Jimin

The third and final text comes through when I pull up the hospital. I know it’s the final text, because it’s pulled from the conversation I had with Jungkook less than two hours ago. It’s the very last thing I messaged him.

Yoongi: “Don’t thank me, Jungkook. You shouldn’t thank me, because I failed miserably at trying not to fall in love with you.”

I can’t take any more. I throw the phone into the passenger seat and exit the vehicle, then sprint into the hospital and straight up to his room. I push open the door and rush inside, preparing to do whatever I can to persuade him to hear me out.

When I’m inside his room, I instantly gutted.

He’s gone.

I press my palms against my forehead and pace the empty room, trying to figure out how I can take it all back. He read everything. Every single conversation I’ve ever had with Jungkook on my laptop. Every single honest feeling I’ve shared, every joke we’ve made, every flaw we’ve listed.

Why was I so damn careless?

Twenty-four years I’ve lived without ever experiencing this type of hatred. It’s the type of hatred that completely overwhelms the conscience. It’s the type of hatred that excuses otherwise inexcusable actions. It’s the type of hatred that can be felt in every facet of the body and in every inch of the soul. I’ve never known it until this moment. I’ve never hated