Work Text:
Taehyung/Seokjin, Taehyung POV
(Freewriting)
I was building a castle when I met you. I had always been, from the moment I walked and understood that worth wasn’t inherent. On a tall, precarious cliff, I set down the bricks and mortar, assembling a fortress despite having made one some metres below. Once I was done, I began climbing again, searching for the next altitude I could form a stronghold.
That was how I lived my life:
climbing,
climbing,
till I found a height that seemed just adequate enough to keep me safe. Then, the gurgling waters would rise (acid reflux up my stomach), and I’d start scaling once again, pursuing the next peak desperately.
At first, it went by percentiles. I aimed for the best grade that only a select few would be given in the school cohort. Then, I began chasing positions, wanting to be at the top though there were no practical differences; the scores were tabulated the same.
Then, I wanted it all. Every single point in that exam paper was there because it was possible to gain. So, it made sense that I should be earning them—if I was good enough.
The pattern repeated itself when I went out to work. Any stone I stepped on meant there was a mountain I needed to conquer.
You couldn’t understand why I constantly needed higher ground. Why I clambered despite my bloody nails and scraped feet, why I sought greater even as I crashed and burnt. Why I was never content with how far I came.
I grew up in a warzone within the fifth-floor corner unit. Unpredictable were the shootings (shouting); haphazard were the bombings (banging); erratic were the beatings.
I was a child who knew nothing about the world. It had to be me who was doing something wrong. After all, between the hits and insults, there were times they stroked my head and kissed me. Times where they tenderly called for me and made ice popsicles—where they brought me to the playground and held me to sleep.
There must be some way to avoid upsetting them. I just didn’t know the steps around the minefield.
So, I started learning. One, two, folding the clothes once they’re dry. Three, four, learning my times table before the neighbour’s son. Five, six—bam.
They flung the plates across the room. Two wrongs on the vocabulary test. It’s so easy.
They said I was procrastinating by doing the chores; I just didn’t want to make them angry like the last time for not tidying the dining table.
What was I crying for? Was I trying to make them the bad ones when it was my fault? To get worked up over something so small—I was humiliating myself further.
(That bruise on my cheek lasted a week.)
Again. One, two, praises from my piano teacher who wants me to skip a grade. Three, four, no mistakes on the mid-semester Math paper. Five, six—bang.
What’s so great about getting a perfect score? I’m so full of myself. My cousin will be performing at a violin recital at her school. I don’t know how to play the violin. If I showed some talent in it, maybe I’d have gotten some classes and I could perform like she did.
She scored 80% for her Korean exam, how smart. What about me?
(I scored 97.3%. I don’t understand. Maybe I should have gotten everything right.)
She chooses to watch the news, even though she’s 9-years-old—the same age as me. What about me?
(They don’t allow me to watch it because I’m too young. I don’t understand. Maybe I didn’t show I was capable enough.)
She’s just an amazing child. I should learn from her. I keep making excuses for why I can’t but she can.
(I hate her.)
Again. One, two—boom.
I broke the cupboard door. I didn’t, I swear. I really didn’t—
(They did that. They know that. Maybe it’s my fault for not stopping them in the first place.)
Again.
The goalposts kept changing. Every time I scored a goal, I was mocked for not getting a home run. When I figured out the scoring system and won the match, the audience had long moved on to another tournament.
How do you win at a game with changing rules?
You don’t. You keep racking up losses that prove exactly how inferior you are. How stupid you are, how hopeless you are. It was an uphill battle that simply never ended. The mindfield remained volatile despite the years, decades I spent studying it, memorising every little thing that set off an explosion.
I would simply never be good enough.
The numbers told me otherwise. The list of accolades kept getting longer. The scores couldn’t go any higher. The praises got so tiresome. I’d finally grown up and understood that as a child, I’d been roped into a game that was impossible to conquer. It wasn’t me. (Right?)
Yet, no matter the proofs that stacked up, it was long chiselled into my bones that I was worthless.
So, I kept
climbing,
climbing,
carrying the bruises and wounds from the bloodshed in my childhood. My life was a perpetual cliffhanger. I was ridden with anxiety, fearing how a single mistake would have me crashing down into the waters.
My grandparents used to tell me of a hardworking scholar who tied his hair to the ceiling while working, so it’d pull every time he dozed off. I never thought I needed that. The permanent noose around my neck was enough to strangle me awake if I ever gave myself a break.
It wasn’t the torment I put myself through that made me resentful. I’d long accepted it as my nature, me, and I would be uncomfortable being anything else but better and better.
What I loathed was that I couldn’t help but see the world as a warzone. Life was a zero-sum battle, where everyone else was a foe and a triumph for them meant a loss for me. It didn’t need to be a direct competition, such as for a scholarship or a place on some committee. Every time someone else succeeded, I felt threatened—because that meant they could be better than me.
Where would that leave me?
I was bitter and spiteful, hell-bent on being the only one who did well in life. I sabotaged whenever I could, even when there was no need to—deliberately giving the wrong information (the supervisor wanted this, I heard) and wrapping up malicious advice with concern (I’m just worried that you’ll be disappointed if you go for it). My compliments always came out backhanded—to dampen their spirits or nurse mine, I’m not sure. The relief I felt whenever things went wrong for someone else, even my loved ones, was phenomenal.
Someone like me couldn’t have friends to confide in or enjoy the company. On the surface, it was possible; in my head, I was constantly on my guard and putting others down. I operated on the assumption that others were equally out for my throat, preying on a future opportunity to demean me. Surely, their care and love came with motives, or they were so stupid to trust me.
I was endlessly seeking to destroy and conquer. Plainly, I couldn’t be happy for anyone else—and I hated myself for being like this.
But you couldn’t tell, could you, Seokjin? I seemed so normal on the surface. In one piece, even though I was actually all over the place.
I’m sorry I tricked you. I told you so many times that I wasn’t a good person. It’s your fault for not heeding my warnings.
On my way to the unseeable summit, I met you. It was in my third year of university, where I straddled over too many committees to pad my resume and obsessed over the two-place decimal differences of my grade point average.
You were a friend of a friend, tagging along to help with the volunteer work. The first thing I thought of you was that you were stupid, from how you grinned and spoke so brashly. As I got to know you, you turned out exactly how I expected you to be.
You were so at ease with yourself, taking each failure in stride. You tried harder the next time and willingly gave up the third if you fell short again. You settled with great, if best meant you’d burn yourself out for it.
You were okay with being decent. It was pathetic.
Despite this, I was madly in love with you.
Your amiable (pushover) personality that overlooks slights, because you think life’s better lived without harping over the little things (naive). The way you grow flustered at lavish compliments (gullible) and willingly help others who struggled (pretentious). How you love so openly (obnoxiously) and wear your weaknesses with no qualms (idiotically).
More than undermine, I wanted to praise you to see your ears go red. Underneath the calmness I showed, I was becoming a nervous wreck whenever you were around. Every word I spoke within your earshot had to be selected deliberately, where I’d readily offer help to others if you’d witness it. I was constantly calculating the actions that’d make me look best in front of you, instead of the weightage each assignment held.
You were like a flower that sprouted along the mountain slope. And there I was teetering, enamoured, prodding with my bloody fingernails while the waters clawed up over my feet.
I was looking for nothing out of our friendship. I had never been with someone, because it was frightening to learn whether I was good enough or not for somebody. I was the type to obsess when I failed, through admonishments and more blood over sweat and tears. I didn’t know how I’d react to a personal rejection.
No one would ever love me if they knew who I truly was.
Yet, I couldn’t stop trying, hoping you’d reciprocate my feelings.
I should have known better when I felt such terrible dread at your confession. You stopped me while I was walking you back to your dorm, crooked fingers twiddling, eyes with such a doe innocence that I was breathless. I knew what was coming and I should have stopped you there.
Somehow, with how giddy I was that you actually loved me, I held on to a hope that it could work. Things would be alright. I’d just keep watch of how I act.
As if I wasn’t completely fucked up in the head.
It started out well, didn’t it? My hopeless infatuation with you crushed my second nature into the back of my guts. I loved you so unbridledly that it startled me. Waiting hours for you after your classes, delivering cakes and flowers to your doorstep at midnight, saying ‘I love you’s without a second thought. I’d have my head up in the clouds every time you caressed my cheek and kissed me.
I could barely even recognise myself for those few weeks. I was still chasing the numbers, of course. The accomplishments continued to dissatisfy but for once, I felt happy. Happy enough to sincerely congratulate a classmate for a prestigious internship, happy enough to put aside the exam scripts because I was meeting you for dinner.
I thought, perhaps, I could be a little more content with myself if you were by my side.
Then, it resumed.
The acidic waters gradually corroded my ankles and the green bled back into my eyes. The altitude wasn’t high enough; I wasn’t suffocating and on the verge of death.
I began
climbing,
climbing,
climbing.
And soon, the infection crawled into our relationship.
It started mild. About a month since we got together, you asked me if I was with anyone else before you. We were lounging in your room, you on your bed and I on the floor.
I glanced at you. You were scrolling through your phone like the question had come just absentmindedly to you.
I asked you to answer before I did. You told me without hesitation that I was your second.
You were my first. After a moment, I replied that you were my second as well.
It was a lie that I didn’t intend for, but it slipped out naturally. It was just in case—you might think I was inexperienced if I told you the truth.
Several days later, you ended up some fifteen minutes late for our date. You scuttled up to me and apologised, saying your friend sprained her knee and you helped her to the clinic; you didn’t call earlier because you were on the phone with her mother. I said it was fine and asked you where you wanted to eat.
The next day, I arrived on the dot for our movie date. You were already waiting outside the theatre, looking out for me.
One minute. Two, then three. I lingered at a distance till it became eight before emerging—just in case. You beamed and took my hand, cajoling that you had cookies for us hidden in your bag. Raspberry cheesecake, you got them because I hadn’t tried them before.
It began that way: always just in case. I was sure you wouldn’t, somewhat sure, but the voice in the back of my head told me to take precautions.
The next time you were late, I counted how long.
And I made sure to be longer the next.
It grew insidiously. While we held hands and whispered sweet nothings to one another, I was tallying more and more numbers. One, two, the dates you cancelled, three, four, those you said you couldn’t make it and asked for another day. For every one you rescheduled, I rescheduled one. For every I suggested and you turned down, I did the same.
I stopped saying I loved you and waited for you to tell me first. When you recommended a place to go, I proposed another to see if you would accommodate.
Just to keep things equal of how much I gave and how much you did.
Just to make sure I wasn’t being taken advantage of—just to make sure I wasn’t being looked down upon.
The and turned into versus. I was gathering armour, scrap metal, picking up shards to keep as weapons. You forgot to introduce me to your friend whom we met by chance while on a date. I forgot as well two days later, when my classmate stopped to say hello.
Every time you asked if I enjoyed our dates, I said of course, lukewarm tone telling otherwise. You were disappointed by my responses but still openly announced that you always had a great time with me—we could do something I liked the next time.
Counting, keeping score, odd and even. You were the one who brought up celebrating anniversaries. I said I had plans on my 23rd birthday, but we could have a quick dinner together.
Whenever you confided in me, I comforted you with a warped relief. Instances where you knew you were being selfish, but couldn’t help it. Moments where you knew your complaints were shallow, but you still moped anyhow. Whispers about your irrational fears, like the dream you had decades ago about the end of the world.
In the back of my head, I collected each fragment like they were reserve bullets. Just in case.
Climb,
climb,
climb
for higher ground, for the upper hand. It was a game that was warping my head, who will win and who will lose, player one versus player two—but you didn’t seem to know. You served, I hit back, you didn’t.
Love - Love. There’s no such thing as lifelong allies, Seokjin.
Even though we were from different majors, you wanted us to take an elective together, so we did. It was exciting at first, to sit beside you in class and hold your hand underneath the table. Amidst the exhausting toil, where I burnt the midnight oil till I got nosebleeds, it was nice to study with you in the library.
On our first assessment, you scored the highest in our class. Our friends teased you for it, saying you were a changed man. You flushed and said you were just lucky.
I was three points shy of you.
It must have been because I didn’t try hard enough. But we studied together, and you were always dozing off. (I draped my jacket over you and fondled your hair.)
Maybe you were revising behind my back—pretending like you weren’t concerned about how you fared. Perhaps you chose this module because you had learnt something similar before, but didn’t tell. The day before, you told me you were worried I was pushing myself too hard and coaxed me to take a break from studying.
It must have felt great for you, considering I was renowned for scoring well.
When you missed a class, I took notes for you.
I tore out a page before giving them to you.
15 (Love) - 15.
I never liked that friend of yours. Namjoon knew you for a decade longer than me. He faced you completely every time you two talked. He constantly apologised for “accidentally” using inside jokes whenever I was around.
You said friends like him were hard to come around. Those that last through thick and thin, ups and downs, beyond all else. He knew the littlest things about you, like the cluttered moles along your heel, and read you well without needing you to speak.
I would have thought you were reading wedding vows from how you described him, Seokjin. I didn’t know if you were purposely trying to spite me, or if you were just that thick-headed. But it didn’t matter.
You knew how Nayeon felt about me in the past. When she and I chose to chair the fundraiser together, you wished us the best of luck. When she and I went out for supper, you told me not to drink too much and to be careful on the way back. When I walked her home at midnight, you said to take a taxi home afterwards as it was late—you would pay.
She and I were spending more and more time together, to the point we were being mistaken. There were times I blew off dates to meet her for the project, but you never seemed to mind. Even she was feeling guilty and apologetic towards you; yet, you continued acting as if it didn’t trouble you at all.
Finally, a friend asked if it bothered you how close she and I were. It was exactly the question I was waiting for, beneath each increasingly venomous gesture I hope would finally break your facade.
You laughed with all the naivety in the world and replied that you weren’t. After all, you trusted me with your whole heart.
...You trusted me?
How nice. You were so assured that none of it pricked you. It was almost like you were bragging about how well put together you were.
So, I was the bad one for getting jealous?
30 (Love) - 30.
We fought for the first time. We had bickers before, but never one that escalated to a point where we stopped talking to each other. I can’t remember what it was about, but I know I said something I shouldn’t have. Something that made your face fall and your voice taut.
You said I crossed a line. You seemed like you wanted to get up and leave; so, I did first.
For the next day, I lived like you were dead, just like you did. I went about my day as per usual, before we had met. Chatting and laughing with schoolmates after class, grabbing lunch outside with friends, brushing off questions about you.
Things were okay between us, I told them. The tone of my voice gave away that it was just okay for me. If we ever broke up, they’d assume I wasn’t the one who got abandoned.
A professor scolded me for not putting my mobile phone on vibrate, so for the rest of my lectures, I held my phone in my hand.
It was cold out. You always forgot your scarf.
It was windy. You sometimes forgot your jacket.
It was raining. You might forget your umbrella.
I continued on with my day. After my last tutorial, you finally called me.
You asked if I was done with my classes. When I told you I was, you went quiet, and then, you reminded me to put hand cream over my knuckles. My skin chapped easily in winter.
I asked if you wanted me to come over. You said yes.
I travelled an hour to buy your favourite hotteok, with the excuse that I had an errand to run there. On the way to your place, I wondered if you called so late because you were prolonging the cold war—or if you didn’t want to interrupt my classes.
40 (Love) - 40.
A month before we graduated, you were offered a role as an air steward. You had always wanted to work at the airport; it was a childhood dream where, at six years old, you fell in love with the hustle bustle and long runways.
It’s not an easy job to clinch. There’s always an air of prestige when you tell others you’re working in the skies. Among people of our parents’ ages, they’d whisper about how your spouse nabbed a fairly good one.
It should have been the happiest day of your life. I was the first one you called, squealing to meet. Funnily, when I came, I saw the way you faltered before you broke the news. It was as if you were dreading my reaction, just a bit.
I don’t know what I said to you. I don’t know how I looked either, but I’m sure I congratulated you. I’m sure I said I was overjoyed—I might have asked you if you were sure this was what you wanted.
Then, the tears began welling up in your eyes. You tried to hold them back, biting your lip tightly and swallowing down each word that you weren’t sure would come out steady.
But still, you cried. You said you should have kept it to yourself.
I wasn’t happy for you, you said.
Game over.
I never wanted to win, Seokjin. All I wanted was to make sure I wouldn’t lose.
I didn’t want to be the one who pathetically loved more. I didn’t want to need you more than you needed me. It’s terrifying to offer up my heart for judgement—for you to decide if I was worthy or not. I couldn’t be in that place of vulnerability, so I condemned you before you could do so to me.
I wanted you to be mediocre because I was scared of you being better. I had to be the better one, because I knew I’d still wholeheartedly love you, even so. I didn’t know if you’d do the same.
Without that higher ground, where would that leave me?
You told me once that you felt I was closed off. While you bared your insecurities so readily to me, I was unwilling to tell you anything beyond superficial. I liked japchae. I played the guitar. My favourite colour was grey.
That’s because you would weaponise them. Every weakness, every shortcoming—it’d be like giving you a blueprint to dismantle me. If I were to ever tell you about the cane marks, you’d one day look at me with pity and go, that’s why you’re like that.
Climb,
clamber,
scramble.
I was desperately searching for leverage, any sort of collateral I could grasp. In hindsight, I was only ever looking for assurance—something that could put me at ease and tell me that I wouldn’t have to fear being left behind.
But much too late, I realised I was playing a one-sided tug of war and you were never pulling. You weren’t reaching out for the rope; you were looking for my hand.
That day, you asked if we should take a break. Those were the words I’d been frightened of since we began—what I needed to say first before you did. The bile of nasty feelings spread a stinging bitterness all over my chest.
I was humiliated. I wanted to pettily bite back that I’d wanted this for a long time. You were unambitious, naive, happy-go-lucky, bland and plain, so often frustrating—you were the one that was unloved, the one that was unwanted. I couldn’t see a future with someone as fickle as you. All along, I was hoping to break up, but I waited for you to bring it up as I didn’t want to hurt you.
Underneath all that acidity was a devastation that kept gurgling to the surface. I kept it down, swallowed it discreetly, but it kept bleeding blue into my mouth.
I didn’t want you to go. I loved you.
How could I tell you that? I’d be so pathetic, clinging on to you even though you were tossing me aside. Where would that leave me, Seokjin?
Through my gritted teeth, I was going to calmly agree. A break would be good; it was long overdue, actually. A day later, I’d spitefully call to say the time away from each other gave me the clarity I needed—I wanted to end this cleanly.
But as I met your eyes, I couldn’t find the disdain I was expecting. You looked heartbroken and exhausted, as though you’d been hanging on and couldn’t go on any longer. Like you loved me as much as I loved you, and this hurt you as much as it hurt me.
You must have known how I’d react to the news. It wasn’t the first time I had subtly put down your achievements. Commenting that luck was in your favour, remarking that I thought someone else would get the position—they were much more capable, after all.
Despite knowing, I was still the first one you wanted to see.
I teared up. It was the first time I’d done so in many, many years, since the time my mother called it embarrassing, and it made me feel revoltingly weak. But I couldn’t stop, piteously shrouding my face as the tears ran down my palms.
I told you I was sorry. I didn’t know why I was like this. I wanted to be happy for you.
I knew how much this meant to you. I didn’t mean to make you so sad.
I loved you. I really did, with all my heart.
Please don’t go.
So disgustingly defenceless, so repulsively vulnerable. Sickening, nauseating, appalling. I don’t know why you rushed over and held me tight. I don’t know why you cried with me and told me that it was okay—that you knew I didn’t mean it.
Oh, why do you love someone as messed up as me?
Like we were meeting again for the first time, we took small steps, mending what had been broken. You asked me about my parents, and I told you a little. You asked me why I tried so hard, and I told you a little more.
Inside that husk that seemed so well-adjusted, I was nothing but a pathetic, frightened soul. I climbed because I was afraid. I hurt because I was terrified. I picked apart everything to ensure I wouldn’t be exploited; I lied without a second thought if it meant I could safeguard myself.
You began to understand a bit about how truly rotten I was, but you still didn’t leave.
We started out with a promise to be truthful to another. It was difficult to untangle what was so ingrained into my bones. I was tearing into your words still, petrified that I’d made the wrong choice by telling you more about myself. Any moment of silence after I told you about the beatings flooded me with regret. Here I was, divulging my worst secrets to someone, unable to retract them forever.
But somehow, you always got me to trust you. Right as the dread engulfed me and I was ready to run away, you’d hug me tight and tell me it wasn’t my fault. You’d tear up sometimes, and I’d constantly think you were such a fool for being so sorrowful over a history that wasn’t yours.
With warm hands and gentle words, you always convinced me for another day to tell you a little more.
Slowly, I learnt to congratulate you without the backhanded comments (apprehension in the back of my throat). I asked you out first and kept the numbers as they were (three, four, five). As humiliating as it was, I told you whenever I was jealous instead of spiting you.
You began calling me every night to tell me you loved me. You started holding my hand more often in front of our friends. Once, you gloated to a shopkeeper how lucky you were to have me, only to get an eye roll in return. (I laughed at you on the way out.)
It was difficult. Many times, I reverted to my rancid ways—petulantly lying that I didn’t have time for you, dismissing things you were thrilled about. But I’d apologise afterwards, remorsefully promising not to do it again. I dutifully recognised when my tendencies were at their worst. I reminded myself what I was yearning for, underneath these malicious gestures.
I'm learning to trust that you’ll love me, even at my most worthless.
I’m always sorry that you love me. I know I’ve changed you. You could let go of snide remarks by giving the benefit of the doubt; you thought holding such small grudges would only make you miserable. Now, you sieve out connotations that aren't there; now, you’re quieter, warier of how everyone else sees you.
Everything I do has you second-guessing, even though you never say it. It hurts to see that you're different now, because of me.
I know you’ll be happier somewhere else. I know you deserve someone who loves you much better than I ever will. I’m sorry for everything. I told you once, when I was chock full of sorrow, that you didn't have to stay with me. I don't understand why you still do.
I’ve sworn to you that I’ll be better, so, let me try harder, Seokjin. One day, I promise you, even if it frightens me to death, I’ll love you without needing any collateral.
The first time I undressed you, you asked me softly if I had ever been intimate with anyone. I told you to tell me first. You said no, and that you were afraid you’d disappoint me.
With how you bared your vulnerabilities to me willingly, I thought for the umpteenth time that you were so foolish. You could have kept it to yourself and I wouldn’t have known. Or were you telling me first because you thought I’d find out, and it’d be more humiliating that way?
Yet, as you parted your legs timidly, breaths shallow, gazing up with nervousness, I couldn’t help confessing to you the same.
It was my first time and I was scared too. I wanted you to enjoy it.
You chuckled, jitters in your voice, and said that it was okay. We’d figure it out together. As you rested your hands on my shoulder and pulled me close, I understood why you told me.
You were looking for comfort. You loved and trusted me not to taunt you for it.
We were clumsy. I had trouble pushing myself in, so you embarrassedly nudged me in. I thrusted too hard and you yelped in pain. It took a long while for me to figure out what made you feel best as you squirmed under me.
You clung to me throughout, whimpering softly, spreading your legs even more to let me in further. I realised then just how insanely I loved you, and just how frightening that was. I was in your grasp so helplessly; I was at my most vulnerable with you.
Fall,
fall,
fall.
Somehow, even knowing that, I still held on to you tightly.