Jungkook. Your Jungkook, though he's never been yours. He stands beside a girl from the group that just performed, his head tilted down toward her, that soft bunny smile playing at his lips. She laughs at something he says, and the comment section explodes.

You can't read Korean, but you don't need to. The hearts. The crying emojis. The names mashed together. It's all there, clear as day.

He asked her to collab. In front of everyone. And now the whole world is shipping them.

The remote feels heavy in your hand. Your thumb presses down, and the screen goes black. The silence that follows is deafening.

You sink deeper into your pillows, pulling the covers over your head like a child hiding from a nightmare. But this isn't a nightmare—it's reality. The reality where he's an idol with millions of fans, and you're just one of them. Just a face in the crowd. Just a name in the comments.

The jealousy burns in your chest, hot and ugly. You hate it. You hate feeling this way. But you can't stop it, can't reason it away.

Why did he have to do that on stage? Why in front of all those cameras? Doesn't he know what would happen?

You close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think of anything else. But the image of him smiling at her—at someone else—is seared into your mind.

"I wish Jungkook was my boyfriend," you whisper into the darkness, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

A foolish wish. A childish wish. The kind of wish you make when you're tired and hurt and desperate for something that could never be.

The covers rustle as you shift, and sleep begins to pull you under. The last thing you feel is the weight of your own hopelessness, heavy as a stone in your chest.

You don't notice the way the air in the room seems to shift. You don't notice the faint shimmer that passes over your skin, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a single drop of rain.

You don't notice anything at all.