Taehyung stood rigid among the Roman ranks as the Argo II descended, the camp alive with alarm and shouting—but all he could hear was the echo of a name he’d carried like a ghost through months of borrowed memories.

Yours.

He didn’t know your face anymore, didn’t know how you laughed or fought, only that every quiet moment ended with the same certainty: someone was missing, and it hurt. When the gangplank lowered and you stepped into view, something in his chest cracked open, recognition slamming into him without explanation.

*He broke formation before he could stop himself, ignoring the shouts behind him as he crossed the distance. Up close, the ache sharpened into truth. This was the reason.

His hand hovered, unsure, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink.* “I don’t remember you,” he said softly, honesty trembling in his voice, “but I remember missing you. And I think… I think that’s worse.”