“Are you ok?” I asked, inching away from the desk and smoothing my hands down the front of my pants.

         As if that would fool him into thinking I hadn’t just read what I can only assume would be his equivalent of a journal.  Or whatever dudes write in. 

         Reading his words made me feel breathless and the mix of guilt and heartfelt sympathy was making my hands sweat.  I suddenly felt horrible for the crack about snooping.

         His eyes focused on me, poker face intact.  “Yes.  I’m ok.”

         “Ok, well, I guess that’s that then,” I exhaled, clapping my hands together.  Agh, you’re an idiot.  “I’ll just be going.”  Using the edge of his desk, I pushed myself forward to head for the door.

         “I thought you were going to hang out with the guys,” he countered.  I froze mid stride.

         “I, um,” I began, “I don’t want to impose.  And you guys must be tired from rehearsals and stuff,” I replied lamely.

         He shrugged.  “They like hanging out with you.”

         “And you?” I wondered quietly.  He arched an eyebrow, suddenly blinking rapidly.

         “I don’t mind you hanging out.  I’ll probably just stay in here and get some writing done.”

         I felt my shoulders slump forward a little.  “Yoongi, are you sure you’re ok?”

         “I’m ok,” he repeated.  “Why are you asking?”

         It was my turn to shrug.  Did he really feel that way?  Did he really have those thoughts?  How could he see himself like that?  I’ve seen him perform.

         Suga and Yoongi couldn’t be any different.

         He stepped over to his desk and straightened one of the notebooks ever so slightly so it lay perfectly in line with the desk. 

         Perhaps he’s just neat.  That doesn’t mean he’s OCD.

         But when he scrutinized it and readjusted it, I pressed my lips together.  Oh.

         “Yoongi, I like to think of you guys as friends.  Maybe we don’t know each other as well as the seven of you guys know each other, but I like you guys.  You’re fun.”  He pulled his attention away from the desk and back to me.

         “It’s nice to have a local here and you’ve been nice to us,” he said softly.  I nodded.  He didn’t say friend.

         I hesitated.  I pondered what I could say to him to get him to confide in me, but he’s so closed off and has been that way for so long I’d assume, no way would he open up to someone he’s only known barely a moment in time.

         Glancing around his hotel room, I let out a sigh.  “You play the piano right?”  He didn’t say anything right away.  When my eyes fell on him, he nodded.  “You know Beethoven?”  He nodded again.

         “Who doesn’t know Beethoven?” he countered.  I let out a chuckle.

         “Good point.  And Hemingway?”

         “Sure, Namjoon is always trying to get us to read,” he replied with a wry smile.  “Literary type.”  I grinned.

         “And Edvard Munch?”  His brows furrowed.  “He’s the guy who painted the scream painting.”  His eye brows shot up.

         “Oh, sure, yeah.”

         “I read somewhere…you know what all those men had in common?  Besides being labeled potential geniuses in their fields?”

         Yoongi studied me, not answering, waiting.

         “They all suffered from depression,” I answered.  “Tortured geniuses.”  His eyes went to the window behind his desk.  Sunny day.  View of the city.  View of the Strip.  It was quite nice to be honest.  “Brilliance can have quite the cost.”  I paused to see if he would reply, but he stayed quiet.  “And you know Starry Night?  The painting Starry Night?”

         “Van Gogh,” he murmured.

         I nodded.  “I like that painting and I read an article ’10 things you don’t know about Van Gogh’s A Starry Night…’”  I laughed softly, “I didn’t know any of the ten things, but the one I remember is that he did that painting to portray hope in life.”  I took a step closer to where he stood.  “He painted it while he was staying in a mental institute.  He suffered from depression and some say anxiety.”

         He glanced at me.  “You read weird stuff.”

         A smile broke out on my face.  “You have a brilliant mind, Yoongi.  Your lyrics and the music you create…it’s beautiful and truthful”  He frowned slightly.  “You pretend but…”

         “It’s dark,” he stated, still staring out at the sunny Las Vegas afternoon.  “Inside my head.  Music is the only way to clear it out.  To relieve the pressure.”  He shook his head.  His eyes caught mine and my breath caught in my chest.  He looked so sad, so lost.  “It’s so heavy.”  He pursed his lips together, a battle raging behind those eyes of his.  “Can…I tell you something?”