Things returned to relative normalcy (whatever that even meant for us) rather quickly. Days passed and we, as a group, decided Hobie needed some professional help for the trauma he endured. Jungkook insisted he felt better after telling us about it, and we decided to listen to him for the time being. His behavior had vastly improved, so I honestly didn’t worry too much about him. It had been a real chore finding a Korean language friendly shrink, but eventually I did find one. It was on the other side of Los Angeles and almost took me an hour each way to drive. Despite Hobie’s protests, I wasn’t about to just find a translator for something as sensitive as mental health. Still, it was exhausting.

Weeks had gone by and I found myself laying on my back in my bed, looking at nothing in particular on the ceiling after returning home from one of Hobie’s psychiatrist appointments. The car rides in both directions were usually uncomfortably quiet, but it seemed like he was improving. Maybe it was just conformation bias, but he was at least spending more time with the rest of the boys and less time locked away in his room. Talking wasn’t really on his agenda, but none of us really minded. We kept him included whenever we could. Taehyung even convinced him to go out to K-Town. They returned with enough Korean sweets to last us years, but at least smiles were on their faces when they got home.

With a shake of my head, I thought instead of Jungkook. Having him back had been unexpectedly great for me. He rarely left my company, and was more forceful in bringing me out than Taemin, Kai, or Ravi had ever been. For a while I was unsure why he was so insistent on bringing me along. I thought maybe it was pity, and that honestly annoyed me. If anything, I should be pitying him! However, over time, after a lot of long and quiet evenings together, I realized that I was the only one who really understood what he had been put through. Namjoon was a close second, but he was far too mature and selfless for us. If I hadn’t watched Namjoon break down first hand after our rescue, I would have questioned if he had even faced his own demons. Jungkook, on the other hand, was like me. Neither of us wanted to talk about it directly. Not yet, anyway. We had a lot connecting us: the emotionally confusing ual relationship, the objective commodity of our DNA, and the implications of our relationship to the dictator who essentially wiped out an entire culture. Just to name a few. Every time we got close to the conversation, I would make a snarky comment, or he’d deflect with a joke. Still, that broad-toothed smile of his always brought us back to the present. ‘Zoey,’ he’d say, ‘let’s just be glad it’s over.’ And for a few moments, we would enjoy it. Until we’d hear more news about the war, or something would remind one of us of that wretched place back in the north mountains of Korea.

A knock came at the door, and I shot up onto my feet out of surprise, launched out of my own thoughts. Hobie’s face peeked through my room’s entryway. Jimin had gone out and bought him a very wide variety of eye patches, some classic and simple, with others borderline obnoxious. Thankfully, Hobie mostly stuck to the simple solid colors. It suited his face just fine, in my opinion. “Bad time?” he asked quietly, offering me a little weak, but reassuring smile.

“No, no,” I moved to open my door properly to usher him in, “Come on in, Hobie.” I sat at the edge of my bed expectantly, waiting for him to do or say whatever it is he sought me out for. He fidgeted for a while before striding towards me, a large manila folder in his hands. The bed sagged under our combined weight as he joined me, but it was oddly reminiscent of old times, where I would always lean on Hobie’s side for comfort. This time, though, there was no arm slung around my shoulders. Instead, he held the folder tightly in his functional fingers. He had started to test out a few of the partially severed fingers on his left hands, but I would see him flinch or recoil quickly. I didn’t know if it was physical pain or mental. I figured he wouldn’t tell me until he felt comfortable.

The room was relatively quiet for a long moment, the distant sounds of voices from the kitchen drifting down the hallway. At long last, Hobie took a long, deep breath, running his right hand over the thick paper folder, “My medical records.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. The records had been lost. My mind turned as I looked away from his face and down at the document in question. Then, it dawned on me, “You’ve had it this whole time, haven’t you?” With the question, I looked up to meet his good eye again. He caught my look, his face momentarily blank, as if he weren’t able to comprehend his own emotions. I could tell he was inwardly retreating, so I jumped in, “It’s okay,” I assured, reaching out to take the folder, slowly and gently. He resisted for a moment, but relented with a little sigh.

“Yeah,” he admitted in a soft whisper, “I didn’t want you to see it.” I cracked it open, scanning the documents as quickly as I could. He continued to speak as I caught gruesome details about the details of his wounds, “It’s about time for me to go back to the doctor, I think.”

His statement came right as I was reading the surgical report on his eye surgery. It made my stomach turn just thinking about it. Slowly closing the folder, I met his gaze again, “Are you nervous?”

“No,” he offered me a little smile, “It’s time.” Fidgeting slightly, I could see how much effort it was taking for Hobie to keep his smile. I was confident that he was being honest, but I still wondered how much of this progress was influenced by his psychiatrist. In the end, though, I decided it didn’t matter. He spoke up again after a long, calming breath, “Would you be willing to take me back to the hospital?”

A smile crept onto my face as I nodded quickly, “Of course.” I twisted my torso about, looking for my keys. Once I spotted, them, I was quick to swipe them off of my desk. “Want anyone else to come with?” I threw the question over my shoulder as I grabbed a light hoodie to pull over my head. Our trips to the psychiatrist had been silent, and there had been no reason to bring anyone along. This time, though, perhaps it was worth looking into. I was invited due to my unique ability to hold a drivers’ license in The States. Not that I minded, really. Being used for my vehicle was something I had gotten used to ever since high school.

Hobie seemed confused by the question, though, blinking quickly at me a few times before mumbling, “Uh, yeah.” Before I could open my mouth to quip about his obvious choice, he surprised me with a different name, “I’d like to ask Jin.”

“Oh,” I found the little word spilling from my lips before I could stop myself. When he raised a single brow at me, I coughed quickly to cover it up, instead speaking up again, “Want me to go get him?” Hobie simply nodded, following me out of my room and towards his own to presumably gather his things. I strode down the hallway, finding the living room and kitchen empty and the entire apartment unusually quiet. Thankfully, Namjoon and Jin’s room’s door was already cracked open, so I simply knocked lightly on it before pushing forward. The room was designed just like mine, but they had really gone to town on the decorations. It looked like a college dorm room out of a movie, though, split down the middle. Namjoon’s side was plastered with music posters, with little mind to organization or symmetry. His desk was littered with papers and a little laptop with large external speakers. Jing’s side, however, was perfectly tidy, with a few colorful posters, and light pink accents everywhere. If a stranger had walked in here, they might have thought his bed was occupied by a young girl. The most important part of Jin’s side of the room, however, was that it was empty. Namjoon lay on his stomach in his own bed, flipping through some book lazily. He looked up when I stepped inside. A wide smile brightened his face, the thick-rimmed glasses moving with the scrunch of his nose. Of course, they had duct tape at each corner holding them together. In true Namjoon fashion, he had broken them several times over.

Namjoon didn’t move to stand, but he did shift slightly on his elbows slightly to face me better, “Hey Zoey,” he greeted languidly, careful not to lose his place in his book.

I offered him a little wave, “Is Jin around?”

At this, Namjoon rolled his eyes, his smile fading slightly. “He’s with Ken again. Don’t bother calling him back here unless you have a good reason,” he lifted a hand to wave the notion away as if it were actual wisps of smoke. “He’ll just whine about his social independence or some silly like that,” Namjoon sounded rather confident as he looked back down to his book, clearly done with paying me much mind.

It was hard not to laugh at him as I leaned on the open doorway, “You don’t hang out with them anymore?” It was no secret that Jin and Ken from upstairs had been friends long before The Reclamation. Once reunited, they began to hang out again, usually with Namjoon. Over time, though, it seemed Namjoon stayed behind.

He shot me a little glare through his narrow eyes as he mumbled, “Those two make me feel like the third wheel.”

Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone with Namjoon’s eyes following my movements. I caught him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, his attention back on his book. The phone rang a few times before Jin picked up. I put it on speaker for Namjoon.