(Yijeong POV)
...
This is a hookup, you decide weakly. This is what a hookup feels like. This is everything it never was before, because this is all about need and lust and pent-up frustration and it's not about you anymore, it's all about him, it's about what he needs from you, and maybe he doesn't even need it from you specifically, maybe you're just the easiest option, but you give him what he needs anyway because maybe a twisted, broken part of you needs that too, needs to let him use you, because this isn't real and maybe he never wanted you specifically after all. 

He always used to talk about what you deserve, but he was wrong, you know that this is precisely what you deserve, what you've always deserved. You don't deserve whispered confessions and late night movie dates and lazy Sunday mornings and breakfast in bed, you don't deserve to feel like he might actually care about you more than he's required to, you don't deserve to feel secure and warm and maybe almost loved. You know exactly what you deserve, you deserve to cry about this later, after he's gone, because you're still wondering if this might be better than nothing at all, you're still wondering if he might have meant it sometimes, you know that you bring all of this on yourself and you have to accept the consequences of your actions. 

Tonight marks the first night you've been completely alone in the dorm since you came back home and, coincidentally, tonight also marks the first and only time you've hooked up since you got home, and you're using that term for once because that's exactly what this is. You were working the way you have been for weeks now, not stopping for anything, and you weren't planning on stopping tonight, until he wordlessly entered your studio, reached for your hands, pulled you to your feet, led you to his room. "This doesn't mean anything," he told you, waited for you to confirm it, and it's not really that you didn't agree, but you felt powerless anyway, you always give in when it's him because it's... him. Now you might regret it a little, because this is the way it was supposed to be all along, and maybe you could accept that if it wasn't for the fact that it wasn't like this until tonight, and that knowledge just makes you feel worse. 

When you feel used up, when he's done with you, he doesn't say anything. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed while you stare up at the ceiling, empty, hollow, and you knew this would happen, you know this is the only option, you know this is all you get to be to him now, you know that this isn't about you anymore, if it ever was at all. You don't think he'll say anything, you think he'll leave you here alone with your thoughts, but he's always defying your expectations and that's why this is so hard. 

"I'm gonna spend a few days with my friends," he begins, "and when I get back, we can just forget about this, okay?" He hasn't looked you in the eye for a long time and he's not about to start now, so you can't just nod, you have to speak even though you don't trust your voice to hold steady right now, you don't trust yourself to be strong. "Okay," you whisper, but you know he heard you because he says, "Then it's settled," and leaves the room. 

It's fine, you tell yourself, this is how it should have been the whole time, this is how you keep it under control. (This is what you deserve.)

You lock yourself in your studio, bury yourself in work, try to forget about him, about everything, and it's almost working until your phone lights up as it receives a text message. You know who it's from, you try to ignore it, but your curiosity wins out. 'Are you okay?' it reads and you've never felt more unsure of how to answer that question. When you don't respond, he texts, 'I'm sorry,' but it just makes you feel worse because you don't want him to feel guilty, because this isn't his fault, you're to blame for this, you've always held the blame for this. You let this happen, you let yourself believe that this meant something, because you wanted it to mean something, because it meant something to you. 

If you don't reply to his messages, he will call you and you can't handle hearing his voice right now, so you have to reply, you have to acknowledge him so he knows you're okay, or at least okay enough to pretend you are. 'Have fun with your friends,' you type, press send, wonder if he'll be satisfied with your answer, but that's irrelevant because it's the only answer you have right now. He texts back, 'I'll see you Monday' and that's the end of it. 

Your remaining bandmates are tiptoeing around you, making sure you eat, making sure you sleep, and you're not sure if they're doing it on their own or if they've been recruited to keep you alive while he's gone all weekend. You wish he trusted you more, you wish he recognized that you can take care of yourself, but the truth is that you did forget to eat and you haven't slept in 24 hours and you do bury yourself in work when you're upset, so maybe he's right not to trust you. 

Monday morning rolls around before you realize it and you're dreading it, you don't want to see him because you can't predict what he'll do, if he'll want to talk or if he'll ignore you or if you'll wind up sleeping with him again. You're working when he gets home, not that it's anything unexpected, but you think he'll wait awhile before he comes to see you, so you're surprised to find him standing in front of you before he's even taken off his jacket. 

"How long has it been since you slept?" he demands. "I've only been up for an hour," you say, not looking up from your phone. "What about lunch? It's past lunchtime." You look at the time and sigh. "I'm not hungry, I've only been up for an hour." He sits down on the couch and takes off his jacket. "You'll be happy to hear that I've come up with a plan." You look up at him despite yourself. "Everyone is busy tonight," he continues, "so the dorm will be empty except for you and me."

"That's your brilliant plan?" you say. "I never said it was brilliant." He looks down at his lap, away from you. "Do you really want that to be the last time?" No. No, you don't. You just think it'll just make it harder to accept if it isn't. "This is really the last time?" He nods. "The last time." He stands up, walks closer to you. "But first, lunch." You save your work, stand up from your office chair and look at him, and you realize that you didn't realize how much you missed him until you saw his face. "What do you feel like eating?" 

"You pick," he tells you. "I'm not hungry, you pick." He won't pick either so you end up on a walk to the closest convenience store to buy a probably unhealthy lunch. He seems different, he seems like he's found some sort of solution to your dilemma, he seems like he missed you, because he keeps touching you and he hasn't done that in awhile, and he seems happier even if you still feel kind of sick about everything, and his indifference isn't making you feel any better. 

"What did you work on while I was gone?" he asks as he starts to eat. "Nothing special," you reply. "What did you do while you were gone?" He shrugs. "Slept and watched movies and... drank a little." You nod, get started on your lunch even though you're not hungry. He finishes his food and he's staring and you ask him to stop, but he doesn't, he just keeps on staring, and it feels like his gaze might burn a hole through your skin. "Is there something on my face?"

"No, I just... I'm really sorry," he says, lowers his head and finally stops staring. "Don't apologize," you whine. "Why not?" You sit back in your chair, lose the rest of your appetite. "Because it's not your fault." He shakes his head. "I... I manipulated you, it's absolutely my fault." He reaches out towards your hand, but you pull it away. "You didn't have to manipulate me. I could have stopped it, I  just... didn't."

"It's not your job to stop it, I'm the one who's supposed to look out for you, I'm not supposed to be so selfish. I screwed up and you're the one who has to deal with it and I'm sorry." You gather half-empty containers from the table, look away from him, busy yourself with a repetitive task. "Are you ignoring me now?" he says, and he actually sounds hurt, so you sit back down. "Do you want me to pretend that I'm fine with this? Because I'm not," you say, trying to act cold so that you don't do something you'll regret, like start crying. "That's why I'm trying to apologize for this weekend."

"I'm not talking about that. I mean... this whole thing, giving up. I know you don't care, but it's not that easy for me." You cross your arms, try to stare a hole into the table. "I care. Hey," he says, waiting for you to look at him, which you do reluctantly. "It's not easy for me, it's just the only way." You scoff, because you still feel like he's lying, like everything has been one gigantic lie. "That's what makes it easy, because you think it's the right thing to do." 

"You don't?" he says, and he seems genuinely surprised. "I don't know what to think anymore." You stand up, finish cleaning up the remainder of your meal. "It's too hot, we should go home." He stands up, following your orders for once. He doesn't try to talk on the walk home, and you didn't think he would, but he keeps 'accidentally' touching you and you're pretty sure he's staring again because he keeps looking away when you turn around. 

The dorm is empty when you get back and you're feeling sick again because this was supposed to be over, this was supposed to have ended a month ago, you weren't supposed to have to go through it again, and you know that you could just take it back, say that the last time was the last time, but you're not over him yet, even though you've been trying, and you don't want to end this on a bad note, even if it is the smartest option. "So what now?" he says, stepping closer to you and smiling. "I know you kind of hate me right now, but that doesn't mean we can't..." 

"I don't," you interrupt. "I don't hate you, I'm just not sure I'm ready for this to end yet." He nods slowly, reaches up to the collar of his shirt, pops open a button. "What about now?" he asks innocently, undoes another button, asks again. You smile, you're trying not to let this work, but it is working, and this isn't manipulation, this isn't about him, it's about you and it's about the fact that he can't just take what he wants from you and not feel guilty and that you still feel like you should take what you can get while you still have the chance, it's about the simple fact that you love him even though you can't say it out loud, you love him no matter how you try to stop, you love him and this is the only way you get to pretend he might love you too. "How about this?" he tries, ping his jeans. "You're ridiculous."

"Then what do you suggest?" he says, laughter in his eyes, and you know what you want, you know where you want this to go, and even though it's not going to make this easier, this really has to be the last time so you'd better make it count. "Kiss me?" He smiles. "That's it? I thought you'd ask for something a little more challenging than that." You chuckle. "Well, that's just step one. Wait 'til I tell you all the other steps—" and you'd some more, but he takes a step closer to you, cups your face in his hands and kisses you for what feels like the first time in years, so you let it go for now. 

Later on, when the sun has set and the stars are shining and the moon is beaming soft light through the window, you start to think this is completely unfair. It's unfair that the night is clear and beautiful, it's unfair that this isn't real, it's unfair that you have to give him up, it's unfair that you have to pretend that it was meaningless, because even if he didn't feel a thing, even if it didn't mean anything to him, not even for a second, it meant everything to you and so it has to count for something, but it might not and that's not fair. Why don't you deserve him? Why do you deserve to suffer for this, for feeling like this? It's unfair and falling for him isn't your fault but letting this happen is, so you suppose you deserve this after all. 

He's holding you in his arms and he keeps kissing your shoulder and you can tell that he still feels bad about what happened on Friday because he kept asking you if you were okay and he's still doing it every few minutes. The next time he asks, you say, "Stop asking me that, you're making me self-conscious." He nods slowly. "You should date someone," he adds abruptly. "You want me to date?" He shrugs. "Don't you want to date someone?" You shake your head. "Not someone," you whisper and he closes his eyes for a long beat. "Are you gonna date someone?" you ask because he's not saying anything. "I don't have the time. If I did... not someone." Your heart is breaking because you don't know if it's true, you don't know if he's messing with you again, but you still want to trust him, trust that he's not over this either. "Maybe you'll have time someday."

"Yeah, maybe," he mutters, but he doesn't believe it and you don't either, because time is probably the easiest obstacle for the two of you to overcome. "So, this is it," he says, his voice clearer. "Yeah," you reply because you don't know what you should be saying. "Any last requests?" Your throat is closing up because you're holding back the flood that is forming behind your eyes and your head hurts because this is really, actually, permanently ending this time, you can't pretend anymore, you have to stop and you have to move on with your lives, and your heart hurts because he's still holding you and his hair is tickling your cheek and he looks at you like this is hurting him too and this is too much, it's too hard, it's so unfair, and it's all your fault, and you deserve to suffer. 

"Can you just... tell me if I was crazy?" you whisper. "Crazy how?" You close your eyes, try to hold yourself together. "Crazy for thinking that this wasn't all me?" You think he might not understand what you're asking, you think he might turn it into a joke, you think he might actually think you are, but all he says is, "You are not crazy." You nod, you have to stop talking, now is not the time to be upset, time is running out, you have to make it count, you can't waste this. "That's all you wanted?"

"What about you? Do you have anything to ask?" He shakes his head, kisses you instead, and you're really going to miss this, you're really starting to regret not doing this more often, you think he was right to always want to forgo talking because talking doesn't ever actually change anything, so you guess talking doesn't really matter, but you're pretty sure this does. "So, what are we now? What do we do now?" He's asking because he wants to know what you need from him, how you need him to treat you, if you need space or time or some combination of both, but you don't know what you need, or maybe what you need doesn't line up with your circumstances, so you don't have much to say. "I know it's a cliche, but I still want us to be friends."

"Right away?" he asks, and you're not sure if he's asking for your sake or his. "Don't ignore me and don't avoid me and don't treat me like I'm going to shatter." That's what he's been doing since you ended this the first time and it makes you feel like you can't breathe, losing him completely is more than you can take. "Only if you stop looking at me like a kicked puppy," he says, and you laugh, curl yourself against his chest, kiss his skin, and it's not because it's funny because none of this is funny, but it's real and it's ending and you just want a minute, just another minute to pretend like he isn't simultaneously the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to you. "I'm serious," he says, "don't use those kind of powers on me, or I can't be held responsible for the consequences."

"I'll try my best," you mumble because your face is still pressing up against his skin. He's playing with your hair and you're really, really going to miss this, you're really, really going to miss believing that he cares about you, and you're really, really going to miss knowing that he'll always be there when you need him, because this is ending fast and you can't stop it, you can't do anything except try not to embarrass yourself for five more minutes. "Is that really all you wanted to say?" He sighs, kisses the top of your head. "I don't think you want to hear the rest of it." You sit back up to look at him, hold his hand. "Speak now or forever—"

"It wasn't always an accident. Telling you that I... sometimes it wasn't an accident, and I'm sure you know this by now, but it wasn't... it wasn't a lie either." Your heart is starting up again, beating faster and faster, making you feel like you might pass out. "You're not crazy and you never were," he continues, "and I want you to promise me that you know, that you believe it." You've been holding back the waterworks for weeks, but it was all for nothing because the tears that have been gathering are spilling over, your vision is starting to blur, and you want to stop it, but you can't, and you want to run away and hide, but you're still not ready to acknowledge that this is the end. You look down and he squeezes your hand. "Don't cry," he whispers, "I'm not worth crying over."

"Don't say that, I wouldn't be doing it if you weren't," you snap, lift your eyes to meet his, tears of anger mixing with ones of sorrow. He looks away, nods slowly, bites his lip, looks back at you. "I told you didn't want to hear the rest," he says sheepishly. "Then you should have kept it to yourself!" He chuckles, wraps you in his arms, kisses your hair and rubs your back. "So was this really worth it? Even knowing it has to end like this?" You nod, because your voice isn't really working anymore and you don't have anything to say except yes. "Good."

You manage to stop crying for a moment, pull away to kiss him for the last time, try to make it count. He smiles at you, tears forming in his own eyes, gets out of bed and remembers that most of his clothes are strewn across the living room, so he can't prolong this anymore. "If you need some space, I can go away again," he suggests, but you shake your head. "That'll just make it harder when you get back."

"Okay," he agrees. He leaves your room, closes the door behind him, and you think it's really over, but the door opens less than a minute later and you can't say a word before he crosses the room and he's kissing you again, and maybe you should believe when he says this isn't easy for him, because his lashes feel damp as they brush across your face and his eyes are red when he pulls away. "I'm still sorry," he whispers, leaves before you can answer. 

(You know it's the right thing because it hurts so much and you know it was worth it because you get to keep the memories forever even if you can't have him and you know you'll never be the same because you've never felt this devastated in your life.)