I knew the text before I even opened it.
The manager's tone was always clipped when something serious happened. Meeting. 9 AM sharp. HQ. Mandatory.
I stared at it for a long time, my thumb hovering above the screen. My chest felt heavy, as if someone had filled it with wet sand overnight. Jungkook was still asleep across the hall, his door half-open, soft breathing drifting out like a fragile thread of peace. For a second, I thought about waking him, asking him to say something silly, something grounding, but instead, I closed his door gently. I couldn't drag him into my storm before it was time.
At headquarters, the hallways felt colder than usual. Sterile, echoing. Every step of my sneakers on the polished floor made me feel like I was walking into judgment.
The conference room was already full. Executives in dark suits, their faces carved into seriousness. Screens lit up with headlines. My stomach turned as I recognized the photos—grainy, night-time shots of me and Jungkook on the balcony, leaning too close, smiles we thought were private now magnified across the internet. Next to them, bold captions: "Secret romance? Fans speculate." and "Is there truth to the Taekook rumors?"
The air pressed down on me.
"Sit," one of the directors said flatly. I obeyed, my hands tight on my knees.
The meeting began. Words like reputation, image, risk filled the room, bouncing against the walls like bullets. They didn't look at the group as a whole. They looked at me. And then at Jungkook. Like we were problems that needed to be solved.
I tried to keep my face blank, but inside, I was splitting apart. I hated how powerless I felt, hated the way my heart raced like a cornered animal.
"You know how this industry works," one executive said, his voice cool, deliberate. "You can't give people reasons to speculate. This… closeness, this carelessness—it has consequences. We can't afford another scandal."
I opened my mouth to speak, but Jungkook beat me to it. His voice was steady, stronger than I expected. "We weren't doing anything wrong. We're human. People see what they want, but we're not guilty of anything."
His words silenced the room for a beat. I stared at him, almost shocked. He sat with his back straight, his jaw firm, refusing to flinch under their eyes.
Meanwhile, my throat felt locked. I wanted to echo him, to say we weren't some dirty secret, but the words dissolved before they reached my tongue.
The executives sighed, shuffled papers, muttered strategy points about media control. "Limit interactions in public. No unnecessary exposure. Remember, you represent something larger than yourselves. Don't give them fuel."
The meeting dragged on, every sentence another weight added to my chest. By the time it ended, my hands were cold.
When we stepped outside, the sky was too bright, almost mocking. Fans clustered behind barriers, their voices rising the moment they saw us. Phones shot up, lenses aimed like weapons. I forced a smile, waved, signed a few things, played my part. On the outside, I was Taehyung, performer, idol, untouchable.
Inside, I was suffocating.
Back at the dorm, I shut myself in my room. My phone buzzed endlessly—friends checking in, news alerts, hashtags exploding, fan theories spreading like wildfire. I didn't look. I couldn't.
I sat in silence until my eyes fell on the sketchbook sitting on my desk. Jungkook had left it there days ago. I flipped it open.
The first page was blank except for one messy line in his handwriting:
We'll figure this out together.
I stared at it until my vision blurred. My chest ached, but this time not from pressure—this time from the small, stubborn comfort that I wasn't alone.
For the first time all day, I allowed myself to breathe.