Chapter Text
You stayed with Jinah for a week. The first four days blended together, as if your life had melted into nothing, forming a slurry of your existence that had no makeup, no solidity. Those days were the easiest.
Jinah took care of you while you floated inside yourself. She made sure you ate a little food, drank a little water. She made sure you called your boss and got approved to take the week off. Severely ill, you remembered her coaching you to say. And she tried her best not to bother you, to ask you anything too difficult. She didn’t say a word about what had happened in her little kitchen.
The fifth day you woke up sore, your body weak and aching, as if you had been in a boxing match with some great champion. You woke up to your surroundings: Jinah’s pretty, little apartment, her laundry laid across the drying rack near the couch, Pang silently swaying into the kitchen to nibble from his bowl.
The living room was quiet, only the ambient sounds of appliances humming to keep you company. Orange reams of sunlight were streaming in through the half-drawn blinds of her living room window. Jinah must have left not long ago for her night shift. You lifted yourself from her couch with great effort and slowly shambled to the bathroom, squinting as you flicked on the light.
You stared into the mirror, at a face you hardly recognized. Gaunt, hollow, and above all else, sad. Your eyes were puffy, as they had probably been for days while you had cried uncontrollably and without fully understanding why.
Wearing a spare pair of Jinah’s pajamas, you let your eyes wander down your body, to the sliver of skin that showed between the top and pants. You lifted the shirt, studied your belly. It didn’t look much different than usual, but you knew what was brewing inside. You could feel it, had felt it every time you ran to the bathroom and hurled up your guts.
Your baby. Yoongi’s baby.
The three days that followed were the hardest. More than cry, you had to face your decisions, the reality of what had happened, of the end of your relationship, of losing the man you had loved without fail for three years.
You wanted to crawl back into the nothing, to hide from your feelings, from facing the truth, but it was too late. Your consciousness was awake again, staring you down with each passing minute and reminding you that hell was here and now. You cried, wondering each time how you managed to have any tears left. You grieved for what you had lost. And for what you were planning to give up.
Jinah told you she would support whatever decision you made, but thought you should at least have some counseling to make sure. You told her you would think about it, thanked her for being the best friend anyone could ask for, and apologized for cramping her apartment. She just joked that you owed her a sweet vacation somewhere tropical and told you to take care of yourself.
The next week, with some borrowed clothes from Jinah and your purse in hand, you left to stay with your mom. Her house was much farther from the city than your or Jinah’s apartments, but she was more than eager to have you stay. She drove you to the train station each morning and picked you up each night, so that you could get back and forth to work.
Life had to, impossibly, go on and you had reluctantly accepted that fact, trying to regain some normalcy somewhere in the shattered pieces of your life.
Your mom of course said she enjoyed the company, tired of living alone in your childhood home after your dad had passed away a few years ago. And she couldn’t have been happier to hear that you were pregnant, giving you all the advice she could think of from when you were a baby and already eager to babysit as often as you needed.
You didn’t have the courage to tell her what you’d planned. You barely had the courage to tell yourself, ignoring the inevitable conversation, not yet ready to take the painful trip to your doctor’s office.
At the end of the first week with your mom, you found her sitting in the living room, cross-legged on the floor with stacks of pictures spread out before her on the low, wooden coffee table.
“Having you here and talking about your baby got me a little nostalgic,” she said when she noticed you watching her. “I decided to pull out some old pictures of you when you were little. I want to try scrapbooking them.”
You laughed, a little surprised that you still could. She wouldn’t. Your mother had never been one to follow through with her little projects, always getting distracted by the next crafty thing she found on Pinterest. But you spent most of the day with her on that floor, listening to her tell stories about you when you were a curious baby and a mischievous toddler, pointing out each picture that led to another story of you with cake on your face or mud in your hair. Her memories made your doubts grow bigger and heavier and you decided you wanted her to know what you had planned to do. Whether to ease your guilt from making the decision or just to hear someone else’s thoughts about it besides your own, you weren’t sure.
“Mom, I was thinking about not having the baby.” You didn’t look at her, couldn’t. But your mom didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, of course you have that choice, honey.”
“But...now I’m not sure. I feel like having her will only hurt me, will only remind me of what happened. But I also feel like it’s something I’ll regret. I’m so confused and angry and...it just hurts.” Your words didn’t really make sense, didn’t really explain anything. But it was a good reflection of how you had been feeling since the day you left Yoongi kneeling on the floor. Hurt. Lost.
Rather than answer you, your mother just put her arms around you. She held you like you were a kid again, rocking you slightly and cradling you against her chest. And even though you felt like your tears were already long dried up, you cried again, cried into her shoulder, heaving sobs while she just stroked your hair.
And having her hold you and kiss your head and tell you how much she loved you unlocked a little of the tightness that had been filling your chest since the night Yoongi closed that door behind him.
“I know that boy hurt you,” your mom spoke after a long quiet. “But that baby is half of you as well. He might have broken your heart, but your baby was made when it was full of love.”
You cried more. She was right after all. And after sleeping in your old bed that night, you woke up with fresh eyes, slowly unraveling the thoughts that had been plugged up in your head. One by one, they unlocked, the muddled emotions your heart had been trying to make sense of finally giving you an ounce of clarity.
So you kept your appointments. You grew rounder and more swollen each day, reminding yourself constantly of your mother’s words. It was love growing inside you. And you decided you would love her without prejudice, exactly like she deserved.
Two months later, when you finally left your mother’s house and returned to your apartment, you sort of wished you never had.
Everything looked normal really, until you reached the little closet Yoongi had turned into his at-home studio. The cheap, wood door was hanging open, splintered and smashed right through. Expensive sound equipment, microphones, headphones, mixing electronics. Ripped, cut, broken to pieces. Computer screens smashed. The window into his soul was there, staring at you from that pile of ruined electronics.
His clothes were still hanging in the closet of your bedroom, but you could tell he hadn’t been there for a while. It seemed like your apartment had been a ghost town for weeks.
You stood in the hall in front of his mess unsure of what to do. Memories of what you both had together were everywhere, hanging neatly on the walls, in each little bit of decor. You finally made your way to the living room and sat on the couch.
From there you could see the little movie collection you had built together next to the television. A picture of you both stuffing your faces with cotton candy at a festival sat on top of the end table. You’d kept it, framed it because of the way he was smiling, the way his eyes had sparkled in the flash. It had made you so happy. His slippers were next to the couch, the extra thick ones you’d bought him because his feet were always so cold.
You cried long and hard on that couch, surrounded by what you had built for three long, mostly happy years. You wondered if the tears would ever stop, so tired of the bouts of your jumbled emotions spilling out onto your cheeks at a moment’s notice.
Jinah came over later that night to help you pack your things. It was for the best, you’d decided. You needed to get out of there, to get away from your memories and start on a path towards healing from this mess. Besides, you didn’t know where Yoongi was and he clearly didn’t want you to know. It was probably best this way, for you to just disappear from each other’s lives.
“It probably sounds vain after what I said to him,” you said, speaking your thoughts as you shoved yet another picture frame into a box you had labeled “Do Not Open” in thick, black marker. “But I’m really surprised that he hasn’t tried to call me, even once.” You bit your lip, allowing yourself to fall back into old habits and fret just a little. “I hope he’s alright.”
Jinah suddenly froze, hands pausing over the box she was stuffing full of decorative pillows. “Oh my god, Y/N. I-I blocked his number from your phone,” she said, then dropped the pillows she was holding and gasped. “Oh shit, that first night you came to my place! I was so angry at him when he called. I blocked it immediately. I’m sure it’s still blocked on your phone, oh my god. I’m so sorry!”
You were already grabbing for your phone from the coffee table, scrolling through the setting and seeing his name and number there. You undid the block, confirmed the new settings. Your phone went berserk. There were almost 40 blocked voicemails, each one flooding through from some separate, hidden inbox. All from him. Your mouth fell open.
You let them all play, the pain in your heart expanding with each one.
Him crying, only crying into the phone until the message time ran out. Him cooing romantically about how much he loved you, how you deserved so much better than him. Him begging you take him back, swearing that you were meant to be together, that he wanted to marry you. Apology after apology, recounting what an idiot he had been, how he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, how guilty he felt. Him begging you to keep the baby.
Him telling you he was going to stay with a friend for a while if you wanted to come home and get your things. Him reading you lyrics he’d written, about how awful he felt, about how amazing you were, about how he hated himself for hurting you, how he loved you, loved your baby. Message after message, a rollercoaster of his emotions over the weeks you had been apart.
And the most recent, from only three days ago. A song.
He couldn't sing for shit, but the music. The lyrics. About how he had taken his own limb and torn it off. About how he bled, lived on still bleeding. About the flower he had let drift downstream, too late in reaching for it only to fall into the water and drown. All laid over the most bittersweet music you had ever heard, each note burying itself between the cracks in your heart.
Jinah sobbed with you on the living room floor for an hour.
His song had apparently been his last effort to reach you. You hadn’t received anything else since unblocking his number. After you had your things moved out, it took you another two weeks to work up the courage to text him.
You sat on your new couch, feet tucked underneath you as you stared at your phone, eyeing the message for at least half an hour before forcing yourself to press the send button.
Y/N : I’m having her.
You threw the phone across the cushions, as if it would burn your hands if you held it any longer. You stared at it, regretting your every decision. Would he even respond? What would you say if he did? What if he called? Would you answer? Could you? You bit the inside of your cheek.
You jumped when your phone started ringing less than a minute later. You let it ring at first, unable to move, unsure if you wanted to. After two more rings, you grabbed it and took a shaky, deep breath. Then you pressed the little green button to accept his call.
“Really? Are you really?” he said, breathless, as if he’d just been running. If his heart was beating as fast as yours was, you weren’t surprised.
You nodded, though you knew he couldn’t see. “Yes.”
“Y/N,” he said.
Hearing him say your name was like wind chimes in a soft summer breeze, but also like a jackhammer pounding directly against your chest. You felt comforted and pained all at once and unsure what that feeling meant. You’d expected to be saddened, to still be burning with anger and attacked by his voice. But there was some other feeling there, curling inside your chest as you spoke with him for the first time in weeks. Something almost good.
“Will I...will you let me see her? C-can I be her dad?”
No begging you to take him back. No pushing to come see you. No apologies or excuses. Just him wanting to be a part of your child’s life. You shook your head at your selfishness. It wasn’t about just you anymore. She was made from both of you, your innocent baby. He had every right to be in her life, just as much as you did, no matter what had happened.
“...Yes,” you said after a while.
“Y/N...”
He asked, but didn’t insist, if he could go with you to your next appointment. He wanted to see her in your tummy, to watch her as she grew from appointment to appointment. He was cautious when he asked, as if he expected rejection. You agreed to let him come.
After you hung up, you sent him a picture of the sonogram from your last visit.
Yoongi : She’s beautiful.
It was all he text back.
He didn’t reach out to you after that call. You text him your doctor’s address and the date and time of your next appointment and he was there in the waiting room when you arrived. You grimaced at the sight of him, so thin he was almost sickly, the sharp edges of his jaw well-defined in the way that only happened when he forgot to eat regularly. He definitely hadn’t been doing that.
But there was so much joy in his eyes when you were called inside, when the doctor confirmed you were having a girl, when she pointed out her little toes and fingers forming. You’d never seen him smile so brightly. You signed up for parenting classes and delivery prep courses together. He was overeager, handling you like a priceless doll as you left. You had taken the train, but he drove you to your apartment and in the excitement of the moment, you ignored your bitterness. You let him come in.
“Do you need anything?” he asked after practically carrying you to your couch. “Can I do anything for you? Laundry, dishes, vacuum?”
“Yoongi, it’s still really early. I’m fine, I even plan to work all the way through. I’m fine, I promise.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, a little of the eagerness fading from the corners of his mouth. You could see the words, dancing around behind his eyes. But he stayed quiet and nodded, shuffling uncomfortably on his feet.
Yoongi, who used to kiss your fingertips while you lay together in bed. Who used to get so excited when he’d made a new track, hovering around you like an impatient bee while you listened, waiting eagerly for your feedback. Who used to smile so wide when you made him coffee before you went to bed, knowing he’d be staying up and working through the night.
The night that he’d sold his first song, that he knew his name was going to be on an actual, produced album, he’d taken you out and you’d both gotten so drunk celebrating that you fell into a puddle on the side of the road. And he’d carried you, dirty and wet, all the way home on his back.
Yoongi, who cheated on you, who broke your trust, tearing your heart into a million pieces.
You looked at him, really looked at him like you hadn’t in months. None of those memories had gone. He’d hurt you, betrayed what you had in one of the worst ways possible. But before that moment, you’d loved him, unconditionally. And he’d loved you.
You thought about his voicemails. He still loved you.
The thoughts you had been turning over since you’d decided to keep your daughter, the thoughts that you’d been trying so hard to force down, came rushing back. It would’ve been one thing if he’d reacted any differently. Blamed you, blamed your relationship, blamed a lack of sex, a lack of love, anything at all.
But he’d only apologized, confessed that he’d made a bad choice, only begged for forgiveness for his mistake, cursed himself for fucking up, and swore he never would again.
And in that, you thought maybe you should be willing to listen. Instead of shutting down, instead of shutting him out like your wounded heart wanted you to, like the bitterness you’d clung to begged you to, you thought maybe you should be open to hearing him, to really, truly listen.
“Yoongi, if there’s something you want to say, I’m listening.”
He froze for a moment, then came to sit next to you on the couch, keeping his distance. He had his hands in his lap, wringing them together nervously before settling his gaze on you.
“Y/N, do you think you can ever forgive me? Not because of the baby, but because I love you so much. I’ve been so sick after what I did to you. A-and even if you don’t lo…” he paused, clenching his jaw as if the words hurt to say. “Even if you don’t l-love me anymore and there’s not a future left for us together, at least...at least...” You could tell he wanted to say more, so much more that he’d probably been thinking about over and over since he left that night.
But he stopped himself, words trailing off as he gathered his thoughts. You were grateful for the pause, afraid of the overwhelming emotions welling in your chest. Of course you still loved him, how could you not? And you missed him, god you missed him. But forgiving him?
You didn’t know if it was possible, not yet, if ever. It felt like a foreign word, an unfamiliar concept.
He took in another breath and continued. “I know I don’t deserve to ask. I know I caused this, it was all me and my stupid decision. But I have to earn your forgiveness for what I did to you. I have to try.”
You brought your finger to your lips, biting your fingernail between your teeth while you thought.
One day you would have to talk. You would have to listen to the full story, to know exactly when and where and why he had strayed from you, had broken you both this way. You knew if you kept him in your life the conversation would be inevitable. The image you’d seen, the words he’d spoken to her were still burning, the memory still smoking in your mind, choking your heart.
You studied his pale skin, cheeks hollowed to sharpness, the sheen of his dark hair. You watched his hands, fidgeting in his lap while he spoke, while he watched you.
“Forgiveness,” you said quietly, flatly, more to yourself than to him, turning the word over and over in your mind, searching for a connection. He cleared his throat when you spoke.
“I know you letting me back into your life for our baby must’ve been so hard for you. But for me, it means the world. That you’re keeping her. That you’re letting me be in her life.”
He took another deep breath, as if he had been holding in all the words close to his heart, finally able to let them out, to let you hear them. He folded his hands in front of him, looking down at them instead of at you. You hadn’t moved from your spot on the couch, only processing his words, only listening.
“I just want a chance to make up for what I’ve done to you,” he said. “To us. Just a chance at forgiveness. If you’ll let me try.”
Was there any chance, however small, that you could rebuild the trust between you? You hadn’t let yourself consider it, had let the hurt, the betrayal consume your thoughts. But he was here and you were here and even though the pain was also still there, even though the memories of that day were still cut fresh into your mind, this had to have meant something. It had to have represented what you hadn’t allowed yourself to see for a long while.
Hope.
“Ok,” you said.
There were bruises and cuts between you, deep and open and still sore. But with hope you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could both start to heal.