Author's note:

Striped carnation meaning: It signifies rejection or refusal. It says that you can't be with someone or it's a simple no to a lover's affections (auntyflo.com).

Inspired by ''Spring Day''

The photos say nothing anymore despite the need for them to continue speaking and thus keep the hot summer loneliness away, dull the sound of the heavy rainfall against the window. The one, in particular, that should talk is the one taken in spring two years ago on a seesaw, the bright sun like a halo illuminating the girl who the light of life cannot compete with.

I miss you.

The thought increases tenfold, the pale walls of the cosy living room narrowing down to the onyx rough metal coffee table with the photo book taken up in a whim displayed on it and the L-shaped with cushions in a warmer auburn shade than will be ever felt again. The time this space was shared frequently has long since passed, unconsciously held hands disappeared from the ground zero between seats while watching a movie, always at first reluctant cuddles nevermore gratefully accepted and enjoyed. It is cruel, the memorized images not providing the cure they were thought to hold. She is still missed and the merciless never ends on the road to success.

Even seeing each other once, rare as the occasion is, is hard since security or screaming fans always follow wherever feet go. It is spiteful how not even a drink can be shared without the agency worrying about rumours or the risk of potential distractions distracting focus from a prospering career.

I hate this point, how things are going between us.

Even though the year still basks in the lingering humid heat which is sometimes lifted by a loud heavy downpour on gloomy days like these, although the temperatures do not really drop until twilight, it may as well be winter. The chill of the dead season lingers in veins slowly transforming into the bare limbs of the trees during the real cold. Regardless of it being August, there is truly nothing but winter's breath to nullify the positivity the new hours might bring. And it always ends the same, just another day tainted by disappointment and futile hope.

Time is relative and gone completely during the concerts where the alter ego of SUGA is taken on, making the mind forgetful of the difficult bond and the worry about the striped carnation petals coughed up in private without the knowledge of dear friends and management.

I'm left alone like the snow-piercer. Do you remember that, Y/N? The book that forms the base for the new era, the one I recommended after Joon had?

The pen scribbling down the lyrics to a song based on the current train of thought is put down with the desire to hold the hand that had to be let go of, the silence deafening now that the scribbling alongside staring at recorded memories has stopped, in spite of the continuous rain that has turned into white noise.

The other side of the world is the place to put an end to this cold that has overtaken private posture the moment feelings were not answered, the rejection at the back entrance of the hotel leaving glassy tears streaming down pale cheeks the instant Y/N expressed doubt about the relationship once of a friendly nature hastily tried to be turned into a nature with a deeper meaning. However, the Skype calls and delayed texts have kept us together somehow and regardless of the confession, albeit in a weaker state than before now that prizes are received almost weekly, concert halls are sold out in minutes and people scream seven names over and over as support.

It is a great perchance because it is not guaranteed to visit the country the beloved lives nor that the emotions which are still stirred up with every contact shall ever be answered, especially since she has moved on from the hope of ever becoming more than this. Every opportunity, hopeless as it is, that can put more meaning to what we have is disregarded and keeps the bond painfully friendly.

A hurt that became greater the moment word came of a guy who has captured the heart without awareness of this. A heart that turned to cracked stone the moment an instinct it was all meaningless arose, erasing the faith initially put in love.

Even in mine.

Nevertheless, the undefined longing does not stop, but it will be nice to know until when it will linger. Even just a mere indication shall be enough to bring peace of mind, a certain soothing to be found in the knowledge of when the petals of striped carnations will stop coming out of the body, veins and nerves will be completely turned to wood and the heart will be officially suffocated by roots. Maybe it will all stop when false hope no longer piles up like crystal snow on the ground at the end of the dead season and the spring days come at last. Notwithstanding, it is just as much a hunch as life is, a gamble in every aspect.

Please tell me it stops then, Y/N.

There is a belief the tide could have been turned if I had been there a little faster, before the chance of the beautiful love that could have been had was definitely diminished with the turn to toxic indifference. Unfortunately, there was no opportunity to do so for only the wind could have used its power to bring us together had I been a speck of dust that could be transported at her side instead of standing on a stage in front of an immense crowd, blow in the desired direction like the flying snow to enveloped the beautiful broken heart without the coldness characteristic of the element.

The autumn that wish was created turned into an early winter, introducing the speechless chilled gap in our friendship due to the tour turning hectic once the first snowflakes fell, each one pulling us apart more and more as messages remained unanswered, Skype calls were no longer an option and the coughing became worse.

I miss you, I miss you so much.

Another apologetic message, sent last week, remains unanswered as of yet despite containing the information of being back in the country and wanting to meet up. The location does not matter as long as it means it is at each other's side.

The minutes begin to tick by too slowly, if at all due to the world seeming to come to a halt as it always does when staring at the plotless photos. Eternally stuck in the sad reality of being without the one person who sees more than the rapper, for who there is a clear distinction between SUGA and Min Yoongi.

Regardless of eventually reacting, at most taking three days, this time it feels as if it requires a longer amount of time before a response comes and it is precisely that which keeps eyes open during the restless nights, phone put on the bedside table with the anxiety of missing the important message that will mean a reunion.

Please answer, Y/N. Tell me when I can meet you again. See you for real instead of being stuck here on the sofa with mere memories.

What is really wanted is a definite indication of the ending of this harshness between us, a sign that clarifies whether it is worth it to continue this fragile bond or cut all the long crimson ties binding us together in spite of everything. Maybe then the spring days shared with others who can provide in all that I cannot will come, flowers of renewed relationships blooming as mine continue to wither and die, their bodies quickly hidden in the bin once they come to the surface.

Nonetheless, there is a second version of the young season created in a mind stuck in the past, a world where she is still waiting, as patient as a saint, for me. Prayers are made to that reality daily, begging her to stay there a little longer if not forever.

The black screen lights up with the lock screen of that seesaw photo, showcasing a new notification.

Her answer.

***

The buzz of the general doorbell makes the body rise in anticipation, feet rapidly moving to the intercom to open the front door of the building and tapping impatiently while waiting for Y/N's to finally have ascended the granite stairs. The ring of the second bell resonates loudly in the ears, standing just beside the door in desperate wanting with arms crossed to still trembling hands aching to embrace despite the uncharacteristic nature of the wish.

Face pulled into the habitual stoic expression, taking one last deep breath, the door is opened to a strange sight. It is her and yet it is not or mayhaps it is my own view that has changed, that familiar person standing here somehow different from the loved girl that has been left behind so many times. Nothing but a hated silence passes as eyes meet, both gazes trying to recognize the abandoned companion and estimate whether this is a mistake after all. If a goodbye via the phone would not have formed a better alternative.

Nevertheless, one thing emphasizes we are definitely not the egos of the past: the rare affection only shown during times spent together is now completely absent. No spontaneous hug, no punch against the bicep, no complaint about sending too casual a text about landing and thus making the staff wait until she has arrived.

Nothing but bated breath, a cool chill creeping down the spine telling the inevitable: this is the last time.

We have changed, haven't we, Y/N? Just like everyone you know.

The seven of us have always been secretly eight thanks to her support, occasionally dropping by the dorm if the guys wanted to hold a movie night or there was too little time between interviews or concerts to go to the apartment. The realization of no longer enjoying the fierce cooking battles with her - which always resulted in delicious meals - sank in like a brick during the period contact became scarce and now does so once more at the suspicion that, regardless of the day still being young, lunch in one another's company is not an option.

A ridiculous thought fueled by the absurdity of the situation surfaces, although I very well know the proper reason for it lies with me and not her.

I hate you because you left me. Tried to move on with a man who couldn't care less about you, denied the comfort I wanted to give when you needed it.

Notwithstanding, not a day nor second without spotlight has gone by that the mind has not wandered off to her, wondering how Y/N is holding up in yet another long period of lonely radio silence. An extent of time wherein the dead petals form a continuous cruel reminder of being apart. However, in a bittersweet moment, it briefly looked like the long-searched-for bliss was surprisingly found and the dream of the hopeless romance was let go of. Unconsciously, she was, albeit for a few seconds, erased from a successful life and that illusion hurt less than to hold on to the tendency to put the blame with her.

And that short moment was a piece of Hell, the fortunately quickly returned coughing calming the intense aftermath of the shock caused by the horrible dawning of having wanted to forget about the one that means more than the world.

A want that despisingly resurfaces at the view standing in the entryway, the lovely girl obviously chilled by another futile chance at trying to move on in everything fate has taken from us. 'Are you just gonna let me stand here in the boiling hallway or let me join you in the air conditioning?'

'Still as rude as ever, aren't you?' The smile that invites the anticipated habitual punch against the bicep is disregarded with solemn eyes turned toward the ground as she wordlessly passes by in the direction of the living room, fingers hesitantly entwining with mine and pulling them along.

The door closes as footsteps follow one another to the other room. In the meanwhile, the mind is focused on the disappointment engraved in the stare of a beautiful woman, pondering methods to ease the pain that it is so hardly endeavoured to be hidden, to make it vanish like white smoke carried away on the breeze. There has to be a way to preserve her from the fate of flowers.

In the middle of the room, beside the basalt-toned coffee table, we come to a halt. Slowly, Y/N turns to speak properly vis-á-vis, the voice once full of energy devoid of it and replaced with a resignation that has the slightest hint of bitterness. 'How are you? Still breaking records with the guys?'

The questions contain a longing for the past when frequent visits were not a problem, exactly like going into town together was not.

The time before the carnations.

As fame grew with the spreading of BTS's music, so did the distance between us. It came to the point where it had become a cold gap that gave root to the ideas of erasing the friendship for both our benefits because it had become too difficult to maintain. And that unforgiving canyon is still tangible even as we stand here, balancing on the crumbling edge.

I've said multiple times I'd erase you, give you up in the pursuit of happiness, but I can't really let you go yet.

Not with unwillingly forming tears can the bond be broken, not with the repressed floral coughs, not with the ache in limbs slowly turning to wood seems to worsen now that the cause of the disease formerly disregarded as mere fantasy is present.

Yet, instead of betraying the thought that will destroy the fragile foundation - the last remnant of us - the conversational turn to the career choice is nullified by the memory of last winter. More specifically, the moment of the first signs of it in New York. 'I watched the snowflakes fall in America from the hotel window and I missed you by my side. It would have been like the last Christmas we celebrated, walking down the Han bridge with the last-minute purchases and getting delayed because you'd stop halfway to stare up at the sky. If I hadn't pulled you along, you would've turned into a snowman and I'd have frozen my fingers off.' The sliver of a nostalgic smile forms around the lips, but it is not enough to mask the effort of holding back, to conceal what has to be endured via this difficult reunion. 'I missed you then and even now I do. I miss you, Y/N. Every tour I count down the days, the nights I stay awake, wanting to know when the next moment of seeing each other will occur. I search for you in the audience, even though I know you aren't there.'

The right thumb wipes away the tear rolling down a delicate cheek while the body tries to hide the heaving up of petals, triggered by the unconscious signs that even this confession does nothing for the changing of sentiments. Regardless, even if it does not, all that is desired is a return to the days of old, to the spring when it was just us. 'I miss you.'

A spark of knowing flashes past in the watery gaze looking at its equal, signifying my best friend has not been ignorant as to the damage being apart has done to us, of the instances wherein the world reawakened the memories accounted in the photographs or those experienced in loneliness while thinking of a person miles away. Although not having been physically present, she knows it all.

Seeing that recognition erases the hurt likely worsened by the last guy that has not even tried to understand her, fuels the suddenly ignited ember hoping for better days within. The sun will rise again over this relationship because no darkness nor season can last forever.

The cold does not have to be endured forevermore.

'I tried to move on from those memories, from you. Yet, everything went down the drain. I'm so tired of getting my heart broken, but I know you never would.' The boldness initially fallen in love with protrudes in attitude, guiding hands to cling on to the simple black shirt to pull us flush against each other, lips moving in desperate unison casting all reason into oblivion for a few blissful seconds wherein the secretly harboured love is finally answered. A brief pause to catch a breath, questioning eyes looking shyly upward to lock gazes. 'Please... please don't break it.'

Cherry blossoms are blooming now that the winter is gone from a mind that has lived in it continuously, the plead having chased away its reign. 'Never.' A rapid peck, breathing becoming harder as a cheeky hand slides down between us and past the rough fabric of onyx ripped jeans, past the band of dark cotton boxers to play a game of desire. 'Never.'

It is uncharacteristically insane to give into passion so easily, to deny the strict rules set in unforgiving black on paper in the company's archive. Nonetheless, each minute spent on the road or even back home without the girl that has ever been truly loved and wanted in every way temptingly coaxes the mind into giving in. Y/N is the first and the only one who is able to divert focus from the ocean of faces screaming "SUGA" or "Yoongi" again and again, to pull me away from music without regret, to feel needed and desired in ways not a sole person has been able to mirror.

Lips disconnect as one pair moves on to the side of the throat where the vague musky scent of another man still lingers, an agonizing reminder of how an already broken heart continues to endeavour to restore itself yet gets torn apart at the seams every time it thinks it has found the right glue. Fingers leave the source for primal distraction, heaving up the edge of the night-coloured shirt that quickly gets tossed aside once the insinuation is noticed, moving on to the nape of the neck to entangle with raven black locks as the left palm pulls us closer together by holding the right shoulder. The stuttering of breath is more noticeable now, the tears leaving a salty trail disrupting the urge to bring bodily euphoria.

Hands having played hours of piano envelop the delicate face of a desperate muse, seeing the need to forget clearly in the sorrowful eyes staring up from long wet lashes. 'Just how much did he break you?'

'I don't- I don't wanna talk about it.' Former touches fade as palms move further down to undo the zipper barely containing the evidence of what we, or rather, she has started.

An action that is gently stopped by rapidly taking the busy hands in mine with a stubborn mind suddenly too occupied with acquiring an answer. 'Y/N-'

The wry smile that forms precedes an unexpected reply that immediately has to be contradicted. 'I'm not worth it, am I? Even you can't love me, precisely like him.'

I do love you, Y/N. I love you too much and slowly waste away because of it.

A prolonged death that will continue after doing this, because it is clear this serves only as a temporary painkiller. A medicine taken in the hopes of amnesia. This moment does not confirm or answer anything.

It is shallow.

Like we have become.

A sudden heavy heave has to be masked with a small cough, which is difficult when it feels as if an entire lung wants to come out. The new carnation petals that are laboriously swallowed down leave a bittersweet floral taste behind which slightly nullifies the honest tone of speech. 'That's not true. I have- I do- You mean so much to me. How can you doubt that, you idiot?'

The flash of a believing smile fades as fast as it appeared, the unrighteous burden only lifted for a second before weighing the mind down again. It has grown graver because the effort to let the killing secret remain untold has not been unremarked upon, but the silent begging in temporarily meeting eyes forms enough reason to not speak of it.