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Taehyung’s POV:

The road home felt longer than ever. My steps were heavy, not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of everything I carried within me. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had stopped beating, leaving only a void that echoed with the cruel words and laughter of the people around me.

I couldn’t even cry anymore. The tears had dried up long ago, leaving me with nothing but numbness. I couldn’t feel the cold wind brushing against my face, couldn’t hear the faint sounds of the world around me. It was all muted, like I was underwater, drowning slowly but too tired to fight my way up for air.

For the first time, I couldn’t even find solace in the memory of my mother. Not really. She would have told me to be strong, to fight back, to believe in myself. But what was the point? I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t anything worth believing in.

The words they called me—dangerous, sick, slut, gay bitch—echoed in my mind like a mantra. At first, I fought against them, convinced they were wrong. But now? Maybe they were right.

Maybe I was dangerous. Maybe liking boys made me sick. Maybe there really was something wrong with me, something broken, something unfixable.

I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and forced, cutting through the silence of the empty street. "Sick," I murmured under my breath, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "That’s what I am, isn’t it? Sick and broken. A mistake."

The memory of Jimin flickered in my mind, the warmth of his laughter and the way he used to stand by me no matter what. But even that warmth felt distant now. What would Jimin think of me if he knew the truth?

He wouldn’t care. He couldn’t.

No one ever stayed, not really. People like me didn’t deserve that.

The image of Jungkook’s face flashed in my mind, and I clenched my fists at my sides. His anger, his disgust—it was etched into my skin, replaying over and over like a cruel movie I couldn’t turn off.

"You’re nothing but a fucking slut, Taehyung."

The words struck me like a physical blow even now, making me stumble mid-step. I pressed a hand to my chest, as if I could claw them out of me, erase them somehow. But they were there to stay, carved into the core of who I was.

Jungkook had been my last shred of hope. Somewhere, deep in my heart, I had always believed that he would come around, that he would see me—not as a label, not as something to be ashamed of—but as me.

I was so stupid.

"Life isn’t a fairy tale," I muttered under my breath, my voice trembling. "It doesn’t have happy endings. Not for people like me."

I didn’t know when it happened, but the small, hidden sparkle of hope that had always been there, buried deep inside me, was gone now. Jungkook had taken it, crushed it with his actions and his words, and left me with nothing but ashes.

The house loomed ahead, dark and silent. I climbed the steps slowly, each one feeling like a final countdown to something inevitable. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping inside.

The silence inside was deafening.

I didn’t bother turning on the lights. What was the point? Darkness was fitting. Darkness was all I knew now.

I dropped my bag by the door and walked through the house, my feet dragging across the floor. My hands grazed over the walls, the furniture, everything that had once made this house feel like home. But it didn’t feel like that anymore. It was just a shell, just like me.