BITTERSWEET (Vsoo)

Taehyung

There's nothing poetic about silence.

People romanticize it—say it's peaceful, meditative, healing. But the kind of silence I live in isn't calm.

It's suffocating.

It roars in my ears when I lie in bed at night. It seeps through the cracks in the walls of this too-big house, echoing through empty rooms and expensive furniture no one sits in anymore.

It's the kind of silence that grows sharp teeth and chews through you slowly.

That's what she left behind.

Her perfume's long gone, but the lies still hang in the air.

My mother had a smile so sweet it made people trust her instantly. She carried warmth in her voice and honey in her eyes. Everyone adored her. I adored her.

And she tore our world to pieces like it was nothing.

I hate sweetness now. I hate softness. Fake emotions dressed in pretty words. I hate people who speak like everything's fine, like life is still full of light and laughter.

There's nothing funny about betrayal.

She married my father for his name. For his wealth. For the house she could decorate and the clothes she could model in front of her friends.

She stayed long enough to collect what she needed. And then she ran.

He doesn't talk anymore. My father. Not to me. Not to anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if I remind him too much of her. I look in the mirror and see her features carved into my face like a curse. Same lips. Same eyes. Same bones.

I'm a walking echo of a woman who destroyed us.

So I keep quiet.

Not out of shyness. Not because I'm shy or broken. I just don't see the point. People talk too much. They lie, they pretend, they cling to one another just to feel a little less alone—until someone gets tired and walks away.

I've seen it. I've lived it.

And I want no part of it.

At school, I'm untouchable. Not by choice. It's just how it is. People stare. Whisper. Some try to talk to me once, maybe twice. Then they stop. My silence unnerves them. My eyes don't flinch the way they expect them to.

They think I'm cold.

They're right.

But I'm not cruel. I don't bully. I don't lash out. I just don't care. I exist on the edges, where no one gets too close. And that's exactly how I want it.

I don't owe the world anything. Especially not kindness.

I know what people want when they look at me. They don't see me—they see a face, a name, a fantasy. A boy with good bones and a bad attitude. The type they want to fix. The type they dream about at night.

But they don't know what I carry.

They don't know the black weight I keep chained to my chest. The hatred that settles in the corners of my soul like dust. The slow burn of being told you were loved—only to find out you were just part of someone's plan.

There's nothing romantic about that.

There's nothing left to fix.

I walk alone. I think alone. I keep my walls up high, and my hands to myself.

Because I've learned that people don't want the truth. They want warmth, even if it's fake.

And I have nothing warm left to give.