To What Was Ours

what was once mine

"You know, I think I'm kind of glad you're gone, oddly.

You don't have to deal with the stress of our lives. You don't have to deal with anything. I'm glad you went quickly. I'm glad that you didn't feel anything. I'm glad that you are somewhere safe and happy.

I wish I could've come, too.'

---

When Park Jimin first discovered his love for dance, he was thirteen years old; uncoordinated, unconfident, and unsure of where exactly to place his limbs. That particular weekend night, moving along to a song he kept hearing on the radio, he saw the moon for the first time; his tranquil, bright, moon. He tripped more times than he could count. Went to bed in frustration every other night. Compared himself to every YouTube video and every other classmate in his school.

For a long time, that doubt never went away, but it was only a slightly dirty window separating the Earth's satellite and him. His love for dancing grew and grew until he knew he had no choice but to find a future for himself.

As a trainee, there was a cloud of insecurity that hung over his head each lonely day in Seoul. For a long time, it was the only day. He thought, when he finally debuted, that it would disperse and he would see the moon again. Instead, he saw a thin crescent, and somehow, the car window only got dimmer, and dimmer. He felt like he would always see himself in a wide, floor-length, mirror, and never not tell himself that he could do better.

Thirteen-year-old him might've had something to say about that. He knew that he danced like the people in those videos he'd stay up all night watching. He might've told him that there was always room for improvement, that he was the best he ever saw, but he didn't know how what it felt like when the twenty-nine and a half-day rotation was up and all the night sky was dark matter. He didn't know the desperate way he'd cry out for the last sliver to stay, because he wasn't sure if he could survive another night of black.

And even he didn't know, age twenty-six. Because Jimin hadn't danced since he was twenty-five.

Hoseok was facing the practice room door and raised his brows when he pushed it open, without a care of how loud the slam against the wall was. He stood there in silence as Jimin approached him, holding out his phone until it was shoved underneath his nose. Then, he made a small noise of question.

"I want to finish this."

The older dancer took a moment to register what video was playing, but Jimin witnessed the dark shadow fall over his eyes when he did. Just by the audio, he knew Jungkook was at a specific twirl that twisted his insides. Every single sneaker squeak implanted deep into his mind.

"I want . . I think he would want me too." He shook his head, spitting his sentiment out, knowing that he could never know. "I don't know. I just want to. Please, help me."

Hoseok stared only long enough to let Jimin pull together a reason.

"Why do you want to do it?"

"It's his last piece of work. He deserves that much." Tears built up in his eyes as he looked back down at the screen. The video restarted, keeping Jungkook alive for only another minute thirty seconds. "He was such a good dancer. He was getting so good."

The brunette pursued his lips, prodding gently, head tilting to one side. "Any other reason?"

Jimin knew exactly what he was looking for. Saying it out loud felt as terrible and relieving as he imagined it would.