I remember one thing clearly, something that accompanied me through my whole life, or for as long as I can remember. His shoulders got wider since we were children, but the familiar sight of Yoongi’s back was a constant image I burned inside my mind. Always walking a little before me, one step, two steps, not slowing down, not waiting for me to catch up. The frightening notion that if I stop, he might just leave. These days I see his back less and less, the world takes my moments with him, leaving me scraps of minutes and seconds, for fleeting hello’s and even more fleeting smiles.  But what I see more are bruises, scratches where there are not supposed to be, tired eyes and a smell of tobbaco.

He is walking before me right now, the neon light from the shop creating a reddish halo around his figure. He looks otherworldly even when I know he is anything but that. A boy with filthy mouth, a young man with passion that may just burn him one day. In a rare instance he turns around, searching for me. His eyes find me, mouth twisting trying on something gentler than his usual smirk. We used to sit on a steps before our appartment building in summer, buying ice-cream. Yoongi laughed in those times.

I don’t remember who said it first. The carpet in his apartment could use vacuuming, I was counting the spots on the ceiling when his hand found mine. Words were whispered, his face close to mine, eyes dark and terrified, breath leaving his mouth in fast gasps. We were laying on the floor, heads turned to each other, noses almost touching. Maybe he said it first, with trembling voice, the whispered love you. I felt warm. The snow was falling behind the windows and Yoongi’s apartment was cold.

I remember I was the first one to scream, he was the first to slam the doors. I wonder, why does worry so often turn to anger? Why do we scream at our loved ones when instead we want to wrap them in a hug and turn the outside world off for at least a few seconds? The bruises are now accompanied with bloody knuckles, a pallete of greens, blues and purples paints his body like a canvas. Tobbaco smell is stronger and Yoongi’s fingers shake when he lights the cigarette up.

I remember one thing clearly, something that accomoanied me through my whole life, or as long as I can remember.....is not here. I frown, the  familiar shop sits sideways , my vision blurry, something wet slides down my temple, like a snake, warm and entirely too frightening. The voices are getting clearer, calling for a name, calling for Suga. Who is Suga?

Yoongi rounds the corner of a street we used to walk on. Heaving breaths, face vulnerable and when he sees me, hurt. He screams, profanities fly by like ice during a blizzard, meant to sting.

I remember a sound of piano. Something soft being played in a next room. Yoongi wasn’t beside me in the bed. I carefully made one step after another through the apartment, the carpet was different. Yoongi sat by a piano, fingers gliding over the keys as if hesitant to touch. I startled him when I pressed one of the black ones. He sat me by him on the stool, one hand gripping my waist, the other played a charming tune. I layed my head on his shoulder, they did get wider, I smiled to myself. The tobbaco smell was gone, Yoongi’s fingers were sure when they danced over the keys.

I don’t remember who saved who. Maybe I him, maybe he me. I only remember one spring day Yoongi turned around, grasping my hand in his, walking beside me and the constant feeling of running after something, running from something, was suddenly gone. The pink petals and gummy smiles came back, like all things do when seasons change.