Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 130: The House That Waited

A streetlamp buzzing with a broken bulb.

It was the kind of noise that made you feel both invisible and seen—like the universe was aware of your pain, but didn’t have time to stop for it.

I sat with my hoodie pulled low and my knees tucked to my chest, just breathing through the guilt that kept getting stuck in my lungs.

I didn’t leave to punish her.

I left because I thought maybe I already had.

The second night, I stayed in an old studio.

One of the backup game spots in Hongdae we used to crash in after long nights of streams.

No cameras. No security.
Just a bunch of consoles and neon lights.

I found a blanket in the back closet and slept on a mat like I used to.

Like I wasn’t the version of myself that had blood on his knuckles and silence on his lips.

I didn’t bring my phone. Not really.
I turned it off before the first text came in.

Because if I heard her voice, I’d run back.
And I didn’t think I deserved that grace.

I’m not hiding.
I’m just… unraveling.
There’s a difference.

Hiding means you don’t want to be found.

Unraveling means you don’t know what you’ll look like if someone does.

By the third morning, I’m sitting outside a convenience store in Sinchon, a half-finished bottle of banana milk by my side and the sun creeping up behind the buildings.

I haven’t shaved. My hoodie still smells like the house.

Every now and then, I glance at the street like maybe she’ll walk by.

But she doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.

A guy behind the counter watches me like I’m about to shoplift. I nod politely and move to the bench outside.

My thoughts are loud in the quiet.

You hit someone.
You let it boil over.
You said nothing when it mattered most.

But it wasn’t just Gabriel.
It was the weight of all of it.

The hugs I didn’t know how to interpret.

The past that kept showing up at our door, smiling like it still belonged.

The way she kept asking me if I was okay and I kept lying because I didn’t want to be that guy.

Jealous. Insecure. Fragile.

I thought I was better than that.
But maybe I’m not.

Maybe I’m still the boy who breaks things when he doesn’t know how to speak.

A few kids walk by laughing and I look away, hoodie still pulled tight.

My hand throbs from where it collided with his jaw.

I didn’t hit him out of hate.

I hit him because I hated the version of myself that stood there and said nothing for weeks.

And now I’m afraid to go back because I know exactly what I’ll see.

Her hurt.
Their disappointment.
The house that no longer feels like it wants me in it.

And something else I’m too ashamed to say out loud—A part of me doesn’t trust myself not to do it again.

By late afternoon, I make my way toward the train station.