Pandora Unleashed ✔️

Two-Hundred

You understood the reason behind Jungkook's apprehension and hesitation when you pulled into his driveway. He didn't want you to enter his home, both in fear of what awaited inside but also in absolute embarrassment of how he left his place. However, the latter didn't seem to be a priority as he paid no attention to the mess in his living room. Instead, he hurried inside and headed directly upstairs.
Though you were disturbed by the trash that casually rested on and around the coffee table, you trudged passed it cautiously. It wasn't until you spotted days worth of used, dirty dishes and glasses in the sink and on his kitchen island that you defeatedly sighed. Jungkook was in a much tougher place than you initially believed.

God, you hated how well he masked it.

You grimaced once you reached the kitchen as an awful stench of rot burned your nose and you hurried to open the windows including the sliding door that led to the backyard. An agonizing anger pierced through you but guilt hastily replaced it as you disappointingly angered yourself for even being mad about the situation.

A short moment, after you'd begun sorting the scattered cutlery, he returned with a sigh of relief and explained that it didn't seem as though any of his personal belongings were taken and that the house wasn't broken into. Furthermore, he explained the true reason why he believed someone wanted to enter his home and why he left his things behind at the base.
Though you could hear him, his voice didn't cease the internal conversation you had with yourself. Not even his discovery, or rather his theory of Namjoon and his possible involvement with the Styles' trial could snap you from your hectic and scattered thoughts.

Since you embarked on the relationship, it had been a never-ending experience of half-truths, miscommunications, and to some extent, dishonesty; whether the latter was intentional or not. In the depths of your heart, you knew Jungkook never felt as though he intentionally kept you at an arm's distance, he simply couldn't allow himself to be that vulnerable and that was the problem.
He could be vulnerable, he just chose not to be with you. How could he expect so much of you and not hold himself to the same standard? The question itself infuriated you.

The warm water ran as you ferociously washed the cutlery, you didn't notice he stopped talking and began observing you until he voiced.
"You don't have to do that."

"I know," you murmured as the atmosphere became heavier, even sadder than before.

"Shorty--"

"I'm almost done, Koo."

"It's not your problem though--" he paused and hoped you'd respond.

You wanted to but what could you say? Either you could speak brutally and candidly, breaking his heart and making him feel small as you often did in the past, or you could counter the statement. However, by doing the latter, you'd challenge his innermost insecurities which inevitably would lead to an argumentative brawl that'd end the night with a familiar pattern that'll have you both experience a false notion of closeness. And as much as you desired to counter it by reassuring him that all of him was yours to bear, you knew he sought a reason to cave and dive head first into that deep well he feared so; self-destructive as always.

So you let the pause become an excruciating silence, only the sound of the cutlery and the water running bounced off the walls.
"You know--" he began with hesitation while his voice carried a feebleness that shattered your heart, "It'll always be like this."

"I know."

"Always, Shorty."

"I know, baby," you gulped.

"You'll always come home to this."

"I know," you whispered, still focused on cleaning the dishes and not allowing yourself to look at him.