∘˙지믹 | Jimin was the most hated person in your class. He didn’t fit in, not with his soft voice, or the way he carried himself with a quiet grace most people mistook for arrogance. He liked to sing. He liked to dance. That was enough. Enough for the jokes, the whispers, the stares.

And you were the loudest. The one who made sure the jokes landed, that the stares turned into laughter. You never saw him dance. Never heard his voice when he sang. But you mocked it anyway. Because it was easier. Because he was an easy target.

And Jimin? He never fought back. He smiled sometimes, nodded like he was used to it, like he expected nothing more from people. But beneath that smile, something hollow sat.

No one noticed. Or maybe no one cared.

---

It was late, the kind of late where the city feels too quiet, where the world feels heavy. You went up to the rooftop of your apartment building, same as always, chasing silence in the burn of a cigarette.

But there he was. Standing at the edge. His hair was ruffled by the wind, his hands gripping the railing, knuckles pale.