Tangled Realities (Ot7xreader)

The night air is cold. Colder than you remember.

Your hands tremble as you clutch your bag, stepping off the curb. Your feet feel heavy, like they’re sinking into the concrete, like the earth is trying to pull you back. But you don’t stop. You don’t turn around.

A cab slows down.

The driver glances at you through the rearview mirror but doesn’t ask questions when you give him an address. It’s far. It’s nowhere. It’s exactly what you need.

The ride is silent except for the occasional buzz of your phone in your pocket. You don’t check it.

You don’t want to see their names.

The streetlights blur past. The city turns unfamiliar. As the cab moves deeper into the outskirts, the buildings grow older, dirtier. The roads crack, and the neon motel signs flicker, some completely burned out.

Finally, the car stops.

The moment you step out, the cab drives off, leaving you standing there in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp.

The motel in front of you is a forgotten thing. The paint on the walls is peeling, the sign missing a few letters. The air smells damp, like rain that never fully dries.

You step inside.

The receptionist doesn’t bother looking up from her small TV. She’s older, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She barely blinks when you slide cash across the counter.

She pushes a key toward you. “Room 207.”

That’s it. No ID check. No questions. Just like you wanted.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator, the weight of exhaustion pressing on your shoulders. The hallway smells of stale cigarettes. There’s a flickering light near the end of the corridor, the kind that hums faintly.

You unlock the door, step inside, and shut it behind you. Lock it. Twice.

The room is small. A single bed with stiff sheets. A desk with a lamp that casts dull yellow light. A window with thick, dust-covered curtains.

You don’t even bother changing.

You collapse onto the bed.

You don’t cry.

You just stare at the ceiling, blank, empty—until eventually, you curl into yourself, tucking your knees to your chest.

The silence is unbearable.

Namjoon is still standing, phone clutched tightly in his shaking hands.

Dialing.

No answer.

Again.

Voicemail.

His breathing is unsteady. “Pick up the fucking phone,” he mutters, voice cracking.

Jin, who had been silent until now, lets out a choked sob.

It’s broken. Raw.

Jimin reacts immediately, moving toward him, pulling him into his arms. Jin doesn’t resist. He just cries.

Across the room, Jungkook whispers, “She wouldn’t just leave. Not like this.”

Jimin doesn’t even look up when he responds. “But she did.”

Taehyung and Hoseok sit frozen. Still trying to process what just happened.

And Yoongi?

Yoongi hasn’t moved.