“The Waiting Game” they call it. Not much fun for a so-called game. Waiting for an update about Yoongi from Heechul’s friend. Waiting for word from Ellen about Hobie and Jungkook. Waiting for news from the government about their potential rescue. Waiting for my goddam parents to ing call me back. As my frustration boiled over, I threw my phone across the room, the device hitting the opposite wall, only to bounce off and land on the yet unoccupied bed across from me with a soft thud. Almost instantly, I was glad I had shelled out a bit of money to get my phone a hard protective case, though I had to admit its destruction would have brought me a certain amount of satisfaction. Defeated, I hauled myself off of the edge of my bed to retrieve the thing.

Alongside the irritation, guilt flowed through me like hot lava. Han Geng held no obligation to us. The only reason there was any hope of hearing about Yoongi was because of Jimin’s quick thinking. Heechul didn’t have to help us, but he did. Ellen was who-knows-where in the region. For all I knew, she was hiding behind enemy lines again. Expecting anything from her was selfish. And the government- well, I had been an American long enough to know not to hold my breath when it came to congress taking action. My parents, too, were not at fault. I had done a good job contacting my mother once a day to keep her informed and assure her I was still alive. As time passed, I grew distant and lazy, and those daily calls turned into weekly texts, and even those were usually curt and impersonal. Yet there I was, getting angry that my parents weren’t responding to me.

It had been a couple of weeks since the day we asked Heechul for help keeping updated on Yoongi’s health- and keeping him company. The boys that were in The States with me had grown comfortable in their new home, and to my unfair dismay, they began to branch out and socialize. I shouldn’t have been surprised nor should I have been upset by the prospects of the boys connecting with old friends or making new ones. Some of them even began to rekindle their gifts of performance and music. I, on the other hand, remained my usual quiet and reclusive self, only occasionally being dragged out by the boys or Taemin. Taemin had been an absolute angel when it came to keeping me included. Even when I whined or refused to leave the building, he and his friends would at least keep me company at home. Even so, I was beginning to feel lonely- cut off even from Namjoon. He and Jin spent ample time with Ken and the rest of the guys from upstairs, while the younger pair seemed to make friends around every corner. It made me miss Yoongi even more. Even if we hadn’t become involved in a romantic sense, he would have at least been a reliable companion- his distaste for leaving home certainly rivaled my own.

I was gently turning my phone over in my hands, ensuring I hadn’t managed to damage it through the case when a gentle, timid knock came at my door. Instinctively, I clutched my phone close to my chest as I jerked my head up to meet the noise. The door cracked open and I caught a glimpse of my visitor. Even though he was peering through a narrow crack, Namjoon’s face was still instantly recognizable. His wide, relatively flat face squeezed through to peer at me, his narrow eyes watching me carefully, brows raised up into his bleach-blonde hairline. “Zoey?” he prompted hesitantly as he finally opened the door properly, slipping through before closing it behind him. He must have felt my negative energy as he treaded lightly towards me.

As much as I would have preferred to sulk silently, Namjoon seemed content to sit in awkward silence as long as I needed. Relenting, I spoke, doing my best to keep my unhappy edge out of my voice, “So how was the market?” He and Jin had gone out shopping with some other tower residents. Namjoon’s English was good enough to handle whatever they needed out on the streets, whether that be navigation or assistance at a shop.

“You know you’re always welcome to come with us,” he ignored my question entirely, moving to sit at the edge of my bed nearby. Apparently, I hadn’t done quite a good enough job disguising my negativity. He wasn’t wrong, of course. As much as I inwardly complained about my loneliness, I did get extended just about every invitation for the outings the boys managed to get roped into. Even so, though, I often felt like a third wheel in the larger outings, not entirely sure how to properly socialize in a large group of Koreans. Not to mention I felt that my friends were more interested in their new company, and the previous residents were more interested in my boys than in me. Of course they were. I understood, and that fact didn’t bother me, but it simply caused me to stop going on the outings to avoid the awkwardness. “Anyway,” Namjoon spoke up hesitantly, trying to break me out of my stupor. “Someone is here to see you.”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, grumbling as I answered him, my hands reaching up to rub at my face “Tell Taemin I’m really not up for hanging out right now.”

“It’s not Taemin,” he responded quickly. When my head lifted quickly to meet his gaze, a wide, toothy smile spread over his face. No doubt he was pleased to have my full attention. “I’m not sure who it is,” he continued, pushing himself up off of my bed, turning and offering me his hand, “Some American. Looks important.”

I tried my best to keep my head clear. Important could be good- really good. Important could also be just as bad. I swallowed my emotions and took his large, lightly tanned hand, allowing him to pull me up to my feet quickly and effortlessly. Cheekily, he gripped my hand even tighter as he pulled me along, out of my room and down the hall. On our way out, I made sure to drop my phone on my desk, the device that had plagued me all day; quickly forgotten.

As advertised, a Caucasian man was standing in our front doorway. He was a tall, slender man- clean-cut and well-dressed; business casual. He turned to face us, his light brown hair trimmed neatly around his light pink, freckled face. “Miss Yoo, I presume,” he greeted me politely, stepping forward to shake my hand. I was so used to the short, courteous bows from my Korean neighbors; I was almost befuddled by the gesture. Still, I managed to return it awkwardly. “I’m Mr. Rust,” he continued, clearly uninterested in whatever greeting I might have come up with. “I’m here from the DoD to deliver this,” he held out a standard white, unmarked letter envelope, “I was instructed to hand it to you directly.” There was a pause and I followed his icy blue eyes over my shoulder to Namjoon, who had lingered, “Your eyes only,” the man directed sternly. Namjoon took the hint, raising his hands in front of his body defensively and backing away.

“Thank you,” I finally responded, not really sure exactly what was appropriate in that sort of situation. Thankfully, the man was gone abruptly, with a simple, curt nod of his head as a farewell. “Well that was weird,” I grumbled, turning around to face Namjoon.

Namjoon squirmed, shielding his eyes from me, “Woah, careful Zoey,” he practically shouted, “What horrors might befall us if I see that letter.” I laughed once, rolling my eyes at his dramatic flair, brushing past him to sit on my favorite couch. “DoD is department of defense, right?” he asked, following me at a distance.

“Yeah,” I answered his question offhandedly as I carefully opened the plain little envelope, ensuring I didn’t accidently tear or spill whatever contents it held. To my disappointment, once I was able to peer inside, I was that there was simply a folded piece of paper inside. I ripped open the rest of the paper envelope and pulled the paper out, unfolding it quickly. The page was plain and mostly blank, save for just a few lines of typed text.

Good Work, Kid.
If you got th