Jungkook's pov

Caught in the spell of the stranger's mesmerizing voice, I snapped out of my initial shock when he began to sing. Beautifully woven words spilt from his lips, carried by a voice that was nothing short of captivating. It was deep, breathy, and utterly mesmerizing—a kind of voice that could draw you into its depths and leave you lost in its haunting allure.

Yet, amidst the enchantment, I couldn't help but detect an undercurrent of sharp pain in his melodic tones. The beauty of his voice was interwoven with an unmistakable sorrow, a haunting resonance that echoed with a depth of emotion. The words he sang were not of joy; they carried the weight of melancholy, each note carrying a nuanced tale of heartache and introspection.

As I stood there, entranced by the poignant symphony unfolding before me, I realized that this stranger's voice conveyed more than just melody. It spoke of a silent struggle, a narrative of emotions etched in the cadence of his song. His singing wasn't merely an expression; it was a cathartic release, a way to navigate the depths of his own feelings.

I became an unintentional audience to his soul-baring performance, a witness to the complexities that resonated in every note. The beauty of the night and the haunting melody merged into a bittersweet dance, enveloping the park in an atmosphere where joy and sorrow intertwined. It was a private performance under the moonlit sky, a moment where the stranger's voice echoed not just in the quietude of the park but also within the recesses of my own contemplative heart.

You booked the night train for a reason,
So you could sit there in this hurt~

Bustling crowds or silent sleepers,
You're not sure which is worse~

I was completely drawn in, holding my breath as I listened to that beautiful singer. Not just the words he sang, but the way he sang them—the rise and fall of his voice, the emotions he poured into every note. It was like a captivating story told through sound.

His voice, expressive and emotive, painted a vivid picture, making the lyrics come alive. I couldn't help but notice the details, like how his voice effortlessly left his mouth, carrying with it a wave of emotion. The visible veins on his throat were like the physical embodiment of the passion he infused into his singing.

It was more than just a song; it was a moment suspended in time, where that angel and music became one. I found myself lost in the simplicity and beauty of this live, heartfelt performance, a genuine and mesmerizing expression of emotion.

Because I dropped your hand while dancing,
Left you out there standing~

Crestfallen on the landing,
Champagne problems~

At the culmination of his heartfelt rendition, the last word lingered in the air like a cathartic release. In a moment of self-awareness, he let out a sarcastic chuckle, a private acknowledgment of the bittersweet irony embedded in the emotions he had just laid bare. It was a personal exchange with his own vulnerability, a brief, shared joke between him and the raw honesty of the song.

His hand gracefully swept back through his hair, an instinctive, almost unconscious gesture. The act seemed to signify a tactile punctuation mark—an intimate pause to collect himself before allowing the next wave of emotion to surface. The strands of hair resettled, framing his face as if to prepare for the continuation of this deeply personal musical journey.

With a deliberate inhale, he took a deep breath—a profound moment of self-reflection. It wasn't just a breath; it was a deliberate act of exhaling the emotions that had found voice in the lyrics. The sigh, filled with both release and acceptance, marked a brief respite before he ventured into the next verse.

Your mom's ring in your pocket,
My picture in your wallet~

Your heart was glass, I dropped it,
Champagne problems~

As he sang about someone's mom's ring and a picture in his wallet, I could feel the sadness in his voice. A single tear rolled down his cheek, showing just how much those words meant to him. It wasn't just a song; it was his way of sharing his feelings.

I wanted to comfort him, but I also knew that him singing was his way of letting out his emotions. I held back, not wanting to interrupt. The tear he shed spoke volumes, like he was letting go of something heavy. In that moment, I respected his need to express himself through his song, understanding that sometimes, music can be a way to release pent-up thoughts and feelings.

You told your family for a reason,
You couldn't keep it in~

Your sister splashed out on the bottle,
Now no one's celebrating~

Dom Pérignon, you brought it,
No crowd of friends applauded~

Your hometown skeptics called it,
Champagne problems~

a few more streaks of tears streamed down his face. I wanted to go and wipe them away. but I held myself back. it was evident from his song that maybe he was suffering from a heart break. He continued, :

How evergreen, our group of friends,
Don't think we'll say that word again~

And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls,
That we once walked through~

One for the money, two for the show,
I never was ready, so I watch you go~

Sometimes you just don't know the answer,
'til someone's on their knees and asks you~

he stopped for a moment before continuing.

"She would've made such a lovely bride,
What a shame she's fucked in the head, " they said

But you'll find the real thing instead,
She'll patch up your tapestry that I shred

I heard him scoff at the last line, like he was singing it sarcastically.

And hold your hand while dancing,
Never leave you standing~

Crestfallen on the landing,
With champagne problems~

Your mom's ring in your pocket,
Her picture in your wallet~

You won't remember all my,
Champagne problems~

As he sang the last line, his voice cracked, and he started sniffing, wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks. I felt a deep tug at my heart witnessing his raw vulnerability. His gaze, now lifted towards the night sky, seemed to seek solace beyond the lyrics that had just poured out from his soul.

A part of me desperately wanted to go and talk to him, offer some form of comfort. But a stronger instinct held me back. Interrupting someone during such an emotional moment felt intrusive. So, I turned to leave, a mix of emotions swirling inside me.

However, a nagging thought halted my steps. It was well past midnight, and he was sitting alone. Safety became a concern. I hesitated and reconsidered my decision, choosing to stay hidden in the bushes nearby. For the next 15 minutes, I stood there, silently watching as he sat on the bench, letting his tears flow.

The night embraced his catharsis, and I became a silent companion in the shadows, respecting the sacredness of his moment while offering an unseen presence. It was a delicate balance between acknowledging his pain and ensuring he wasn't completely alone in the quietude of the night.

After 15 minutes, he rose from the bench, cradling his heels in his hands, and began to walk out of the park. Keeping a safe distance, I trailed behind him, the intention solely rooted in ensuring his well-being. As I followed, I couldn't help but be captivated by the grace of his walk. It was as if every step was a dance, a fluid movement reminiscent of an angel gliding through the air.

With each stride, I found myself mesmerized by the ethereal quality of his gait. There was a certain serenity in the way he moved, an almost weightless quality that painted his walk with an otherworldly charm. I continued to maintain a discreet distance, respecting his need for solitude while silently observing the beauty in his every movement.

As time passed, I noticed he was heading in the same direction as my home. Curiosity lingered as I observed him walking with purpose. Suddenly, he came to a halt on the road, right in front of my house. The unexpected pause piqued my interest, and I watched, wondering about the significance of this sudden stop in his journey.

He pivoted on his heels, redirecting his path toward the house beside mine. With measured steps, he approached the gate and, to my surprise, unlocked it with a set of keys. Questions whirled in my mind. Did he live there? The house had been locked and seemingly abandoned for years. Was it possible that he owned it, holding the key to a mystery hidden behind those closed doors?

Intrigued, I continued to watch from my discreet vantage point, the dim glow of streetlights casting a subtle illumination on this unexpected turn of events. As he entered the house, the door closing behind him, a sense of curiosity lingered in the night air. The abandoned house, once shrouded in mystery, now held the enigma of his presence.

( the house)

Sighing, I walked to the door of my house and opened it, walking inside.