After Antonella finished tying the knot on my tie, there was a lingering silence between us, heavy with unspoken emotions. She stepped back, her hands slowly releasing the fabric as if reluctant to let go of the last link that connected us. I gave her a small, grateful nod, trying to muster a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. There was a brief exchange of glances, hers soft with understanding and mine shadowed with the remnants of our earlier conversation.

With a final look at her, I turned and left the room, the weight of our discussion still pressing down on my shoulders, though not as heavily as before. The corridor outside felt cooler, almost as if the house itself had been holding its breath. As I descended the stairs, each step felt lighter, like I was shedding the layers of tension that had built up over the past few hours. By the time I reached the front door, the tightness in my chest had loosened, though the melancholy still lingered like a distant echo.

Stepping outside, the morning air greeted me with a gentle breeze, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers from the garden. It was comforting, in a way, to feel the world continuing on, indifferent to the turmoil within me. I took a deep breath, letting the fresh air cleanse the remnants of my earlier distress. There was still much to process, but for now, I felt a bit more at peace.

My destination was Jimin’s chamber, a privately owned mental hospital where he had recently begun working. It was a place that always made me feel slightly out of place, an artist trying to fit into a world of clinical precision and psychological complexity. The hospital was nestled in a quiet part of the city, its tall, imposing structure surrounded by manicured lawns and carefully pruned hedges. The exterior was modern and sleek, all glass and steel, designed to exude a sense of calm authority.

As I entered the lobby, the transition from the outside world to this meticulously controlled environment was jarring. The air inside was cool and carried the unmistakable scent of antiseptic, a smell that always made me a little uneasy. The walls were painted in soft, neutral tones—beige, pale green, and light blue—colors carefully chosen to soothe the mind. It was all so different from the vibrant chaos of my studio, where colors clashed and danced with wild abandon.

The lobby was spacious, with plush seating arranged in neat clusters. A large, abstract painting dominated one wall, its swirling forms and muted colors almost a mockery of the controlled environment it inhabited. There were potted plants placed strategically around the room, their glossy leaves reflecting the artificial lighting that bathed the entire space in a soft, sterile glow. The reception desk was sleek and modern, manned by a young woman whose smile was as practiced as the polished veneer of the hospital itself.

I nodded at her as I walked past, offering a brief, polite smile that didn’t quite know what else to do . The hallways were wide and lined with doors, each leading to private rooms or offices. The sound of my footsteps echoed softly against the polished floors, a constant reminder of how alien this world was to me. I could feel the eyes of the staff on me, their curiosity evident as they noted my presence—an artist masquerading as a med student, playing a role I barely understood.

Despite my discomfort, I couldn’t help but admire the design of the place. The architecture was flawless, every detail meticulously planned to create an environment that was both calming and authoritative. But as much as I appreciated the aesthetic, it wasn’t my world. Here, in these sterile hallways, I was a stranger, an outsider peering into a world of science and healing that was far removed from the vibrant, chaotic world of art that I belonged to.

Finally, I reached Jimin’s office, a polished wooden door with a gleaming metal plaque bearing his name. Beneath it, his title was etched in neat, professional lettering—a stark reminder of how far he had come. I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the doorknob as I gathered my thoughts. The conversation with Antonella still weighed on my mind, but seeing Jimin, being in his space, felt like the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, I knocked lightly before pushing the door open, stepping into the world he had carved out for himself—a world so different from mine, yet intertwined with it in ways I was only beginning to understand.

As I stepped into the room, I was greeted by a voice that took me by surprise. “Come in, Mr. Jeon,” a woman’s voice called out. She was seated at a small desk near the door, and I realized she was younger than me, perhaps by a few years. Her presence was unexpected—Jimin hadn’t mentioned anyone else being in his office, and I had naturally assumed he would be the one to welcome me.

For a moment, I hesitated, my mind racing to make sense of the situation. Jimin, I reminded myself, was a unisex name, but still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had walked into the wrong room. My confusion must have shown on my face because she smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Oh, I must be in the wrong room,” I stammered, feeling a bit flustered. “I’m sorry.”

But she quickly dispelled my doubts. “No, Mr. Jeon, you’re absolutely in the correct room. Please, have a seat. Dr. Park will be here soon,” she said, gesturing gracefully towards a plush sofa set near the center of the room.

Her voice was calm and reassuring, and I found myself nodding, even as a small part of me remained disoriented. She seemed to know exactly who I was, which only added to my curiosity. How did she know my name? Perhaps Jimin had mentioned my visit, or maybe she was simply well-informed, as one might expect from someone working in a place like this.

As I walked towards the sofa, I couldn’t help but notice how different Jimin’s office was from the rest of the hospital. The outer landscape had been all muted tones and subdued lighting, designed to instill a sense of calm. But here, in this room, there was a vibrancy that felt almost jarring in contrast. The walls were painted in brighter shades of blue and green, the same hues as the lobby but with a liveliness that seemed to pulse with energy. Sunlight streamed in through large windows, casting warm, golden patches on the floor and making the room feel almost welcoming, in its own way.

There were small touches scattered throughout the space—artwork on the walls, a few potted plants, and bookshelves lined with an eclectic mix of medical texts and personal mementos. It was clear that this room was a reflection of Jimin himself, a blend of his professional life and the warmth of his personality. It felt less like a clinical space and more like a sanctuary, a place where one could breathe easy and feel safe.

I quietly took a seat on the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions as I tried to relax. The woman, having fulfilled her task, gave me a polite nod before exiting the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The door clicked softly behind her, and for a moment, I simply sat there, letting the atmosphere of the room envelop me.

My mind wandered back to the earlier events, to Antonella and the conversation that had left my emotions in a tangled mess. Being here, in Jimin’s space, felt both comforting and strange. The vibrancy of the room clashed with the lingering melancholy I couldn’t quite shake off, but it was a welcome distraction. I glanced around, taking in the details—how meticulously everything was arranged, how the colors seemed to blend harmoniously, creating an environment that was both stimulating and serene.

The minutes ticked by slowly, each one stretching out as I waited. My thoughts drifted, the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the hospital filling the quiet room. Despite the unease I had felt earlier, being here, surrounded by traces of Jimin’s presence, brought a sense of anticipation. I was on the cusp of understanding a new facet of his world, and though I felt out of place, I also felt an inexplicable pull towards it.

The door finally creaked open, snapping me out of my reverie. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up, expecting to see Jimin stepping into the room. The air in the room seemed to shift, the calmness giving way to a subtle tension as I prepared myself for the conversation that was about to unfold.

As the door swung open, Jimin entered with a casual grace, his presence immediately filling the room. “Oh, you’re already here? Punctual as always, good thing,” he remarked with a slight smile, his voice carrying the warmth of familiarity.

I almost stood up out of habit, a reflex from years of polite upbringing, but Jimin quickly waved me back down. “No, no, sit, sit. You’re only acting like my student; you aren’t one, actually,” he chuckled, his tone lighthearted, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper in his gaze—a knowingness, perhaps, that only Jimin possessed.

I returned his smile with a quiet chuckle, but my mind was already swirling with thoughts, my heart still heavy with the lingering melancholy from my earlier conversation with Antonella. There was a question gnawing at the back of my mind, one that I needed to ask—needed to hear the answer to, if only to make sense of the turmoil I was feeling.

“Hyung,” I began, my voice hesitant, “a small question.”

Jimin had settled into his seat behind the desk, scribbling down notes, his pen moving swiftly across the paper. At my words, he paused, looking up at me with an expression that urged me to continue. His eyes, sharp and attentive, focused on me, making it clear that he was ready to listen, as he always was.

“Are you happy that Noona loves somebody else?” The words spilled out of me before I could stop them, and I could feel my heart pound in the silence that followed.

Jimin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and for a split second, I couldn’t decipher if his reaction was genuine or merely a mask. “What kind of question is that supposed to be?” he asked, clearly taken aback. “Of course, I’m happy for her. Why wouldn’t I be?” His voice was steady, but there was something in his eyes that made me wonder if he was hiding his true feelings.

I lowered my gaze to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “I always thought you liked her,” I admitted quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy on my tongue, a confession that had been buried deep within me for far too long.

Jimin blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What?” he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mixture of shock and confusion. “What do you want to tell me exactly?”

Taking a deep breath, I finally let out the truth that had been weighing on me. “I wanted you two to end up together,” I confessed, my words hanging in the air between us like an unfinished sentence.

For a moment, Jimin simply stared at me, his expression unreadable. And then, to my utter surprise, he burst into laughter—a deep, genuine laugh that echoed in the room, catching me completely off guard.

“Me? With her?” he managed between laughs, shaking his head. “Not in this lifetime, trust me. First point, I’ll never be able to love anyone, let alone her. And after everything she has ever done in her life, after all the struggles she’s faced, she deserves to be loved truly and wholly.”

His laughter faded, and he put down his pen, his expression softening as he looked at me. He left his seat and walked over to where I sat, taking a seat next to me on the sofa. The proximity was comforting, and I could feel the sincerity in his presence.

“She is my savior, and I owe her the happiness she brought me,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that I rarely heard from him. “She made the Jimin you know today. This Jimin isn’t the Jimin she knew, and yet, Antonella is still the Antonella I knew.”

I looked at him, my thoughts tangled and my heart heavy with conflicting emotions. “Then why do you treat her in all the ways that her boyfriend should, yet you don’t expect her to love you? How are you like this, Hyung?”

Jimin sighed, his gaze drifting as if he was looking into the past. “Jk, love isn’t that narrow-minded,” he began softly, his words carefully chosen. “I love her, I absolutely do. But in my concept of love, whatever I do for her is my way of thanking her. Because, deep down, I am still guilty for things that weren’t necessarily in my control, and we’ve grown past that. Whatever she does for me, it’s her way of apologizing—I know that. So I want her to finally come to terms with the fact that she never had to apologize.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand, stopping me. “No buts, Jk,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Some things are just not meant to be. My life is simply blue and grey, and I don’t know how to love a person like she does. She has an aura, a light that I can never reflect. She’s my best friend, my first real friend. And to be a friend is to want the best for her.”

I felt a lump forming in my throat, my emotions threatening to spill over. “She said the same,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion.

Jimin smiled, a soft, almost bittersweet smile. “Of course, she did,” he replied, his voice tinged with a sadness that was both profound and resigned. “I will always be there for her, whenever she needs me. Whenever you need me, and whenever Y/n needs me. But all stories don’t have a romantic ending, Jk. And that’s okay.”

The room fell into a contemplative silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. In that moment, I realized that Jimin’s love for Antonella was something far deeper than I had ever understood—something that transcended romance, something rooted in gratitude, friendship, and a shared past that only they truly knew. It was a love that didn’t need labels or expectations, a love that simply was.

And perhaps, that was enough. Or is it?