Taekook
The collision happens in slow motion.
One moment Jungkook is rushing through Gangnam Station, eyes on his phone, and the next he's crashing into someone—solid warmth and the faint scent of coffee and something woodsy. His phone clatters to the ground. Papers scatter.
They freeze.
Jungkook looks up, and the apology dies on his lips.
The stranger is staring back at him with wide eyes, one hand still gripping Jungkook's arm from catching his balance. There's a moment—just a breath—where the entire rush of Seoul seems to fade into white noise.
"Hi," they say in unison.
The stranger's lips curve into a small, surprised smile. His grip loosens but doesn't quite let go.
"I'm—" Jungkook swallows. "Jungkook."
"Taehyung." The name comes out soft, almost careful, like he's handing Jungkook something fragile.
They stand there, commuters flowing around them like water around stones. Jungkook should move. Should apologize properly, pick up his phone, check if it's cracked. But Taehyung's eyes are this warm brown that catches the fluorescent station lighting, and suddenly Jungkook can't remember where he was rushing to or why it mattered.
"I..." Taehyung starts, then stops. His hand is still on Jungkook's sleeve.
"Yeah," Jungkook says, even though Taehyung hasn't asked anything.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, just full. Like there are a thousand things to say and no idea where to start. Taehyung's thumb brushes against Jungkook's wrist, just once, and Jungkook's heart does something stupid in his chest.
Then his phone rings.
The spell shatters. They both jolt, suddenly aware of how close they're standing, how Taehyung's hand is still touching him, how people are definitely staring. Jungkook fumbles for his phone on the ground, checks the caller ID.
His manager. Shit.
"I gotta go," he says, and it comes out with the casual familiarity of someone saying goodbye to an old friend, someone he's known for years instead of ninety seconds.
Taehyung nods, steps back. "Yeah, of course."
Jungkook answers the call as he walks away, already launching into apologies about being late. He makes it three stations down the line before it hits him like a second collision:
He didn't get a number.
"Fuck," he mutters, loud enough that the woman next to him shoots him a look.
He doesn't have anything. Not a last name, not a photo, not even which direction Taehyung was heading. Just a first name and the ghost-feeling of fingers on his wrist. Seoul has ten million people. What are the odds?
Jungkook wants to laugh at himself, but it gets stuck somewhere in his throat.
Taehyung realizes the moment Jungkook disappears into the crowd.
"Wait—" he says to no one, taking two steps forward. Then he's running, pushing past businessmen and students, scanning faces that all blur together. Dark hair, everywhere. Black jackets, a million of them.
No Jungkook.
He stops in the middle of the platform, breathing hard, feeling ridiculous and desperate and strangely hollow. He doesn't even know why he's chasing someone he just met. Someone he bumped into. Someone who said three sentences to him.
Someone whose smile made Taehyung forget he was standing in the second busiest subway station in Seoul during rush hour.
"Idiot," he mutters to himself.
But he pulls out his phone anyway, types "Jungkook" into the search bar like that'll do anything. The results are useless—celebrities, business owners, thousands of strangers. He deletes it. Stares at the empty search box.
Then he saves the location in his phone: Gangnam Station, Exit 3, 6:47 PM.
Just in case.
Day 3
Jungkook goes back.
He tells himself it's because his usual route takes him through Gangnam anyway. Never mind that he's left work thirty minutes early. Never mind that he's taking the long way through Exit 3 specifically, eyes scanning the crowd.
He feels insane. This is insane.
But he looks anyway.
Day 5
Taehyung checks his watch: 6:52 PM. Close.
He's been coming here every day after his shift at the gallery, telling himself he just likes this coffee shop, that's all. That the iced americano here is better than the one near his apartment.
He doesn't even like americanos.
He sits by the window and watches people stream past. His sketchbook sits open in front of him, and he's drawn the same jawline four times without meaning to.
This is pathetic. He knows it's pathetic.
He comes back the next day anyway.
Day 7
They're both there—6:15 PM for Taehyung's early day, 7:30 PM for Jungkook's late meeting.
They miss each other by an hour and fifteen minutes.
Jungkook stands exactly where they collided and feels stupid for the ache in his chest over someone whose last name he doesn't know. Someone who probably hasn't thought about him since.
(Taehyung is three subway stops away, staring at his ceiling, thinking about warm eyes and an awkward smile and the worst timing in the world.)
Day 8
Jungkook dreams about fingers on his wrist and wakes up annoyed at himself.
Taehyung dreams about a voice saying "I gotta go" and wakes up with his heart racing.
Neither of them goes to Gangnam Station that day.
But they both think about it.
The city is too big, Jungkook thinks, standing in his apartment looking out at the lights of Seoul stretching endlessly in every direction. Ten million people. Millions of moments. What are the odds of the same collision twice?
He doesn't know Taehyung's last name. Doesn't know what he does, where he lives, anything beyond a smile and a moment and the feeling that something started that didn't get to finish.
His phone sits on the counter, useless.
All he has is a name that he whispers to himself like he's trying to memorize it: Taehyung.
It's not enough.
But somehow, it's everything.
