Welcome to another story by me, ya girl, Jungkakes. 

Character information: Y/N (she/her) is an artist dealing with issues of mental health. She's learning to heal and love herself but life sucks. Namjoon is a member of BTS and art curator who crosses paths with Y/N in an interesting way. 

I am anticipating this story will be just a few chapters long and I hope you enjoy reading! As always, thank you for supporting me and my work !! <3 and also shoutout to the special person that i wrote this for :) <3

...

tw: this chapter contains: indication of an accidental overdose, mentions of depression and anxiety. 

[ ' 이제 그만 안녕이야
후회도 미련도 난 더는 없어 ' ]

[ .... ]

 [ ' 3 months prior ' ]

"You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Doing what?"

Your assistant sucked at her vape, her eyes studying you close while she took a hesitant step into your work room, "Self-destructing."

You thought about launching the paintbrush in your hand at her head but changed your mind. Resorting to rolling your eyes at her instead while you stroked the brush over the canvas, "I don't know what you're talking about." You muttered with the cigarette in your mouth, exhaling smoke at the same time you inhaled it, ignoring her completely now as you continued to paint,

"When was the last time you ate an actual meal and not cigarettes or pills?" She questioned you, "When was the last time you washed your hair?" She sighed, looking around at the messy workspace, "When was the last time you went home and fed your cat? " She eyed the makeshift bed in the corner of the room made up with pillows from your office and a thin blanket you kept around for when you got cold, "Are you even taking your meds?"

You shifted on your feet at her questions, feeling the jitters run through your body at the mention of missing your medication, "Boundaries." You mumbled, "You know what those are?" You shot her a look and then followed her gaze to the pile of cushions she was staring at, "I already have an overbearing mother. I don't need another one." You took the cigarette out of your mouth and set it onto the ashtray you had perched on top of a working table, "You're my assistant. Not my caretaker." You huffed smoke of your mouth and pointed the paintbrush in your hand at her, "I missed a few days, but I'll start taking them again tomorrow." You grumbled the last part, and your assistant shook her head in dismay.

"Boss... Maybe we should talk. You know, about everything that happened." She began to speak and then paused, "You know... about your break up." Her voice dropped and she gave you a solemn look, hands folding together in front of herself, "I know what you're going through but this... behavior isn't like you."

She's a good assistant.

Don't fire her for caring about you.

You started to heave a sigh, waving her off while you shook your head, "I'm fine. I really am." You picked up the cigarette but before you could put it back into your mouth, your assistant snatched it out from within your fingers and stuck it butt down into the ashtray to out it, "Hey- I was smoking that."

"Sure... fine, huh? I bet you're just fine." Her lips twisted to the side as her arms crossed over her chest, "Are you really fine? Because that's not what the news is saying."

The news?

"What the hell are you talking about?" You glared at her, "Who gives a fuck about what the news and shit are saying." You moved past her now, trying to exit the workroom but she stopped you with a gentle hand at your shoulder,

"They're saying that your foundation has been going downhill ever since the breakup." She began to explain, "People are saying that you're never going to create art again."

That ridiculous assumption made you stop in your tracks. You knew fully well what they were saying. It was everywhere each time you opened your phone. But that didn't mean hearing it from your assistant's mouth shocked you any less. 

What truly shocked you was the reality of it all. 

You were spiraling but couldn't help it.

Your eyes glued to the floor beneath your feet and you shook with anger, eyes seeing red and your vision hazing altogether, "And... you believe them?" You accused her with a dry voice, your gaze flickering to hers and making her visibly shiver, "Because if you believe them then I don't even know what to tell you. You know none of the shit the tabloids are saying is true."

"Well no—I just... You're rejecting all the commissions coming in. Refusing to sign any contracts. Sponsors are dropping out because you're not getting back to anyone." Her voice sounded as though it was about to crack, "And none of those things matter, of course. I'm just worried about you. That's all."

The reality hit you even harder now.

As you were busy circling the drain of self-loath and self-hatred, your assistant was busy worrying about you and everything else. She had every right to be worried. Her job security was dwindling because you weren't accepting any work from agencies that were trying to reach you. 

Refusing to work meant that you weren't getting paid. And that meant your assistant's salary was struggling. She never said a word to you about it though. Never mentioned it even now that she was confronting you.

The thought of losing your assistant made the fear of God strike through you. Without her, you would be nothing. She was on top of everything... even on top of you at some point but let's not get into that. Either way, she was important. A vital cause to your foundation. She coordinated your schedules. Made sure your meetings were all booked in place. Negotiated your deals and closed offers on your art pieces. Even knew your coffee order like the back of her hand.

If you didn't have her, you would be nothing. But you couldn't get out of this slump.

You felt as though you were drowning without being in water. The pills were working. But if anything, they made you feel worse sometimes. They clouded your mind and made you feel like a zombie most days. The only time you truly ever felt anything was when you were asleep... feeling absolutely nothing but sleep. Doped up on a nighttime sleeping aide that you took enough of to the point where you could knock out and go into a dreamland that you didn't want to wake up from.

"You don't even talk to your parents." Her sudden comment made you twist your head to look at her and your anger flared even further, all thoughts of sympathy for her evaporating out of your mind,

Your jaw clenched and you almost hissed when you spoke, "You spoke to them?"

"I didn't tell them anything." She held her hands up in defense, "They came to me." She confessed, "Said you're different. You don't call anymore. Don't visit. They're worried about you. We all are."

"Well if you all cared so fucking much, you'd leave me the fuck alone."

You didn't meant that. But you couldn't help it.

"Boss, I-.." Your assistant stammered and tried to pull you back when you began to move away from her.

You shrugged her hand off your shoulder and shook your head, "Just... Go home for the day. Clock out. I'll pay you for the rest of the day." You finally said with a sigh, removing yourself from her hold and pushing yourself out of the doorway, "I mean it. Go home. I'll be fine."

Your assistant watched you with a look of helplessness and opened her mouth to say something but decided to close it instead, "Fine." She whispered in defeat, shoulders slumping and an exhausted sigh leaving her lips as she looked around, "Just do me one favor." She spoke, her eyes burning into the back of your head.

"What." You asked without turning to look at her, "What now?"

"Just...-- Eat something." She cleared her throat, "...because cigarettes aren't food." She mumbled and you nodded once, disappearing out of your workroom and entering your office, shutting the door quickly behind you before she followed you.

Taking a seat at your desk, you leaned back and eyed a drawer by your desk before closing your eyes and slumping further backwards into the chair, "I'll eat something." You mumbled, reaching for the drawer and opening it to tug a bottle of your favorite little blue pills. 

You examined the pill bottle in your hand and read the long pharmaceutical name, Sertraline. You sounded the word out and then scoffing as you snapped the cap of it open to peer into the contents of the bottle. "I sure will." You whispered, giving the bottle a shake and watching the pills rattle inside before you popped the cover open and shook a few pills into your hand...

And then a few more.

They were nothing but just a few pills. A bunch of little pills that dictated the way you lived your life. Take one, and you're chipper enough to tolerate. Take none and you can't even look at yourself without wanting to do something terrible to yourself. But take them all, and no one would care.

Take all of them.

No one would care.

God, all you wanted to do was sleep. Fuck it. 

You shook the pills you had poured into your hand out onto your desk, counting through how many you had tossed out. Seven pills. Not even an even number. Part of you was bugged by the fact that it wasn't an even eight. But who cared when you planned to down them all in a few second anyways?

You took a breath and then snatched a few of the little blue pills off the desk. You didn't count how many you grabbed. Didn't care either then proceeded to pop a pill between your lips. One by one.

Finally tipping your head back to swallow them down with a gulp of stale, old coffee from a cup that you left on top of your desk since yesterday. You nestled into your chair before closing your eyes and exhaling after feeling the pills go down your throat, "Ah." You whispered, eyes opening to blink up at the ceiling.

Feeling the effects of the medication almost immediately, you watched the space around you start to float and dance above you. Then... it all just disappeared. You felt nothing and everything all at once. You felt sleepy but also awake. Felt as though you could finish all of the paintings you had started but never finished.

And then you felt exhausted.

All you wanted to do was rest.

'Just close your eyes. Let it take control.'  Said the little voice in the back of your head and you listened. Exhaling a yawn, you tipped your head back and let the overwhelming feeling of sleep take over you. Take control. Just like the demons in your head wanted you to. 

Five minutes. Just rest for five minutes. That's all you allotted to yourself.

But the five minutes that you wanted never came. And in fact, the five minutes turned into something that felt like eternity. The second your eyes closed, you allowed for your soul to escape your body. You gave in to the voices you had been hearing all your life. The voices that got louder and more prevalent with each passing day.

You weren't crazy. You knew that. You had a good head on your shoulders. Just sometimes... you would get sad. So sad that you didn't want to get out of bed. So deeply miserable that you couldn't bring yourself to even brush your teeth or take a shower sometimes. 

The pills helped. Made you productive. Helped your thoughts to be clearer. 

They helped. You swore they did. 

It wasn't always like this. The pills were a godsend. Made you lucid. Made you.. feel human. You were weaning yourself off them with the help of your doctors anyways. And slowly but surely, things started to look up. You began working again. Making art. Beautiful pieces that made every curator in the state flood your email with requests to purchase your work to hang in their galleries.

You were finally doing good for yourself again. That was until... that happened.

You started to spiral after he left. Started to doubt yourself. Doubt your work. Doubt your... existence. Were you worthy to be here? To be loved? To even be alive? 

How moronic was it for you to question your life after losing the love of yours. It was insanely stupid. You knew that. But you couldn't help it. He made you feel like a person. As if you were the most priceless artifact in the world. And now he was gone. Moving on and giving the love you once had and flourished in to someone else while you were sitting here with your head in your hands wondering where it all went wrong.

Why was it so easy for him to be okay while you weren't? How was it so simple for him to walk away and never look back? Never give you a call. Not even a text to see how you were doing... or even ask how your cat, Mr. Chewy was doing.

But it wasn't entirely his fault either. You couldn't even blame him when you wanted to break up too. You said it was mutual anyways. The breakup. The feelings you both lost were seemingly reciprocated both ways. Right? Then why did it only feel as though you were the only one stuck in this standstill.

Were you crazy?

You weren't crazy.

You just wanted to sleep.

[ ' 15 hours later ' ]

"Boss... Boss!" You felt the nervous hands of your assistant shaking at your shoulders, "Boss, please. Wake up." She cried, "Please, Y/N."

You wanted to open your eyes and tell her to hush up and go away to let you sleep but instead, your body felt limp and immobile. You wanted to open your mouth and speak. To get up and show her you were alive. But you felt yourself slipping further and farther away the more she begged you to wake up again.

You had no idea how long you were out for. Not a single clue on if you were still dreaming, dying or what. All you could feel was an anchor pull coming from the bottom of your feet. The incessant need for your body to succumb to all the pain you felt and let it take you away.

But you didn't want to die like this.

You didn't have any intention to die when you took those pills.

All you wanted to do was sleep.

But you couldn't sleep anymore. Because if you continued, that meant you would die. You were sure of it. You knew full well how many pills you were taking. But you had no idea the effects it would have on you. You had no idea that while you slept, your heart rate had slowed to a faint thump within your chest. You hadn't realized your breathing had slowed and stopped at certain moments either. 

And during the whole while of your slumber, you started to dream of your family. Your parents and siblings. Your nieces and nephews. Your friends. Loved ones. Your... life. You saw your art behind your eyes. The days you started to paint. The hobby turned career. The job you loved.

The life you loved.

While you reflected on your life within your sleep, you were dying. You were actually passing away. Unbelievable. You would have never guessed.

People talk about dying and seeing the light. But you didn't see or feel anything. There was nothing but pitch darkness behind your eyes. Nothing but the endless sea of black you were beginning to be swallowed by.

You had no idea that this was happening to you.

But this wasn't the place or moment to die. This isn't even how you wanted to go. Not yet. Not now. Not like this. Not over a lost love that you allowed to get away.

And so, you forced yourself to open your eyes. Forced yourself to face your teary eyed assistant standing over you with a bewildered expression on her face. Forced yourself to breathe. Forced yourself to live.

Because it wasn't time to die yet.

"I'm sorry." You whispered breathlessly, a tear unknowingly slipping out of your eye while letting her throw herself at you to hug you. You didn't even realize you were crying. Didn't care either. You blinked your tears away and then let them fall freely when they became too much to stop them from flowing. You sat there limp within your assistant's hold while you stared blankly at the walls before you, "I'm sorry. I just wanted to sleep." You finally mumbled against her and felt her head shake, her entire body trembling with adrenaline and fear as she squeezed you.

Your assistant was silent while she held you, rocking you quietly in her hold before she finally broke the silence, "It's okay. I know." She rubbed over your back and felt you sigh in her embrace.

"What time is it?"

"...Boss, it's the next day."

Shit.

You had been knocked out cold for over fifteen hours.

"Oh really?" You tried to sound nonchalant but could tell your assistant wasn't buying it.

She heaved a sigh and you could tell she was gritting her teeth within her mouth, refraining herself from slapping the lies out you. It's not like you would stop her if she wanted to anyways. You deserved it. "I know you didn't mean to." She mumbled and you slowly removed yourself from her embrace, shaking your head as you sat up from your slumped position, feeling the dull pain your neck radiating to your back and shoulders as you stretched it.

You rolled your shoulders back and still felt the soreness in your body. It would be a miracle to feel no pain after being in a comatose state for more than half the day. But aside from your body feeling as though it was broken, your mind felt as clear as ever. ...Exactly the way one would feel after a long slumber.

"Whatever you're thinking, just know that I didn't mean it." Your voice was gruff, and your head felt foggy now that you were finally awake and alert. The effects of the pills were hitting you like a train now and you felt as though you had a hangover, "God. I feel like shit." You grumbled and snatched the cup of coffee she had placed on your desk, taking a swig out of it and ignoring her as she protested that cup was her own coffee, "I need to smoke."

You made a move to get out of your seat but the moment you stood up, the blood that had been pooling at your feet suddenly rushed to your head. The feeling made you woozy and you began to experience the mouth sweats. Before you knew it, the overwhelming feeling of having to throw up struck you at once and you landed on your knees. Buckling to the floor and grabbing the trashcan under your desk with a snatch to stick your head into it and rid your body of the overdose of pills you had earlier ingested.

"Fuck... hello?!? I need an ambulance right now." Was the last thing you heard before you passed out again, the world going completely black around you for a second time.

This time maybe permanently.

[ ' 3 months later ' ] 

Standing there in the studio surrounded by your own art made you think of your past. The days when you were younger. The times of your life that your parents would take you to art galleries and exhibitions. The exact places where your art was now displayed for thousands if not millions to see. Your parents taught you everything they knew about art. Taught you how to appreciate the smallest, most minute details of art and relate it back to life...

...Art taught you how precious life is.

You didn't always have this appreciation for life and art though. Not until you died three months ago. Not until you lost everything in the second of a breath. You didn't understand how precious life was until you woke up in the back of an ambulance while paramedics worked tirelessly to pump your stomach of the pills you accidentally overdosed on. 

You didn't understand the meaning of time until you were committed to a psychiatric ward in a hospital after the overdose because doctors thought you were a threat to your own self. Even if was an accident, you knew your family didn't wholeheartedly believe that and you knew full well that they had something to do with it.

Wow, the least they could do was give you a little credit, right? If you planned to off yourself, you would have dressed up a bit better that day or something. It was a genuine accident. After all, you just wanted to sleep. But that's not what your loved ones thought. They must have told the doctors that you were an artist that lost her mind and needed to be committed to the hospital ward until you were better. Oh well. 

You didn't mind. They could say whatever they wanted. And if the doctors thought you needed to stay, you weren't going to argue. In fact, you welcomed the idea of having to stay in the ward for those few weeks that you did. You thought it would be great to have some alone time. 

But you weren't aware that you had to attend therapy while staying in the hospital. You didn't have a choice. If you wanted to be deemed fit to leave the hospital, you had to show some sort of progress in self help. But you didn't have a problem doing that. Therapy was a huge help. It helped you realized what you wanted to do. And what was that? Simple. You wanted to get the fuck out of here. And that's exactly what you did. 

Ever since that day your died, you swore you were reborn. You swore you would change. Start over. Become a new you. Even if you didn't have an idea of who you were anymore.   

That was three months ago. And now here you were. Discharged from the hospital and back in your art studio. Asking yourself the same questions you first did when you became an artist. 

What the fuck was art? What was the meaning of life? Why did these two things go hand in hand? 

What did it mean to want to be a human before doing art?

You never understood what your mom meant when she would tell you to pay attention to the finest details on an artist's paintings when you were a little girl. Telling you that each brush stroke told a story about the artist themselves. The hell did that even mean? You never cared. Never appreciated it. Didn't get the meaning of it all until you began to create your own.

You had no idea how special... How... intimate the creation of art was until you picked up a paintbrush yourself. It was never meant to be that way. But curiosity got the best of you. And one day in your young age, you found yourself walking into what your mother called her workspace. You remembered entering her workspace and touching the set of freshly washed and dried brushes by an empty easel and found a pallete ready to be decorated with paint colors.

You weren't sure why you felt drawn to that space. Not until you decided to test your luck. To test your skill and pick up the brush. That was the day you found your calling. It was only supposed to be for fun, really. But fun turned into a hobby. And then a hobby turned into a career and now you were sitting on millions from what you created.

You were known for your expressionist style. Using paint and a canvas to express your emotions. It wasn't the same thing as portrait art. Your style was realer. Deeper. Meaningful. Making viewers feel every flick of paint you put on that easel in front of you. With every piece of art you created a piece of yourself was added to it. Every dot had meaning. Every line had a feeling.

Today's case was pain.

You had a firm grip on the brush between your fingers, dipping and smearing it into the paint. Mixing the colors on your pallete and then patting it onto the easel. Working quick. Working hard. You hadn't worked like this in ages. Hadn't painted your heart out in years. You never felt the need to. It wasn't as though you forgot about your passion. You just never had time. Never wanted to waste a moment doing anything else except being with the person of your dreams...

Or at least you thought that's what they were.

Now, as you stabbed the paint brush into the easel, you could feel a part of your heart ripping with it. You could see his face after every stroke of your brush. Feel his touch on your skin as the pain splattered back onto you from the force. You could hear his voice in your thoughts. Hear him saying the same thing over and over. See the night that changed you forever playing out in your head.

[ ' flashback ' ] 

"You forgot this one."

"Right."

While the gentleman bent to pick up the final cardboard box, you took one last moment to look at him. Teeth gritting in your mouth and jaw clenching shut while your eyes wandered over every part of him. His hair. His hands... Even the socks on his feet.

Just a little longer. The little voice in your head chanted while time slowed. The clock on your wall seemed to have stopped ticking. Your phone seemed stuck on the same time that was read a mere half hour ago. Time gave you time. Just a sliver of a second longer to look at him. To appreciate him. How rough around the edges he was. The soft parts of him that made you fall in love in the first place.

Part of you wanted to turn away. To put your back up against the corner of a wall and wait until he disappeared. Part of you wanted to tell him to stay. To say fuck it and let's start over. But the last side of you. The real part of you didn't want to see him anymore. And you began to regret ever letting him come by in the first place.

"That should be it, right?" He asked with a soft huff as the box lifted off the ground, his back straightening to face you for what may be the last time.

You had your eyes on the ground. Glued to the spot on the floor where he was standing. It took you a few seconds to finally lift your head to look at him because you knew if you did, you would crumble to pieces. But you had to do this. You had to face reality.

You had to say goodbye now.

"Yep." You nodded quickly, inhaling a breath while you hugged yourself a bit tighter, "That's it." You rubbed a hand over your arm, feeling your heart clench within your chest.

Silence.

"I guess I'll be going." He shifted on his feet, adjusting his hold on the box against his chest while he cleared his throat and turned around towards the front door, "What are you going to do by yourself?" He asked out of curiosity, feet slowly sliding into his shoes... The old, tattered pair of Chuck's you bought for him five years ago when you first started dating.

Tch. Even after all this time he still wore them... Cherished them.

You were silently hoping deep down that the shoes would wear down and tear apart so that he would never have to wear them again. What a pathetic thought to have. But that's how you felt. You couldn't deny it.

"I..." You started to speak and then you shrugged, lips twisting to the side as you pondered his question.

Yes... what am I going to do by myself?

There must be a strong belief amongst everyone in the world that the worst types of breakups are mutual decisions. The ones where you slowly start to fall out of love with each other. The ones where there's nothing else left to say. The ones that include the days when you once felt excited to come home turned into nights where you dreaded to be home with them.

Ones where you stopped doing everything together anymore. The ones where slowly, things changed. He started staying out more. You started delving deeper into your hobbies. Doing anything to stay away from each other. Doing everything to avoid the inevitable.

You weren't sure how it happened. Neither was he. All you knew was that five years is a long time to spend with a person. To grow. To love. To change. And boy, did everything change. If this was five years ago and you were asked by someone if you would ever see this coming, you would probably laugh in their face. You? And him? Breakup? Impossible. You both used to be joint at the hip. Used to finish each other's sentences. Be the only reason for each other's existence.

And then... it all ended.

"I just don't... feel the same anymore." Was what he told you when it happened. "Not the way I used to." He took a breath then held it while your worlds came crashing down.

You could remember yourself staring at him. Watching the way his lips moved when he spoke. Eyes focused on the details of his face aging has gifted him after five years of being together. He still looked the same. Still had the same quirks and habits. Sure, he had the little fine lines starting to crease at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. And yes, the worry lines that showed up on his forehead every now and then when he was stressed made a more common appearance nowadays as life got challenging. But those were the things you grew to love and admire about him. 

Things that made him yours... Or used to be yours.

It happened in the kitchen right behind you. In the middle of dinner. Takeout on a random Wednesday night. You both had always enjoyed your dinners in silence together. Sometimes you chitchatted away about your day. But more often, you chose to eat together in perfect solace.

That night had been quieter than usual though. He wasn't really eating either. Pushing the pieces of food around on his plate until he made a circle out of the plate of food before him. You watched him close. Studied his body language. He wasn't being himself. And you knew he wanted to say something. Knew he had thoughts on his mind that he wanted to express.

And you knew exactly what he wanted to say. You knew what was about to happen. And you knew that no matter what, it was going to hurt. But that's what he didn't want. To hurt you. He didn't want this to be hard. Didn't want to break your heart.

But it killed you anyways.

Broke and killed pieces of you even though you felt the same he did.

For some reason you didn't feel too shocked when it happened though. If anything, you felt relieved, "You're right."  You finally answered, "I hate agreeing with you." You whispered, feeling your voice go hoarse, the utensil between your fingers dropped into the plate you had been eating out of and you suddenly felt sick to your stomach. The giddy, stomach-churning feeling of the dinner you barely took two bites out of already starting to creep its way back up from where it came from.

You gulped down some water. Tried to clear your palate while grabbing a napkin to neatly wipe your mouth before you forced yourself to take a steady breath, "Why are you doing this?" You asked him again when he was silent, eyes falling onto his own when he finally looked up to face you, "Do you hate me or something?"

He shook his head. Drawing in a deep breath before looking away, "No. Absolutely not."

He didn't hate you. He loved you. Loved. Past tense. He just couldn't figure out how to tell you. Couldn't find the words to tell you he didn't love you anymore.

And neither could you.

You couldn't figure out the right way to tell this person you shared five years of your life with that you didn't see a future with them anymore. You didn't know how to tell them that you didn't want to be stuck in the same standstill for the rest of your life. Doing the same repetitive things every day. Wake up, work, sleep, die.

He was fine with that. Fine with doing nothing. And for a time, you enjoyed it too. The simple task of not giving a fuck about a thing. But you weren't getting younger. Neither was he. Life was passing by, and you felt stuck. Felt that everything was moving forward but you were being left behind.

You wanted more. And he didn't.

But you stayed anyways. Stuck it out with the hopes that things would change. Stayed because you didn't want to be the bad guy. Didn't want to be the enemy. After all, you had history. Five years and some change. That's five birthdays. Five Valentine's Days. Five anniversaries and everything else in between.

Did it really have to get this bad?

But of course, the bad got worse. And the worst became unbearable. The fights started to become more hostile. Nitpicking and pointing fingers at each other for nothing. Blaming one another for silly things. Blowing up and taking issues out of proportion just because you couldn't stand to be in the same room as each other anymore.

And then when the fight was over... it never really felt like it was. It never really felt as if the bickering was finished. It took days longer to make up than before. And even when you both did say your apologies, it still somehow didn't feel the same.

And so, things had to end.

Now here you were. Looking at a stranger. A stranger you once loved. Your heart hurt. You could feel it squeezing in your chest, making your stomach do back flips within your body.

Why? What went wrong? Why did it have to be like this?

Thinking back on the question on what will you do alone, you finally had the courage to answer him, "I'll figure it out." You whispered after some thought, "Don't worry about me." You took an uneasy step forward where he stood ready to go, reaching past him to take hold of the doorknob, "You should go. She's probably waiting for you." You unlocked the door for him and opened it, squinting from the sunlight in your face because it had been perhaps the first time in weeks that you'd even seen the sun shining.

And yeah, you guessed it. He already moved on too. It hadn't even been a month.

He turned around to where the outside was and you peeked out a window to spot the car of his new girlfriend waiting for him, "Take care of Mr. Chewie." He said about your shared cat who in an almost perfect queue, meowed in response to him.

You could feel the frigidness in the air. Not because it was the middle of winter, and the door was open but because any familiarity between the two of you had since got cold. This was truly the end, and you couldn't do anything about it. Not even if you wanted to.

You shivered, pulling the cardigan you had been wearing tighter around your body, nuzzling into the warmth of it to bring some sort of comfort to yourself, "Will do." You sniffed and looked back at the cat sitting idly in the middle of the hallway behind you, "Chewie will be fine." You tried to smile, forcing yourself to be strong for the damn cat's sake at least.

"Bye, y/n."

And that was that. 

[ ' end of flashback ' ]

You didn't have the intention to paint your feelings away today. But you were itching to do something. Anything. It was either you chain smoke a pack of cigarettes in one sitting, or you stand there and smear paint on an easel until your heart's content. Who or what you planned on painting was a mystery. You just wanted a distraction from the way you felt. Part of you wanted to paint your dreams. The things that had been on your mind lately. And another part of you wanted to paint something simple like a bowl of fruit.

Stepping back from the easel, you exhaled a shaky breath to take a look at what you created. Plopping down onto the stool behind you with an exhausted sigh. You closed your eyes and stretched your neck. Craning it back far enough to crack it before you reached up and kneaded the muscle out.

You were worn out. Feeling the aftermath of rage painting for hours straight taking its full toll on you. Your arms hurt. Shoulders pained. The soles of your feet and ankles hurt. You could feel the beads of sweat forming along your hairline and skin. Dotting your forehead and even trickling down your back. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, smearing paint across your skin in the process but you didn't care.

And despite the sheer exhaustion your body felt, you had a strong sense of accomplishment flowing through you. You were happy to have finally put something on that damn blank easel you had been staring at for months.

However, that sense of pride instantly changed when you finally opened your eyes to see what exactly you created.

Staring blankly at the painting you had just created, you shook your head quickly in dismay, brows furrowing into a crease. Yes, this was your art. But this wasn't the person you wanted to paint. 

The person you had in your mind while you worked didn't have eyes so sharp and piercing as a dragon. They didn't have warm, honey colored skin that glowed as bright as a thousand suns the way this person did. They didn't have a set of lips so plush and wine red in color that you would think they were a full chalice you could drink from.

"Why." You asked yourself. Eyes glued to the... masterpiece... or disaster you made.

You meant to tell me, after standing there for hours. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into your craft... this is what you made? You could have sworn you had nothing on your mind but him. No thoughts in your mind except for the person that broke your heart.

But this wasn't the person that broke your heart.

Why did you just paint someone else?

Why did you paint, Kim Namjoon?  

[ end of chapter 1. ]