What We Left Unsaid Chapter 4

Taehyung’s POV

Morning came like always — soft, silent, indifferent.

The sunlight spilled through the cream-colored curtains, softening the edges of the world. But it didn’t feel like warmth. Not anymore. Not when the cold had settled somewhere deeper — a kind of ache I couldn’t name, couldn’t point to, but carried in my bones like a second skin.

I’d already been awake for over an hour.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling. The fan hummed softly above, its rhythm unchanging. Beside me, Jungkook shifted in his sleep, his arm moving to rest across my waist like it always did. Like muscle memory.

Jeon Jungkook

Morning.

He mumbled, voice half-dream, warm breath brushing my shoulder.

Jeon Taehyung

Morning.

I replied, voice hollow. Routine.

My hand hovered over his for a moment, then gently pushed it off as I sat up. The floor was cold beneath my feet. Familiar. Just like the rest of this life I built and got lost in.

I went downstairs, the silence following me like a ghost. The kitchen welcomed me with its usual stillness. I moved through it like clockwork. Batter. Toast. Eggs. Juice. The pancakes were for Seon — he always smiled wider on pancake days. Hana would complain, as usual, and I'd already set toast aside for her.

It was the kind of small chaos I once adored.

The table was set just before 7:30. Jungkook’s mom appeared on cue, wrapped in her knitted shawl, tapping on her phone.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

You made pancakes again?

She muttered, not looking up.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Too sweet for breakfast.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Seon’s going to get cavities.

I didn’t respond. I set the cup of tea in front of her, just as she liked it — no sugar, half milk, hot.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

I don’t know what kind of example you’re setting for the kids, letting them eat sugar like this first thing in the morning.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Back in my day, we started with hot lentil soup and rice.

Still nothing from me. Not even a twitch.

I’d learned that answering only gave her more ammunition.

She finally looked up.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Taehyung?

She said sharply.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Are you listening?

Jeon Taehyung

I heard you.

I replied flatly.

Jeon Taehyung

Eat if you want to. Or don’t.

Her eyes narrowed.

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

Why are you always so cold lately?

Mrs. Jeon (Jk's Mom)

This attitude of yours—

Hana wandered in, still rubbing her eyes.

Jeon Hana

Good morning, Daddy.

I crouched and kissed her cheek.

Jeon Taehyung

Morning, baby.

Jeon Taehyung

You want toast?

She nodded sleepily and climbed into her chair. I handed her a plate.

Jeon Hana

Is Papa awake?

She asked between bites.

Jeon Taehyung

He’s getting ready.

I said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

And in that moment — in the middle of a silent war — I chose her smile over the storm.

I didn’t hate Jungkook’s mother. Not really. I pitied her, maybe. Or resented the fact that she never once tried to see me beyond my usefulness. That no matter how many meals I cooked, floors I cleaned, sleepless nights I spent with her grandchildren — I was always the outsider. The husband who took her son away, who didn’t earn enough, who didn’t belong.

But more than anything, I was tired.

Tired of being the one who bent. Who adjusted. Who smiled and kept the peace while carrying the cracks in silence.

Tired of being invisible in my own home.

I glanced at the clock.

8:05.

Time to pretend again.

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