To What Was Ours

- and what will never be.

December 1st, 2023

A clock ticks. Serving only as a reminder that time is moving. The smell of lavender sits in the air. By now, most would go blind to its scent. Somehow it preservers. A candle flame flickers. From the first day he saw it, it has never stopped burning. But now, it's beginning to wean. It does not have much longer left.

Besides this, it's silent in the room.

She sits there without a word on her tongue. It's a situation she's never been in before - has always known what to say to every sentence imaginable, no matter the heaviness. But no one ever prepared for everything, and it's almost his mission to prove that. It's silent. Yet there's a roaring only they can hear.

Even though she is the most professional woman he has ever met in his life, she appears visibly shaken up, swallowing down something heavy in her throat. When she flips the navy blue bound book over in her hands, the inscribed golden title flashes for a moment.

To What Was Ours.

She takes a sip of lukewarm coffee, licks her lips, not to indulge in the flavor, but to do anything. Feel something other than the pressure behind her throat. It's meticulous and slow, and unlike any natural movements he's ever seen her do. He watches her, not without sympathy, but silently, and blank. Her reaction was not what he was looking for the moment he handed it over.

"This is quite the story," she manages to say, voice thick. "How long have you been working on this?"

"Years, now."

"What -" a pause, "what was your reasoning?"

"I needed a distraction."

She's begun to pull herself together, beginning to understand a bit deeper. Still, her jaw trembles. "Are you finished?"

"I have."

She becomes curious, daring to raise her brow.
"Will you find something else? To distract yourself?"

Jeon Jungkook stares at the shrink but doesn't look at her. His eyes are unfocused, somewhere beyond the perceivable room. There is not a twinkle of light in them. They seem to have already died.

"I guess I have no choice."

She bobs her head in a few small nods, glancing back down at the book in her lap.

"For what it's worth . . I think it was beautiful."

Maybe it was. He had worked hard on it. He'd written out words he never once used in his daily life. Maybe the layers of hurt threaded into his work created a masterpiece.

But there is nothing beautiful about his life. There hasn't been, for a long time.

The events of November 10th, 2020 had transpired rather differently.

For starters, it had not rained. It was a clear and sunny day, and the roads were not deserted as previously depicted. The weatherman had even described it as being the most perfect day of the year, incredibly bright and warm despite it being the middle of fall. He remembers how the morning sun fell on his skin. The sunrise had been painted gold. The birds were up early and sang a busy song as the city awoke.