One night. They had talked about Milan. How she loved looking up at the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele.
Celine's voice had softened when she described it.
"The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele... God, it makes you feel small in the best way. Like you're standing beneath a glass cathedral built just for beauty. I always look up there. Always."
Jimin had watched her eyes light up as she spoke, cheeks pink from too much wine and a balcony breeze.
That night, without thinking, he booked them two flights.
They landed in Milan days later.
The first thing they did? The Galleria.
She stood beneath it, hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes wide and teary in that quietly reverent way she got.
He didn't say a word—just took in her silhouette framed by glass and gold and sky.
They walked the city for hours. Through the stone veins of Milan. Past cathedrals and cafes. She pointed out every building she once read about in design school. He pretended to listen—but mostly, he watched her.
The way she came alive in beauty.
The way she found herself in spaces he barely understood.
That trip, he later realized, was their peak.
A suspended moment in time. A love letter to what almost was.
(And maybe that's why he never returned.)
***
The morning sun in Milan was soft—like syrup spilling across terracotta roofs, like warmth that didn't demand anything from you. Celine stretched, bare legs tangled in the linen sheets of Jimin's hotel bed. He was already in the shower, humming something light and wordless, the sound of water and steam filling the room like a secret.
She got up, one of his button-downs slipping easily onto her frame. Her head still buzzed faintly from the night before, but the hangover had been replaced by something quieter. Something that felt like comfort. Like she didn't need to run this time.
Her laptop had died the night before, so she wandered over to Jimin's, opening it without a second thought. Just a few touch-ups on her portfolio—she had meetings lined up this week, and Milan was watching.
The screen flickered on, sleepily revealing windows he left open. Mail. Calendar. Spotify.
She clicked, typing in her name in a file search when something else caught her eye.
A draft email.
Subject: Military Enlistment Postponement Request.
Her breath hitched.
Her finger hovered, then tapped.
The email was half-written. Sentences hanging. The kind that take too much out of you to finish. Words like:
"I know I have obligations... but I feel like I just started breathing again..."
"I just need time—"
"I'll return, but please allow me—"
Celine stared. Then checked the inbox.
Schedules.
Appearances. Flights. Rehearsals. Magazine shoots. A festival in Tokyo. A fanmeet in Seoul. Then, in bold:
Enlistment Confirmation – Q1 / 2 years active duty / Departure date TBC
She sat back slowly, the weight of the screen in her lap feeling heavier than it should.
Two months.
In two months, he had to fly back.
In three years, he'd be gone.
The warmth in the room had dimmed. Or maybe she was just cold.
He didn't tell her.
And she understood. God, she understood. Why would he? She wasn't his girlfriend. They were friends. Friends who slept in the same bed. Who shared coffee spoons and late-night silence. Who got drunk and held each other when the world felt too sharp. But that's all they were. Right?
And yet...
She closed the laptop just as the bathroom door opened, steam curling around him like silk.
Jimin stepped out, towel slung low, hair dripping onto his collarbones. His eyes softened when he saw her sitting there, the sunlight catching her bare knees, her expression unreadable.
"Hey," he said, moving toward her, "You okay?"
Celine looked up, smiled faintly. "Yeah. Just checking emails."
She lied. Easily. Cleanly. Like she always had.
Because if she told him what she saw, she might have to admit how her chest clenched. How the idea of him leaving—truly leaving—felt like someone had pulled the ground from beneath her.
Instead, she stood, placed a kiss on his damp shoulder, and walked past him toward the kitchen.
"I'll make coffee," she said.
But her hands trembled just slightly as she reached for the cups.
***
Milan felt less romantic when your body turned against you.
The streets still buzzed with their usual golden glow, cafés spilled over with laughter, and lovers still kissed beneath awnings in the rain—but for Celine, everything had dulled. One moment she was scrolling her phone, stomach rumbling from the smell of eggs, and the next she was doubled over the sink, throwing up her guts like something inside her demanded to escape.
Jimin's voice had echoed in the distance—his usual sweet tone now laced with alarm. She heard the shuffle of feet, the chair scraping back. Then his soft steps rushing.
"Celine?"
She hadn't wanted him to see her like that. Pale. Sweaty. Weak.
She swatted his hand away when he tried to gather her hair, but Jimin didn't budge. He stayed. Silent. A warm, steady presence crouched beside her as she emptied her stomach, breath hitching.
When it was over, she rested against the cool tile, flushed and miserable.
"It's probably a stomach bug," she mumbled, wiping her mouth.
But she knew. Somewhere deep, instinctively—she knew it wasn't.
Jimin had wanted to take her to the hospital. She refused.
"Jimin, I'm fine. Just...bad eggs. Let it go."
He didn't. But she gave him that smile she always did—the one that said "I'll be okay," even when she wasn't. He had another meeting soon. She knew his schedule better than he did these days. So she waited. Sat in the living room, sipping water, acting like it was nothing while he paced around on a video call with his label.
And then... she left.
The pharmacy was only four blocks away. She wore his hoodie, sunglasses. No one paid her any mind. No cameras, no eyes—just the weight of what she was doing.
That night, she waited.
Waited for him to fall asleep, deep into the kind of sleep only exhaustion could bring. He had been filming all day. She waited until the clock read 2:17 a.m. Then she slipped into the bathroom, hands shaking as she unwrapped the box.
Five minutes. That's all it took.
She didn't cry when the result showed. Didn't gasp or whisper or scream.
She just stared.
Two lines. Bold. Undeniable.
Positive.
Celine sat there on the floor of the bathroom, the test balanced on the edge of the sink, her palms flat on the cold marble. Her heart didn't race. It didn't even ache. It just sank. Quietly. Completely.
Because in that moment, the only thing louder than the truth was the one thought that always rang in her head:
I can't stay. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve me.
Celine's world dropped the moment the second line appeared.
Her heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything—logic, memory, even the whisper of Jimin's name in the next room. Her hands trembled. Her eyes blurred. She hadn't cried since that night in the van, hollowed out and broken. And yet, here she was—crying again. Wasting away again.
Not again.
She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All she knew was one thing:
She didn't want this.
Not because she was heartless. Not because she didn't feel it.
But because she couldn't afford to.
If Jimin knew, he'd stay. He'd try. He'd give up everything for her, and in doing so, she'd ruin everything he worked so hard to build. His career. Hers. Their fragile in-between.
There was no room in her world for softness. For sweetness.
She grabbed her suitcase and started packing. In the early dawn light, she moved with mechanical precision—shirts, charger, toiletries. Even the candies she randomly bought the other day. She wasn't even into sweets. But she had craved them. Suddenly it made sense. She stared at them for a beat, then threw them into the trash like they betrayed her.
She almost forgot the pregnancy test.
Almost.
She stuffed it in her bag, burying it like a body. No evidence. No trace. No regrets.
And then... she turned to Jimin.
He was still asleep, face softened by dreams. Moonlight poured through the curtain, kissing his cheekbone. So painfully beautiful. So stupidly good.
She stood there too long, memorizing him, punishing herself with every breath she took.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice cracking, "It was fun while it lasted."
And like smoke in a dream, she slipped away.
The motel room was nothing like the luxury hotels they had grown used to. It was small. Cold. Impersonal. But it was what she needed—blank, forgettable. A place to disappear.
Until the pain returned.
First, it was a tug. A pinch. Then a cramp that tore through her like fire.
She barely made it to the sink before everything inside her came out—her stomach, her soul. She dry-heaved, acid scraping her throat raw. And then she felt it. A rush of warmth between her thighs.
She looked down.
Blood. Thick. Endless.
Her knees buckled.
She tried to hold herself up, grasping the counter, but it was like holding onto mist. Her hands slipped. Her body convulsed. She thought she might drown in her own body. She was losing everything—control, breath, life.
In the panic, she fumbled for her phone, dialing blindly, fingers slipping.
She didn't even remember what she said.
The paramedics burst in minutes later.
"Ma'am, stay with me—can you give us a name to call?"
She blinked, lips trembling. The world tilted, spinning. Her voice came out in a whisper:
"No one. I don't have anyone."
And then—darkness.