Taehyung didn’t believe in fate.
Not really. Not in the way his friends did, with horoscopes and tarot pulls before exams, or whispered promises that “if it’s meant to be, it’ll be.” His parents (Namjoon and Jin) had raised him on logic and practicality. “The universe doesn’t decide for you,” Namjoon would say. “You choose, every single day.”
And yet, when Taehyung found the letter, folded neatly inside a secondhand copy of Pride and Prejudice at the tiny bookstore downtown, something in him stuttered.
The paper was thick, the ink smudged slightly where the writer’s hand must’ve lingered too long.
My Dearest,
I don’t know if you exist, but I hope you do. I hope there’s someone out there who will understand what I mean when I say the world feels both too heavy and too hollow. I see love everywhere, in songs, in books, in couples holding hands like they’ll never let go. But when I try to imagine it for myself, I feel like an imposter. Like I’m knocking on a door that wasn’t meant for me.
If you find this, if you’re real-know that someone is waiting. Not for perfection, not for a fairy tale. Just for someone who believes in something worth staying for.
—J
Taehyung read it three times before he remembered to breathe. It was absurd. A stranger’s words, left like a message in a bottle. Probably a prank. Probably nothing.
And yet, he slipped the letter into his pocket.
-×-×-
He told himself it was stupid, leaving a reply. But two days later, he was at his desk, pen trembling slightly between his fingers.
Dear J,
I don’t believe in fate. I don’t even believe in love the way you describe it. But I found your letter, and maybe that means something. Or maybe it means nothing. Still, here I am, writing back, which is out of character for me. I don’t know what I’m waiting for either. Maybe this is it.
—T
He tucked it back into the book. And for the first time in a long while, he felt… curious.
-×-×-
Jungkook almost didn’t come back.
He had written the letter on a bad day, when loneliness pressed against his ribs until it hurt. His parents, Yoongi and Jimin, had always taught him that love was worth the risk, but Jungkook had watched even their gentle devotion fray under the weight of life sometimes. It made him wonder if he’d inherited Yoongi’s silence or Jimin’s breaking heart.
So he’d written, half as a joke, half as a prayer. And when he returned to the bookstore weeks later, it was only because he couldn’t stop himself.
He opened Pride and Prejudice. Found the reply.
His chest tightened. Someone had answered.
-×-×-
They wrote for weeks. Letters hidden in the book, passed like contraband.
Jungkook wrote about music, about how he felt alive only when he was behind a camera or with his guitar.
Taehyung wrote about art, how colors spoke when words didn’t.
They didn’t trade phone numbers. Didn’t meet. It was easier to be honest on paper.
But honesty has a cost.
One evening, Taehyung’s letter was sharper than usual:
You talk about love like it’s salvation. What if it isn’t? What if it’s just another way to get hurt? My parents believe in building steady lives, not chasing feelings that fade. Maybe they’re right. Maybe we’re just setting ourselves up for disappointment.
Jungkook’s reply came fast, messy ink betraying unsteady hands:
I don’t want perfection. I just want someone who won’t leave when things get hard. But if you think this is a mistake, tell me now. Don’t waste my time with half-belief.
Taehyung stared at the page for a long time. His throat was tight, his hands cold. He wanted to burn the letter. He wanted to answer. He wanted,
He didn’t know what he wanted.
-×-×-
The next day, he went to the bookstore. He wasn’t planning to. He just… ended up there, at 2 PM, heart beating too loudly in his ears.
And that’s when he saw him.
Jungkook. Dark hair falling into his eyes, shoulders tense as he held Pride and Prejudice in his hands like it contained his whole life. He looked up, and froze.
Their gazes locked. Recognition was instant.
“You’re—” Jungkook began.
“—T,” Taehyung finished, pulse stumbling.
For a moment, neither moved. The air between them was too fragile.
“You almost didn’t come,” Jungkook said finally. His voice was lower than Taehyung had imagined, threaded with something raw.
“I almost didn’t,” Taehyung admitted. He swallowed hard. “It felt… safer not to.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “And now?”
Taehyung hesitated, then stepped closer, close enough to see the way Jungkook’s fingers trembled around the book. “Now it feels like if I don’t try, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Jungkook let out a shaky laugh, something like relief breaking across his face. “Good. Because I was ready to walk away if you weren’t real.”
“I’m real,” Taehyung whispered.
“Me too.”
-×-×-
Falling in love wasn’t instant. It was messy, tentative.
There were fights, about fear, about trust, about whether this connection was destiny or just timing. Taehyung would retreat into silence, convinced he was too much. Jungkook would withdraw, afraid he was not enough.
But then there were moments, quiet, steady moments, that anchored them. Jungkook watching Taehyung sketch until the sun rose. Taehyung listening to Jungkook’s songs like they were scripture. A kiss in the rain that wasn’t cinematic but clumsy, teeth clashing and both of them laughing into each other’s mouths.
Love wasn’t magic. It was a choice. And they kept choosing.
-×-×-
Years later, Taehyung still kept the first letter in a frame above their desk. People called it fate, serendipity, written in the stars.
But whenever Jungkook caught him staring at it, Taehyung would shake his head and smile.
“No,” he’d say. “It wasn’t the stars. It was us. We chose this. Every day, we chose.”
And Jungkook, pressing a kiss to his temple, would answer, “I’d choose you a thousand times over.”
