Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the bedframe. The photo album lay open in her lap, its pages curling at the edges from being flipped through too many times.

She tugged the sleeves of the black hoodie further over her hands. It was too big. It had always been too big. The fabric was faded from countless washes, but if she pressed her face into the collar—just barely—she could still catch it. Sandalwood. Laundry detergent. Him.

Her thumb traced the edge of a photograph. Jungkook was mid-laugh, head tilted back, eyes crinkled into crescent moons. His hand was reaching toward the camera, like he was about to grab it, tease her for taking yet another picture. She couldn't remember what had been so funny.

For a second—just a second—she almost heard it. The sound of his laugh, bright and boyish, bouncing off the walls of some cramped convenience store at 2 AM.

Then the phone buzzed against the floorboards.

She blinked. Looked down.

The screen lit up with a preview from Hana.

I ran into Jungkook today.

The rain kept falling. The hoodie stayed warm. And Y/N sat very, very still.