No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

3 ♡

[Yoongi's POV]

Days pass, but it doesn't feel like time moves.
Work fills every hour; mixing, rewriting, talking through logistics, but my head never stays where my hands are. Between takes, between beats, I catch myself checking my phone like a reflex. It never lights up.

I tell myself it's fine. That we both needed the space. But the space doesn't feel clean; it feels like static. Everything I do hums with the sound of something unfinished.

I see her sometimes, accidentally. A flash of her name on a shared production email, a call-sheet that lists her agency. I keep my replies clipped, professional. She does too. We circle each other like satellites; close enough to feel the pull, far enough not to collide.

At night, when the city quiets, I replay the last few seconds before she left:
Yes?
Goodnight, Yoongi.

The restraint in her voice was sharper than anything else. It's strange how the softest words can bruise.

The shirt still hangs in the same corner of my closet. I tried moving it once, thought maybe I could fold it, put it away. But I couldn't. It smells fainter now; just a whisper of her perfume, but it's enough to undo me when I brush past it. I keep telling myself to wash it. I don't.

Music used to be the way I worked things out. Now every chord I touch sounds like her laugh at 3 a.m., like the quiet after she said why am I here? I start a dozen new projects and finish none.

When people ask if I'm sleeping, I lie. When Daehwan drives me home, I pretend not to notice the way he glances at me in the rearview mirror, trying to decide if I'm okay. I'm not sure how to answer that anymore.

Some nights, I scroll to her name, thumb hovering over it until the screen goes dark again. I tell myself she's fine. That she meant what she said about not being fragile. That she's somewhere busy, laughing, moving on.

It's a good story. It just doesn't stop the ache.

[Eunah's POV]

Work doesn't stop.
Emails, meetings, phone calls, a constant shuffle of names and deadlines. My desk is a small island of half-empty coffee cups and schedules, and I lose whole hours inside the noise. People ask if I'm okay; I smile because it's easier than explaining a silence I can't name.

Every now and then his name appears in an inbox or a calendar. Just text on a screen, neutral, harmless. Still, I have to pause before I open anything that mentions him. The air shifts when I see it. I type replies that sound professional and polite and exactly the same as everyone else's. I read them twice to make sure there's no trace of the person who once woke up to find me still there.

I tell myself I've moved on. That night meant nothing new.
But some evenings, when the office is empty, I catch myself scrolling through old playlists; the ones I made after our first few meetings, before I knew how dangerous familiarity can be. The songs sound different now, heavier somehow.

I eat dinner at the counter, alone. Watch the news on low volume. Pretend the quiet is peace and not just absence. Sometimes I reach for my phone without realizing it, thumb hovering over his name the same way he probably hovers over mine. The symmetry would almost be funny if it didn't hurt.

When I lie down, I think about that shirt of his I wore the last time, how it smelled faintly of my perfume and his cologne. For a few seconds I let myself picture it still hanging somewhere in his place, untouched. Then I shut the thought down, because it's easier to believe he's already washed it.

The static never leaves, though. It lives under the surface of every normal day: a hum, a pulse, a memory that refuses to fade.

I told him not to call me when he's lonely.