Words: 7k Genre: slight angst i guess, fluff, NOT A SMUT so i apologize Warning: language Playlist: (link in my desc)
Summary: Because after a heavy storm comes the sun that heals all the wounds and heartaches. You two meet again in better circumstances.
A/N: Before you correct me on anything, I am aware that Harry Styles composed and wrote 'Falling' but for fictional purposes, we say Jungkook wrote it. This has been long awaited and it's been a year since the last one, I was just really waiting for that grip to inspire me to write this "sequel" and then Jungkook drops a freaking cover while I was in the middle of this lmao. This isn't proofread, spare me. :(
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He had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. That's what the old magazine at Lonepine Diner said. Life is separated into parts, and he gets to choose what he does with these parts. Years had passed since he had gone to that diner, but the quote had been a wine stain in his head.
'Has it really been that long?' he'd ask himself whenever the blazing heat in New York reminds him of the worn out pages lying near the counter of that diner.
Years. In those years, he had managed to pick himself up, piece by piece. The first year was tough, he and Namjoon had only started out the band and they would sing from hotel lounge to carnivals to stupid birthday gigs. It was rough starting over in a big city such as New York, but it was New York. How could he dream of so much better than New York?
The second year had shaken the team. Namjoon wanted to call it quits. No one will ever listen to their music, he was convinced. He admitted that there was no soul keeping the band together and they all agreed. They broke up six months after they were formed. It was devastating, but he will always remember that quote from that magazine no matter how hopeless he will feel. The place he was staying at downtown started getting blue, and he was counting the days of his stay before the landlord kicks him out. He had no gig, no balance, only empty cans of stouts.
There were times he'd think maybe it really is over and the universe had sent him all the signs to give up his ambitions, but the only thing stronger than those signs was his passion to sing. He'll sing someday, alright. He'll sing somewhere people could hear him.
The last week of July that year, the same week he's about to get his ass evicted, he wrote. With only the company of his last can of beer and guitar, he wrote. The lyrics on that pizza box were barely readable, but it didn't matter because he knew them well enough in his heart as though the lyrics were only asking to be written out.
The night before his landlord came, he'd gone out of that stinky place and went around the big city. This was his last shot and if it wouldn't work out, then damn, could he get any lower than rock bottom? So, there was Rossi who had fished him out of that deep slump. Gave him a deal to write songs and got him to agree to sell the songs. It was a shit deal, nobody wants to be the ghostwriter. But he was in desperate need so he made it work out.
