He isn’t quite sure how he ended up in this headspace; he doesn’t quite remember what it was like, the last time he felt sincerely happy and engaged within the present moment. Taehyung would much rather be at home now, hidden beneath the confines of his heated blanket and the four green-painted walls of his bedroom. Or, at the very least, wasting away on his living room couch, with the ripped leather cushions sinking slightly underneath him as he twists and turns to find the most comfortable position to play games on his phone. Anywhere, anywhere at all but here, backed up against the corner inside some house of a person he doesn’t know, music so deafening it reverberates against the walls and shakes the ceiling lights, sweaty, lustful bodies swaying and twerking and moving too close to each other’s personal space that there’s no room for the holy bible, red solo cup half-filled with some questionably colored liquid trembling subtly in the tight grip of his left hand. If he’s supposed to be feeling or thinking or doing something in this kind of situation, he isn’t sure what. The one thing he is certain of, though, is that he hates it here.

Then, he locks eyes with someone across the room.