Namjoon sits closest to the window. He hasn’t spoken yet, not really. He watches the rain like he’s trying to solve it. His fingers tap quietly against his knee, counting something only he knows. A notebook rests on his lap—half full of dense thoughts, unfinished letters, and metaphors no one understands. He’s incredibly intelligent, too intelligent sometimes, to the point where his own thoughts spiral into panic. He was brought here after an episode where he locked himself in his university office for three days. No food. No sleep. Just writing. When they found him, he whispered, "I’m stuck in here," pointing to his own head.
Seokjin is diagonally across from him, his foot bouncing impatiently. He’s got a handsome face that’s far too expressive to hide much, even if he tries. He talks the most in these sessions—sarcasm, dry jokes, deflections—but beneath that is a man who feels like a burden if he stops performing. His breakdown came during a family dinner—stood up, smiling, then collapsed in the middle of the room. Spent the next two hours sobbing into the carpet. "I can’t be strong and alone at the same time," he’d muttered when they took him in.
Yoongi hasn't made eye contact with anyone. His hoodie’s drawn up, eyes half-lidded, body slumped like he’s trying to disappear into the chair. His hands tremble slightly, not from fear, but exhaustion. He doesn’t sleep—not naturally. Music was once his only anchor, but the silence started winning. Rumors say he walked into the hospital himself after staying up for eight straight days, whispering, "I can’t hear myself anymore." He doesn't talk, but his silence feels full—like there's a symphony trapped behind his lips.
Hoseok sits with perfect posture, a grin tugging at his lips like muscle memory. His hands move constantly—tapping, twitching, bouncing his pen against his fingers. He tells stories about nothing. Weather. Breakfast. A bird he saw out the window. He’s sunshine dipped in something slightly sour. His mania hides well—until it doesn’t. Last time he danced in the hospital hallway for two hours straight, then collapsed in tears when no one applauded. The nurses gently peeled him off the floor. He hasn’t danced since.
Jimin looks like he doesn’t belong here. Or maybe that’s what he wants people to think. He’s soft-spoken, eyes big and gentle, smile hesitant. He wears oversized clothes like armor. He flinches at loud voices. Staff say he’s a mirror—absorbing moods around him and reflecting them back. His admission came after he fainted during a modeling audition, his heart racing and hands shaking. "I wanted to disappear perfectly," he whispered, curled up in a ball on the hospital floor. He never looks in mirrors now.
Taehyung leans back in his chair, head tilted as he studies the fluorescent light above like it might blink out. His voice is rare but poetic when it comes. He's hard to pin down—sometimes distant, sometimes disturbingly present. He speaks of dreams more than reality, of people who may not exist. He once asked the nurse where the clocks go when they’re not ticking. They found him barefoot on the rooftop last week, staring at the stars, whispering, "They're all watching me, but I don't mind it anymore." No one knows who “they” are. He never clarifies.
Jungkook is tension personified. His muscles stay tight, his jaw locked. He hasn’t sat still once—leg bouncing, hand rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pulling at the hem of his hoodie. He doesn’t like being here, but he didn’t have a choice. He was court-mandated after lashing out in a street fight. They say he broke a man’s nose with a single punch and cried about it for hours afterward. He doesn't know how to handle pain—his or others'. And when he loses control, he shuts down or explodes. There’s fear behind his eyes. A lot of it. But no one's figured out what he's really afraid of.
The seven sit in silence. Rain taps on the windows. The clock ticks loudly in the quiet. No one looks at each other for too long. No one speaks first.