As Long As I Can (Jiminx Reader) [Completed]

Chapter 10: The Quiet After the Spark

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The apartment was quiet when Jimin returned. A good kind of quiet. The kind that still held traces of laughter in the air and the smell of roasted sweet rice cakes lingering faintly on his coat. He leaned against the closed door, exhaling a soft breath that came out more like a smile.

His phone buzzed.

He pulled it from his pocket lazily, expecting something unimportant—but the name flashing on the screen made his heart dip just slightly.

Manager-hyung.

He sighed and opened the message.

> “We'll need to talk this weekend. Schedule review + comeback prep. You’re still keeping low, right? Don’t draw attention. Health reports look better—good job.”

Jimin stared at the screen for a moment, the warmth from earlier beginning to dull. Right. His break wasn’t permanent. It never had been.

He typed back a short reply.

> “Got it. I’m fine. Still laying low.”

But something about the message lingered. A reminder. That this peace, this town, even her—might be temporary.

He tossed the phone on the table and changed into comfortable clothes. As he curled under the covers, the night felt colder than it had before. The silence not as golden.

Still, the thought of Y/n’s laugh, that stupid plush toy now sitting on his windowsill, and the crinkled candy wrapper he still hadn’t opened—those kept him company.

He fell asleep with a smile that faded sometime before dawn.

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The next morning.

It started normal.

Sunlight leaked in through the curtains. The scent of dew on potted plants below. Birds chirped from somewhere he couldn’t see.

Jimin stretched, yawned, and walked toward the balcony with his usual sleepy shuffle—ready to see her scarf-clad figure fiddling with a plant or sipping tea in that oversized hoodie she wore every morning.

But she wasn’t there.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Waited.

Nothing.

Maybe she slept in, he told himself.

He grabbed his own mug of tea and lingered longer than usual, glancing every now and then toward her balcony. The small wind chime swayed gently, untouched.

No shadow. No giggle. No sarcasm shot across the space.

No her.

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Hours passed.

He ran errands in town, scarf pulled up to hide most of his face. Bought some fruit. Picked up a book he didn’t really plan to read. All the while, a low hum of restlessness followed him like a second heartbeat.

By noon, she still hadn’t come out.

Her bicycle, usually parked outside near the stairs, was missing.

He thought of texting her—but realized, with a strange jolt, that he didn’t even have her number.

Because this friendship—this something—had never needed phones or formalities. It had been real, spontaneous, glowing like the lanterns they’d released the night before.

And now, suddenly, she was just... gone?

By evening, Jimin had checked the balcony six more times.

Still nothing.