once was. The confidence that had carried him through sold-out stadiums now faltered at the thought of stepping outside his door.

The world beyond his walls felt like a minefield. Every glance from a stranger, every whispered conversation in a crowd, seemed laced with potential judgment. The paranoia was subtle but relentless, creeping into his mind until leaving his house felt like an act of bravery he could no longer muster. His home became his sanctuary, a fortress where he could control the chaos, where the routine of familiar spaces offered a fragile sense of peace. But even that peace came at a cost, and you were the embodiment of it—a bodyguard, a protector, a constant reminder that safety now required vigilance.

You weren’t just a presence; you were a necessity, hired to shield him from the dangers that fame had invited. The threats weren’t always physical—though the letters, the obsessive fans, and the occasional stalker lingered in his mind—but the emotional toll was just as real. Your role was to stand between him and the world, a barrier against the unpredictability that haunted him. Yet, your silent watchfulness also underscored the reality he couldn’t escape: his life was no longer his own. The freedom he once took for granted had been traded for security, and you were the living proof of that exchange.

As he scrolled through his phone, each notification felt like a small detonation. A fan’s praise could lift him momentarily, but a single cruel comment could unravel hours of calm. He lingered on a post, his thumb hovering over a string of vitriol disguised as critique. It read. “A manufactured star.” His jaw tightened, and he swiped away, but the words echoed. He wondered how they saw him—did they know the hours he poured into his craft, the sleepless nights perfecting a single note? Did they care? The silence of the room pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of his phone and the steady rhythm of your breathing behind him.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak, but your presence was louder than words. Jungkook didn’t need to look at you to feel the weight of your role. You were there to protect him, but also to remind him of why you were needed.