Regrets have a way of worming their way into every good thing, decomposing false contentment, poisoning any belief that happiness is deserved. What if I hadn’t said that? What If I hadn’t been there? What if I had spoken to him? They crashed and crashed against the cliffs of sanity until the mind eroded and only the craggy, hard parts of the self remained. They shut down compassion, forced the memories to hide away for fear of that foul black resentment that might rear its head again. And Yoongi? Well .

Yoongi had enough regret for a lifetime.

It started in Busan, summer of 2007, the ripe age of fourteen. Back when he’d cared what people thought about him. Back when he’d done whatever—go to parties, go on dates, sneak out in the dark of night—so long as it meant he’d fit in. It had been in Busan, during the fated family vacation of the summer of 2007, that he’d met Jungkook. The kid had been only ten then, all big eyes and a mouth half-full of teeth that were still growing in. He was a late bloomer, he told Yoongi, rather self-importantly. His friend Jimin said so.

Yoongi didn’t meet Jimin that year.

He didn’t meet Jimin the next year either.

Or the next.

Then his family stopped going to Busan for summer vacation, and Yoongi forgot to wonder about the mysterious Jimin his young Busan friend never shut up about. Money was tight. The restaurant was losing valuable customers and his parents couldn’t afford employees anymore. Every spare second Yoongi had he spent in that restaurant, waiting tables, taking orders, mopping floors. He shut people out, only making time to sleep, study, work. Rinse and repeat, day after day.

And people were cruel. The drunk men tossed slurs over their shoulders. The women touched his face and his neck and his back when they gave their orders, pinched his cheeks and cooed, so cute, so good looking. Children yelled and cried and threw up and Yoongi spent more hours with a mop than he did with kids his age. He retreated further into himself. what these people thought of him. He began to rap, writing verses at night when he should have slept, forgoing papers and projects to put together beats. It was short of a miracle he finished school at all.

Yoongi graduated, sleepy-eyed and past the point of caring anymore for anything other than his music and sleep. He went to college, a local university with a decent enough program that offered enough scholarships for his music while ignoring his GPA that he wouldn’t have to go into debt to graduate. There he met Namjoon, a kindred spirit who breathed rap in the same way that Yoongi lived rhythm. They got along like a house on fire, burning up the underground scene most weekends, holing up in their shared studio they’d managed to rent in the basement of a dingy old building just off campus the rest of the time. The landlord was an old woman named Sohee who spent more time trying to tell Yoongi about her son Hoseok and how talented he was than she ever spent collecting rent, which suited Yoongi just fine.

Like that fall turned to winter turned to spring until finally summer came again. Yoongi didn’t go home and no one called to ask why. Instead he went to Busan with Namjoon, a hairbrained adventure concocted by Taehyung, one of the local kids who worked at the coffee shop that Namjoon practically lived at during exam week.

Taehyung was an odd duck, whip-smart but largely uninterested in doing anything with his intelligence. Instead he appeared to remain content behind a counter, brewing coffee and writing unsettling, existential questions on the coffee cups of rude customers.

Busan was everything Yoongi remembered.

Jungkook wasn’t. He’d grown in the past years, gained muscle where spindly limbs used to be, developed a smirk and a heartbreaking twinkle in his eyes. Yoongi only vaguely remembered the kid, and frankly, he didn’t really care. Taehyung, already doe-eyed and hanging off Jungkook’s every word, could have him.

But then he met Jimin. Beautiful, pure sunshine and joy Jimin. Jungkook’s hyung.

It was a fluke. Yoongi and Namjoon had followed Taehyung who followed Jungkook into boat shop. He’d grinned, throwing out a comfortable, Hey hyung, I need to borrow your car keys for a sec, before wandering off into a back room to rummage around. Taehyung had trailed behind like a puppy, but Yoongi and Namjoon contented themselves instead to look around the store, laughing at the odd mix of cheap tourist items, fish paraphernalia, and boating supplies. They didn’t’ notice the other man in the room, Jungkook’s hyung, until he tapped Taehyung’s shoulder with a polite, Hey, how can I help you guys? Jimin.

He was Taehyung’s age but talked like he was older, smiled like he held the world, and suddenly Yoongi was transported back to 2007, standing on the beach with sand in between his toes, painfully insecure, desperate to be liked, and completely clueless on how to talk to the angel in front of him. Namjoon said hi, thanked him for his help, said they were good. Jimin turned to go.

Yoongi wanted to speak. Wanted to introduce himself. But when he opened his mouth all he could see were angry men and overbearing women and disappointment so shut his mouth and did the only thing he’d ever truly been good at.

Yoongi ran.

And he regretted it.