'Count to ten.'

It was what his mother had told him when he was just a boy and struggling to fall asleep. More than sleep, he longed to dream. In those same vivid colours he knew. Of knights and pirates, of riches and palaces, of princesses and dragons and he, a hero.

It had been his favourite place, then.

He would count to ten. In naïve and fevered belief in her words. Then, counted another ten. And another. Then, another until he was sailing on sparkly blue waters, the ground underneath him rocking steadily in lulling rhythm of the strong waves and he could almost taste salt from the breeze. He looked around and he saw nasty crewmen thumping about, full barrels stacked on deck, and the friendly talking parrot.

When he eventually stopped dreaming, he yearned for the blessed sleep harder. He could not remember ever having a nightmare, but the heavy exhausting weight of his realities had felt like one. So, he counted with the same feverish hope. Still to ten. Never beyond. Even after he knew all his numbers. Because a hundred had always seemed so far away.

And Jeon Jungkook became impatient like that. Like how he would not count that night because he knew he could not fall asleep anyways. Not after how his day had sunk in like a wrecked ship into the midnight abyss.

So, he simmered in his rage, let it build into a magnificent, vengeful inferno until it was recklessly unrestrained. It was why he had flown out of bed at one in the morning. Strode towards the field, furious storms swirling in his wake. He tore through the night, screams piercing, and body unfairly punished. For hours and hours until his throat was sore, his vision blackening at the corners and his feet collapsing beneath him. Like how Rome fell in a day, it was even easier for his pathetic life to crumble in the span of the same time.

Jungkook heaved a desperate lungful of air. His chest burned painfully with each breath. He dropped onto his back like a rock tossed into water, sprawled, his arms and feet were laden deadweights. Fatigue chased him harder when he was still.

He counted the stars then. To ten. Except that when he had counted to ten again, he knew that it was to a hundred. He had never added before. His haste had made sure it was never a problem. His temper flared again; the anger burned brighter than the stupid stars. It was a tired sort of frustration that kept him awake despite his body begging to shut down.

. Everything was ed.

The vibration on his thigh then felt like Déjà vu; the jarring sound of buzzing a joke. A sick replay of his day because life always had morbid humour. But because he was just a character playing out a scene given to him, helpless and small, Jungkook moved.

Slow.

He dragged the zipper of his pocket down, waited for the phone to slip out of his joggers. Then, fumbled lazily in the dark to put the call through, and on loudspeaker. In the blunder, the phone suddenly went silent next to him.

Jeon Jungkook wondered who it might have been.

Then, it had felt heavy, but he wondered if Yein and her mother were doing fine. He had followed them both back to their home after the older female was treated for her concussion and cast for her broken arm after a hard fall. But if Yein was calling at such odd hours, it must have been important. 'She wouldn't call otherwise.' It was a bitter afterthought, he knew. So, he kept his silence.

Or it might have been his careful mother worrying needlessly about him and his whereabouts again. She must have finally caved to give him a call. It was the weekends, and he knew she always waited on him even when he had not said that he was coming home. If it were her, he hoped she would hang up because it was easy to lose his temper on her. It should be enough for her to know that he was safe. Enough that he had picked up her call.

Then, he wondered if it could have been Yugyeom. The boy whose dream he might have shattered and whose sincerity he had trampled. 'Would he still call'? A boy whose friendship he had insulted. The thought whispered guilt into Jungkook and there was nothing he could have said to make up for it.

Or could it have been the other boys he knew from practice? His friends. It seemed like an eventual conclusion to the time spent together over trainings, —and from it—comfortable camaraderie and natural rivalry. He should have realised it sooner. 'Could they have heard about his fight with Yugyeom?' Jungkook was not looking forward to being talked down or talked into sense. Not presently. 'A little later, possibly. Maybe tomorrow.'

"I didn't think you were gonna pick up." The voice that drew him out of his reverie was soft and unfamiliar. And spoken as if they had been comfortable. As if they were close but he could not recognise her.

He frowned, confused but held back the impulsive question: 'Who's this?'. The rundown of the day had made him uncommonly careful. And, oddly vulnerable. Because instead, he had confessed, "I couldn't sleep."

The regret was instantaneous. He waited with bated breath for her flood of questions like how one would stupidly stand frozen ashore for the looming tsunami to hit. But the waters were surprisingly gentle on his feet. Her words were startling like that.

"I ran away today," she said, "I had never done that before, no matter how angry or upset I get. I used to be so good at controlling my emotions. I hate that I can't seem to hold them down these days. If my past self were to see me, I wonder...how disappointed would she be to see how she turned out to be?" she paused a little, her thoughts wayward, "Have you ever disappointed yourself?"

Her question was a curveball to her runaway thoughts said aloud. She seemed like the type with many secrets. Even her confessions were riddled with them. Jungkook wondered what had pushed her to call him at three in the morning.

"I did something like that today," Jungkook told her, he did not want her regretting telling him something so private, because she had been good to him, had covered him from that kind of hit, "I chose someone over something important I've been chasing. I just hadn't known what I was giving up when I made the choice."

"You regretted it?"

Jungkook pondered over her question. 'Would he have made the same choice had he known just what he was giving up?'

"I don't think I could even if I want to," he said, "You can always build new dreams, but you can't always fix a broken person."

"Then, why couldn't you be proud of yourself?" She said.

"Because I got angry and blamed someone, who cares, for what happened; said harsh words without knowing what he did for me," he said, the storm that kept him awake swirled anew, and they tore at his conscience.

"Did you break him?" She asked.

"No," he said, "But I broke his dream today."

She paused.

"I did," she told him, "I broke someone I'm supposed to protect, and I can't seem to fix him back. But I know you will. Because you care without holding back. And like you said you, can always fix broken dreams. Life isn't always on your side; things will go wrong. But at least they have someone like you in their life."

It had sounded like a truth. Why was she sharing something so private? A return for his earlier confession? Or was her world crashing like his was?

Was it strange that he did not mind her questions now? That he was even more curious of her?

"Why did you call me?" He asked after a length of silence.

"I think I told you too much already," she laughed his question away.

"At least give me an excuse," he appealed.

"There's no one else to call," she told him, and he believed her. Who was she?

And because he had let the silence drag into an uncomfortable staccato between held breaths, she said, "Aren't you going to ask me for the truth?"

It sobered him, "What's your truth then?" He asked.

"I missed you. I wanted to hear your voice again," she said, and he paused at her words, his tired brain scattering and then fumbling into flimsy focus. Jungkook had heard his fair share of confessions before, had felt guilty for stirring such emotions in people he did not care for, had troubles finding words rejecting them. Hers...had pleased him even when it had felt like a lie. Because her voice had run straight, like an actor practising his line would.

"You're lying." He told her.

"You don't know that," she said.

"I know that," He said, sure. Jungkook tried to imagine her. From her words and her silence. Her confessions and her unsaid words.

'An old high school classmate? A previous colleague? An unrequited first love?'

Then, 'A wayward call not meant for him?'

"My name." He said.

"Your name?" She echoed.

"What's my name?" He repeated.

She paused as if to contemplate; as if she could get his name wrong; as if she could not remember something as easy as his name for someone who would call him at three in the morning.

"Jung Woo." She said and his heart fell. It felt like the serendipitous confession letter from his crush he found in the midst of his messy locker. A mistake: a lost note wrongly slipped in actually meant for the boy whose locker was next to his.

He should have hung up then. But Jungkook held onto the conversation longer like a man parched and deluded, chasing after a mirage as if there could be an alternate explanation to the clear misunderstanding.

"Do I know you?" He could no longer keep the question to himself, his curiosity winning over.

Pause.

"Only that my name is Dahyun, and I want to know yours."

Sudden vivid memories he had of her slammed into him as brilliant lights would to a man starved in darkness. Painful and unforgiving. He remembered the lie he told her, and guilt rushed in with it.

Jungkook sat up.

Dahyun.

"I didn't think you would call again..." he started to explain.

"I didn't either," she said.

"I'll remember you," he promised.

In his guilt to make it up to her—and even Yugyeom—Jungkook etched her name in his being that night. He echoed it in his brain until it was all he could remember while talking to her. Savoured it on his tongue until it tasted like home. The smile tugging at the corners of his lips was instinctive like the strange excitement flooding his veins. In his vulnerability, he let her mean something to him.

Not exactly a stranger. Not quite a friend. Just someone who knew his secrets or maybe nothing at all.