[Jimin's POV]
Dear Celine,
I started making music again.
At first, it was just noise. Scribbles. Unfinished thoughts.
Then it turned into something more.
A melody here. A lyric there.
And before I knew it, I was feeling again.
I was thinking again.
Laughing. Sarcastic again.
Back to annoying Tae until he tackled me into the couch.
Back to matching Yoongi's dry comebacks with ridiculous ones.
Back to being me—the version I'd buried.
Jungkook, though... he was still gone.
Not really gone, but you know what I mean.
He sent the occasional photo.
Scenery. Coffee cups. A shadowed selfie with a caption like "Wish you were here".
I read them all.
Didn't reply.
Didn't have to.
It was enough to know he was somewhere healing. Breathing.
Then one day, out of nowhere, he sent this:
A wine glass on a rustic table.
A blurry photo of someone across from him—could've been anyone.
Anyone with long hair.
A plate of food that looked Michelin-star level.
"I'll take you here someday. Wine's fucking amazing. The food? God-tier."
I smiled.
My best friend was in Iceland.
Healing in his own strange, quiet way.
And that was enough.
I see my therapist twice a week now.
And yeah, it's a her.
She knows how to draw things out of me without pulling.
Like she's letting me unpack at my own pace.
She doesn't fix me. She teaches me how to sit with what hurts.
And one day, I saw her at a coffee shop.
Hair tied back. Book in hand.
Not a doctor. Not a mirror for my pain.
Just a woman reading a book and sipping something warm.
I didn't say anything.
But seeing her like that made me realize—healing doesn't mean always talking.
Sometimes it just means being. Sitting. Breathing the same air as strangers and not crumbling.
Then came the album.
Yeah, I released one.
A few songs were about you.
I couldn't help it. You were in the silence between the beats.
In the lines I didn't want to admit were true.
"Like Crazy" was the hardest to finish.
But my therapist said, "Maybe it'll help if you just let it out. Put it somewhere. Give it form."
And it did. A form it did.
Writing that song cracked something open in me.
Not to let you back in—
But to finally let you go.
It wasn't closure in a box.
It was messier than that.
But damn... it helped.
Music was never just work for me.
It was therapy, too.
Funny how pain turns into sound.
Funny how silence turns into rhythm.
Funny how healing isn't loud or dramatic—it just sort of arrives. Quiet. Constant. Like waves lapping against something wrecked.
I'm not whole yet.
But I'm not drowning anymore either.
And that's enough for now.
Dearest,
Jimin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Present day.
Military vacation.
Some guys used it to travel. Visit family. Rest.
Me? I spent it in a club.
I know—predictable.
But I needed noise.
I needed people around me not asking me how I've been.
The bass hit first. Then the light. Then the blur of bodies grinding in dim strobes.
I was sipping something strong. Half-tasting it. Not really there.
Until I saw her.
Hair longer now. Not the strawberry blonde I used to tangle my hands in.
Brunette. Her natural color.
And somehow—still her.
Electric.
Spontaneous.
Fucking magnetic.
Eyes? Same ones that undressed me with a glance.
Lips? Red as cherry. Smiling like she didn't shatter me once.
And then—our eyes met.
She froze.
I did too.
A second. Maybe two.
And—of course—it had to be that song.
"Party For You."
Of all the damn songs.
I stood there. Still. Quiet in the chaos.
Watching her, but also watching me.
Like I was two people—the one who once burned for her, and the one now... just watching the ashes.
The memories crashed into me like waves in a storm.
Nights.
Laughter.
Tears.
The day she vanished.
But you know what surprised me the most?
I felt nothing.
Not numb. Not bitter.
Just... nothing.
Okay—maybe I flinched. Maybe I almost cracked a smile.
But the love?
Gone. Okay, maybe just a little. A pinch.
Seeing her like that—it didn't spark pain.
It confirmed it.
I was really over her.
But gravity? Gravity's an asshole.
Because something still pulled me.
Not love.
Not want.
Curiosity.
I needed to know.
Why did she leave?
Why no goodbye? No text. No trace.
Why did she treat me like I never existed?
She went back to the bar. Ordered drinks like nothing ever happened between us.
Like I wasn't once her everything.
That's when I slipped the note.
Just a napkin. My number.
Simple.
"Let's meet whenever you're ready."
I didn't look back.
Didn't stay for her reaction.
I don't want revenge.
I don't even want an apology.
I just want the truth.
She owes me that.
And I know she'll come.
Eventually.
Because even ghosts know when they need to haunt the living one last time.