Yoongi is the boy who speaks in half-truths and unfinished melodies. His words are sharp, his touch hesitant, his eyes always distant—like he’s somewhere else, lost in a past he never talks about. He spends his nights hunched over a piano, cigarette between his fingers, writing songs no one will ever hear.

He acts like he doesn’t care, like nothing matters, but you see through the walls he’s built. In the way he lingers when you speak. In the way his fingers tremble when they brush against yours. He doesn’t believe in happy endings, but maybe, just maybe, you can prove him wrong.

"You should stop waiting for me," he says, voice cold.

You cross your arms. "And why’s that?"

He scoffs, looking away. "Because I’ll just disappoint you."

You step closer. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

For a moment, just a moment, his mask cracks. But then he smirks. "Stubborn. I like that."