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The bass thrummed through the walls like a second heartbeat, pulsing in time with the neon lights that painted the club in shades of electric blue and violent pink. Taehyung sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over his fifth—or was it sixth?—glass of whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light as he swirled it absently. The ice had long since melted, diluting the burn he craved, but he didn't bother ordering a fresh one yet. This one still had work to do.
Around him, bodies moved in synchronized chaos on the dance floor. Laughter erupted from a group of girls near the DJ booth. A couple made out shamelessly against a pillar. Life, in all its messy, vibrant glory, continued around him while Taehyung sat perfectly still, an island of numbness in a sea of sensation.
"You're going to pickle yourself at this rate."
The voice came from across the bar. Minho, the bartender who'd been working here for as long as Taehyung had been coming—which was to say, too long—leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. His expression held that particular blend of concern and resignation that people got when they'd watched someone self-destruct in slow motion.
Taehyung looked up, managing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's the plan."
"That's a terrible plan." Minho picked up a glass and began wiping it down, though his gaze never left Taehyung's face. "You know, I remember when you used to come in here with your friends. Laughing so loud the whole bar could hear you. You'd dance, you'd sing karaoke terribly, you'd light up the whole damn room."
"People change," Taehyung muttered, bringing the glass to his lips.
"Change is one thing. This?" Minho gestured vaguely at Taehyung's disheveled appearance—the wrinkled designer shirt he'd worn for two days straight, the dark circles carved beneath his eyes like bruises, the way he seemed to be folding in on himself. "This is something else entirely."
Taehyung's jaw tightened. He didn't want concern. He didn't want to be seen, to be analyzed like some tragic figure in a play. He wanted to disappear into the bottom of a bottle and forget that feelings existed at all.
"I'm fine, Minho-ssi. Just tired."
"Tired," Minho repeated flatly. "Right. And I'm the King of England." He sighed, setting down the glass. "Look, I'm not trying to pry, but you've been coming here every single night for fifteen days. You drink alone, you barely eat the food I bring you, and you look like you haven't slept since the new year. Whatever you're going through—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came out sharper than intended, cutting through the air between them. Taehyung immediately felt a pang of guilt at the hurt that flickered across Minho's face, but he couldn't seem to soften the edges of himself anymore. Everything was raw, exposed, bleeding.
Minho raised his hands in surrender. "Alright. But the offer stands—if you need to talk, I'm here. And maybe switch to water for a bit, yeah?"
Taehyung didn't respond, just turned his attention back to his drink. After a moment, Minho moved away to serve other customers, leaving Taehyung alone with the ghosts that haunted him.
His phone sat on the bar beside his glass, screen dark but impossibly heavy with presence. He'd been doing well—almost twenty minutes without checking it. A new record for the evening. But the urge was always there, a constant itch beneath his skin, and eventually, inevitably, he gave in.
His fingers moved of their own accord, unlocking the screen and navigating to his photo gallery. He didn't have to search. The album was right there, where it had always been: "My Sunshine."
The first photo bloomed to life, and Taehyung's breath caught despite the fact that he'd looked at this same image a hundred times today, a thousand times this week. Seojun, laughing at something off-camera, his eyes crinkled into perfect crescents, his hair windswept and golden in the late afternoon sun. They'd been at the beach that day, nearly two years ago now. Taehyung had taken the photo spontaneously, capturing the exact moment Seojun had turned to look at him, mid-laugh, so beautiful it hurt.
God, it hurt.
Taehyung scrolled. Another photo: Seojun asleep on Taehyung's couch, one hand tucked under his cheek, looking peaceful and perfect. Another: the two of them in a selfie, Seojun kissing Taehyung's temple while Taehyung grinned at the camera like he'd won the lottery. Because he had, hadn't he? For a brief, shining moment in his life, he'd had everything.
His vision blurred. He blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the tears came anyway, hot and unbidden, tracking down his cheeks and dripping onto the bar. He swiped at them angrily with the back of his hand, but they kept coming, a dam finally breaking after holding back an ocean.
Fifteen days. In fifteen days, Seojun would be married. To her. To someone whose family approved, whose existence made sense in the neat little boxes society demanded. Someone who wasn't Taehyung.
The engagement announcement had appeared on his feed like a punch to the gut. He'd stared at the photo for hours—Seojun and his fiancée, both smiling, her hand displayed prominently to show off the ring. The caption had been simple: "Beginning our forever." The comments had been congratulatory, enthusiastic, normal.
Taehyung had thrown up twice that night.
Now, here he was, caught in a cycle he couldn't seem to break. Wake up. Go through the motions of existing. Come to the club. Drink. Cry over photos. Go home. Sleep fitfully. Repeat. It was pathetic, he knew. Self-destructive and pointless. Seojun had made his choice, and Taehyung hadn't been it. No amount of alcohol would change that.
But at least the alcohol made it hurt less. Or differently. Or something.
"Hey there, handsome. You look like you could use some company."
Taehyung looked up to find a man sliding onto the stool beside him—attractive, probably in his late twenties, with an easy smile and confident posture. Not the first person to approach him tonight, and probably not the last. Even in his current state, apparently, he still drew attention.
"Not interested," Taehyung said flatly, turning back to his phone.
"Come on, don't be like that. One drink? One dance?" The man leaned closer, undeterred. "I promise I'm fun."
"I said no."
"Playing hard to get? I like a challenge—"
"He said no." Minho's voice cut across the interaction, firm and protective. "Move along."
The man huffed but retreated, shooting Taehyung an irritated look before disappearing into the crowd. Taehyung didn't even watch him go. These interactions had become routine over the past two weeks—strangers drawn to the sad boy at the bar, thinking they could fix him or distract him or fuck him into forgetting. They were all wasting their time.
Seojun had been his first everything. First kiss, first love, first time his heart had cracked open to let someone else inside. And Seojun would be his last. How could anyone else ever compare? How could Taehyung ever let himself be that vulnerable again, knowing how completely it could destroy him?
His phone buzzed in his hand, and Taehyung's heart lurched. For one desperate, foolish second, he thought—hoped—prayed—
But it was his father's name on the screen. Dad calling.
Taehyung stared at it, paralyzed. The phone buzzed once, twice, three times. His thumb hovered over the answer button, then pulled away. He couldn't. He couldn't talk to his father right now, couldn't hear the concern in his voice, couldn't bear the weight of disappointing the people who'd only ever loved him unconditionally.
The call went to voicemail. Immediately, a text appeared: "Taehyung-ah, please call us. We're worried about you. We love you."
The tears came harder now, silent and relentless. Shame burned in his chest alongside the grief. His parents had been calling every day, leaving messages he couldn't bring himself to listen to. They'd stopped by his apartment, but he'd pretended not to be home. They'd reached out to his friends, trying to understand what had happened to their son.
He was a coward. A heartbroken, pathetic coward who couldn't even face his own family.
With shaking hands, Taehyung opened his contacts and scrolled to a different name. Yoongi hyung. His thumb pressed the call button before he could overthink it.
Two rings. Three.
"Tae?"
Just hearing Yoongi's voice made something in Taehyung's chest loosen fractionally. "Hyung," he managed, his voice rough and small.
"Where are you?" No judgment in the question, just steady certainty.
"The club. The usual one."
"Stay there. I'm coming to get you."
"No, I can—"
"Taehyung." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "Stay there. I'm already grabbing my keys."
The line went dead. Taehyung set his phone down and signaled Minho for his tab, ignoring the bartender's knowing look. Twenty minutes later, he was stumbling out into the cold night air, the winter wind biting at his face and cutting through his thin shirt.
Yoongi's car pulled up to the curb, and Taehyung slid into the passenger seat without a word. The interior was warm, the radio playing something soft and instrumental. Yoongi didn't say anything, just reached over to buckle Taehyung's seatbelt when it became clear he wasn't going to do it himself, then pulled back into traffic.
They'd known each other forever—childhood friends who'd grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same schools, weathered the storms of life side by side. Yoongi had been there for Taehyung's first day of kindergarten, his first heartbreak in middle school, his coming out in college. And when Taehyung had introduced Seojun two years ago, Yoongi had welcomed him with open arms, happy to see Taehyung so completely, radiantly in love.
Yoongi had also been there when it all fell apart.
The drive to Yoongi's apartment was quiet. Taehyung leaned his head against the cool window, watching the city lights blur past. At some point, he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Yoongi was gently shaking his shoulder.
"We're here, Tae-yah. Come on."
Taehyung let himself be guided into the building, into the elevator, through the familiar doorway of Yoongi's apartment. The space was exactly as he remembered—minimalist but cozy, with warm lighting and the faint smell of coffee that seemed to permanently linger in the air.
"Sit," Yoongi instructed, pointing at the couch. "I'll make you something to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"When was the last time you ate?"
Taehyung couldn't remember. Yesterday? The day before?
Yoongi disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Taehyung collapsed onto the couch, pulling one of the throw pillows against his chest. The apartment was so quiet compared to the club, so peaceful. He could hear Yoongi moving around in the kitchen, the clink of dishes, water running.
His phone buzzed again. Another message from his father. Taehyung's eyes burned with fresh tears.
"Here." Yoongi emerged with a bowl of ramyeon and some side dishes, setting them on the coffee table. He settled onto the couch beside Taehyung, close but not crowding. "Eat first. Then we'll talk."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then eat, and I'll sit here quietly. But you're eating, Taehyung. Non-negotiable."
There was no point in arguing. Taehyung picked up the chopsticks and forced himself to take a bite. The first few mouthfuls tasted like ash, but gradually, his body seemed to remember it needed food. He ate mechanically, not really tasting anything, while Yoongi sat beside him in comfortable silence.
When the bowl was empty, Taehyung set it aside and picked up his phone again. The messages from his father stared up at him accusingly.
"They're worried about you," Yoongi said softly.
"I know."
"You should call them."
"I know." Taehyung's voice cracked. "I just—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." Yoongi's hand found his shoulder, warm and grounding. "They love you, Tae. Nothing you're going through changes that. Call them. Let them help."
With trembling fingers, Taehyung pressed his father's contact. The phone rang once before his father picked up.
"Taehyung-ah!"
And that was it. The dam broke completely. Taehyung dissolved into sobs, unable to form words, his whole body shaking with the force of his grief. Vaguely, he heard his father calling for his mother, heard their voices overlapping as they tried to soothe him through the phone.
"I'm sorry," he choked out when he could finally speak. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Shh, baby, no," his mother's voice, thick with tears. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. We just want to know you're okay."
"I'm not okay, Mom. I'm not—I don't know how to be okay."
"We know, sweetheart. We know. But you will be. I promise you will be."
They talked for nearly an hour. His parents asked where he was, and Taehyung told them about Yoongi's apartment. They made him promise to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself. They told him they loved him at least a dozen times. And slowly, incrementally, the crushing weight on Taehyung's chest began to ease.
When he finally hung up, he felt wrung out, exhausted in a way that went bone-deep. Yoongi had moved to give him privacy, but now he returned with a glass of water and some medication.
"For the headache you're about to have," Yoongi explained.
Taehyung took them obediently, then slumped back against the couch. "Thank you, hyung. For everything."
"That's what I'm here for." Yoongi sat beside him again. "You know you can stay as long as you need, right? My home is your home."
Fresh tears pricked at Taehyung's eyes, but these felt different—lighter, somehow. Less like drowning and more like release. "I don't deserve you."
"Shut up. Yes, you do." Yoongi stood, pulling Taehyung to his feet. "Come on. You're sleeping in my bed tonight. I'll take the couch."
"Hyung, no—"
"My bed, Taehyung. That's an order from your hyung."
Too tired to argue, Taehyung let himself be led to Yoongi's bedroom. The bed was already made with fresh sheets, and sitting in the middle was a plush teddy bear—the same one Taehyung had won at a carnival years ago and left here after a previous visit.
Something about that small detail—the fact that Yoongi had kept it, had remembered, had thought to put it out for him—made Taehyung's eyes sting again.
He changed into the clothes Yoongi provided, climbed into bed, and pulled the teddy bear against his chest. The sheets smelled like detergent and something uniquely Yoongi, safe and familiar.
"Sleep well, Tae-yah," Yoongi said softly from the doorway. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
"Hyung?" Taehyung's voice was small in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think... do you think he's happy? Seojun?"
There was a long pause. When Yoongi spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "I hope he is, Tae. I really do."
"Me too," Taehyung whispered, surprised to find he meant it. Even through all the pain, some part of him still hoped Seojun found happiness, even if it wasn't with him.
"But I also hope he stays away," Yoongi added, his voice dropping to something almost protective. "You're too fragile right now. You need time to heal, and you can't do that if he's still in your life."
Taehyung didn't respond, just burrowed deeper into the blankets. As consciousness began to slip away, aided by alcohol and emotional exhaustion, his last coherent thought was that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to figure out how to survive this alone.
Yoongi stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching his friend finally succumb to sleep. Taehyung's face was still streaked with tear tracks, his breathing uneven, one hand clutching the teddy bear like a lifeline. He looked young like this, vulnerable in a way that made Yoongi's chest ache with protective fury.
Seojun had done this. Had loved Taehyung, let him believe in forever, then walked away to fit into the life his family demanded. And Taehyung, with his big heart and endless capacity for love, was left to pick up the pieces alone.
Well, not alone. Not as long as Yoongi was around.
He pulled the door partially closed and settled onto the couch, his phone in hand. Part of him wanted to call Seojun, to rage at him for breaking Taehyung so completely. But it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.
Instead, Yoongi sent a quick message to Taehyung's parents, letting them know their son was safe and sleeping. Then he set an alarm for every two hours—just to check, to make sure Taehyung was still okay, still breathing, still there.
Outside, the city continued its endless rhythm. Inside, in the quiet safety of Yoongi's apartment, Taehyung slept fitfully, his dreams full of sunshine and laughter and a love that had burned too bright to last.
Fifteen days until the wedding.
Fifteen days until Seojun's forever began with someone else.
But tonight, at least, Taehyung was safe. And for now, that would have to be enough.
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Hi guys, I am back with another story. Just realised, I have not yet written something like arranged marriage, right? So, stay connected, and help me out as we figure this journey together. Waiting for your positive response towards this! Do comment if you are excited! love ya!!