He knocked on the door lightly, knowing it would be enough for the person on the other side to know he was visiting - she's always been sensitive to sounds, like him. 
 

Yoongi waited. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry. 
 

Was she sleeping? He thought to himself; he decided to knock again, just in case she hadn't heard him.
 

"Come in," a small, fragile voice called from the other side. It took everything for Yoongi to keep from crying. She was getting weaker, he could tell. Yet, he couldn't do anything; he was helpless and hated it. He wished there was a way he could help his mother get cured, butㅡbut the doctors had told him. That it was too late for her. They said it was impossible to cure the paralysis. "Yoongi...is that you?" The frail voice called again. 
 

He shook his thoughts aside, and exhaled before pushing the cold metal handle down to open the door. Peeking inside, he saw his mother trying to sit up, but failing. He rushed immediately to her aid.
 

Gently placing his left hand on her back, he slowly held her upright, before moving the pillows more closer with his rightㅡhe realised he'd chosen the wrong hands, because his arms weren't exactly long enough to position the pillows properly. This illicited a light chuckle from his mother, causing him to smile sheepishly.
 

"How's my little Yoon-ah been, hm?" He smiled, feeling warmth inside of him. How long had it been since she'd called him that? He had missed it. 
 

Finally managing to switch his hands, he positioned the pillows so they were touching his mother's back and slowly, he lowered the hand on her back to rest her on pillows. Releasing a short breath, he pulled the white chair near him and sat down. 
 

"I've been better," he answered honestly, shrugging. Even if he did try, his lie would be caught straight away. Nothing went by his mother's eyes - "mum's intuition", as she called it. A frown painted itself on her face as he said this. 
 

"Why? What's wrong, dear? Is everything going alright at university?" She asked, with concern dripping from her small voice. Everytime - everytime, it broke a little part of his heart, hearing her voice become so weak that it's almost like it hurt her to say each word.
 

"I got into the finals for the music competition," he started, looking straight at his mother, whose eyes widened. Her lips stretched into a big smile.
 

"Yoongi, that's fantastic! I am so proud of you," she praised him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. He couldn't help but smile as well, even though he always reprimanded her for messing his hair - because he had made it. He still couldn't believe it. But her smile turned down right after; she looked at him, placing her hand on his own. "Is something about the competition worrying you?" She asked. He sighed.
 

"Yes," he said, "we were given a new challenge - a dancer would accompany each musician for the final performance. And frankly, I don't think it's going well at the moment. I'm getting worried that we won't be ready by the time the finals arrive, because I haven't really been in my best condition lately. It's as if I've lost all inspiration for composing, I—Even when I do manage to create a piece, it's either terrible—or it's good but not fitting to the dancer I'm partnered with. I just—I don't know what to do. What if I'm not able to finish the compositions on time? What if, what if I make something the audience doesn't like? What if I—" 
 

"Yoongi," a small squeeze on his hand, "calm down, you are worrying about nothing. I have no doubt that you will do well - so well, that the audience and the judges will give you a standing ovation for your incredible performance," she assured, giving another squeeze.
 

"But—"
 

"But nothing. Yoongi," she pulled his hand towards her, placing it on her lap, "you are an amazing musician - the best pianist I've ever seen. Better than any pianist that I've ever listened to. And you can protest all you want about how good everyone else is, but you'd be missing the whole point of this." She looked deep into in his eyes, and it was unbelievable how much they reassured him. "I don't care about how great you think this musician is or how beautifully that musician plays - all i care about is you, Yoongi. And let me tell you - your playing is incredible. I have no doubt that you will be ready. I know you will be." Pausing, she sent a smile to his direction, causing his lips to curve upwards too. 
 

She always knew what to say - how to make him feel better. He was thankful for that. Really.
 

"You should have more faith in yourself, dear. If you give up so early at this stage, then you're not the Yoon-ah I've known for the last twenty-three years. What happened to the kid that told me one time that the phrase 'give up' wasn't 'in his dictionary', hm?" His mother asked with a teasing tone. 
 

He cringed as he recollected the memory of his 10-year-old self. Honestly, he hadn't even known what a dictionary was then; he just wanted to say it because he'd heard one of his classmates say it to their english teacher, and had found it cool. Releasing a breath of laughter, he looked down. 
 

"I know it might be difficult right now, but it will get better. I'm sure you'll compose something truly amazing, and will manage to blow everyone away. Now tell me, when is the finals?" She asked. He looked back up.
 

"Less than 2 and a half months away," he answered, and he already knew what was coming.
 

"Yoongi, two months is a long time! What are you worrying about? You'll be able to finish sooner than that; you've always been quick at composing. You'll be fine, dear," she stated in a reassuring tone. But he could only frown because he didn't think he could do it. Sure he'd always been fast - hell, once he had even managed to write a song in less than two hours, that too on the toiletㅡdon't ask.
 

This however—he didn't know how to put it. He guessed if he hadn't allowed what those people in the audience had said in whispers, he might have been alright; he might have had no trouble in writing at all. 
 

It's just how Yoongi was, he cared too much about what others thought of him - what they thought of his music. He felt disappointed in himself, that he wasn't able to entertain and encapture those people with his music. He wanted everybody to like his music, even though he knew it was virtually impossible, because people had different tastes in the type of music they preferred. Of course, he couldn't force them to like his music, he knew that. But that didn't mean he couldn't try and change their minds. 
 

Those people had only heard him once, and sure, first impressions are important. 
 

However, just because the first impression wasn't that great, didn't mean that you should give up. You try again. Who knows, maybe after a few more attempts, their first impression of you will be long forgotten. 
 

That's exactly what he planned on doing.
 

"Yoongi?" The frail voice of his mother snapped him out of his thoughts; he looked back at her and smiled. She smiled back and opened , "So, I'm guessing you know what you want to do, is that right?" She always knew what he was thinking.
 

"Yeah, I'm going to keep going," he answered with confidence. "You're right - I can't give up, especially when the competition's only began. I'll keep writing. And I promise, I'll make you proud. I'll win this - for you." He finished, squeezing his mother's hand softly. 
 

"I'm already so proud of you, Yoongi," she replied, placing her right hand on his cheek, "but promise me, that you won't push yourself too hard. That you'll eat your meals on time, and will not - I mean it, Min Yoongi," he chuckled, "- skip any of them. Your health is more important to me than any of this, so please, take care of yourself. And don't think I won't know just because I'm here - I'll make sure to ask Hoseok to give me updates, so don't you dare ignore me," she said in a tone of warning. He laughed, nodding to her. 
 

"I promise, mum," he answered, flashing a gummy smile. 
 

"God, how much I missed your cute gummy smile," she said, pinched his cheek teasingly. 
 

"Mum, stop," he whined, but he was still smiling. Because he'd missed it. He'd missed being teased by his mother, as funny as that might sound. He wouldn't change it for anything in the world. 
 

"Oh, come on, Yoongi. Let your mother have a little fun, would you?" He rolled his eyes, but let it be. 
 

A knock resounded from the door, causing the two to stop and place their attention to now opening door. A male nurse, with a clipboard in hand, peeked inside. Yoongi watched as he entered the room and glanced at his mother and him.
 

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but visiting hours are now over, so if you would please, sir," the brown haired male said, bowing. Yoongi stood up, sighing before turning to his mother. 
 

"Come again soon, Yoon-ah." He bent down a little, and allowed himself to be embraced in his mother's warmth. He hummed in agreement before pulling away. His mother held his cheeks and pulled him down further, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, causing him to smile brightly. When she pulled away, he spoke.
 

"I'll see you soon. Take care of yourself," he said, before waving goodbye. He walked towards the door, after bowing to the male nurse in greeting, and opened it.
 

Closing the door behind him, he exhaled and turned around, heading for the exit. 
 

He checked his watch and noticed that it was only one o'clock. Maybe he should go to university, and try getting some more ideas down for more compositions. 
 

Yeah, he'll do that, he decided.
 

"But first, let's get some coffee," he said to himself, causing a few pair of eyes to look at him strangely. Shaking his head, he exited the hospital and descended the steps, heading in the direction of his favourite coffee shop. 
 

a/n: this was frankly a boring chapter, i'm sorry. pls love me (。･ω･｡)ﾉ♡