AUTHOR'S POV:

The iron gates of the Park residence swung open with a dull, heavy groan.

Standing in front of the grand two-story house, Jimin took a slow, steadying breath. He adjusted the strap of his heavy backpack, feeling the chill of the Seoul evening bite through his wool coat.

Every step up the front stone pathway felt like carrying lead weights. This place had the sleek, pristine aesthetic of a high-end private clinic— immaculate marble, quiet halls, and not a single trace of warmth.

Jimin pushed open the heavy front door, stepping inside. He pulled off his shoes and placed them neatly in the cabinet.

From the dining hall down the corridor, the faint clinking of silverware against fine china broke the silence.

"You're late, Jimin," a rigid voice echoed before he could even take off his coat.

Mr. Park didn't look up from his plate as Jimin stepped into the brightly lit dining room. He sat at the head of the long dark-wood table, dressed impeccably in his crisp work shirt, his posture stiff and unyielding.

Beside him sat Mrs. Park, her sharp eyes scanning Jimin from head to toe the moment he walked into the room.

"Lectures ran over, Father," Jimin said softly, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He slipped into the empty chair near the end of the table.

"They didn't run over for your brother," Mrs. Park remarked coldly, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. "Hoseok arrived twenty minutes ago. He managed to handle his firm's quarterly reports and still make it on time."

Across the table, Hoseok sat with a quiet, stern expression. He gave Jimin a brief nod, but his posture mirrored their father's—strict, distant, and expectant.

"I apologize," Jimin whispered, fixing his eyes on his untouched glass of water.

A pair of soft, deep eyes met his from across the table. Taehyung, sitting next to Hoseok, gave Jimin an anxious, sympathetic look.

Taehyung opened his mouth, clearly wanting to defend his older brother, but Jimin gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don't, Jimin meant to say. Don't make it worse.

"Your practical assessment results came in today," Mr. Park continued, setting his fork down with a sharp clack. "Dr. Choi mentioned you scored second in your section."

Jimin’s knuckles turned white under the table, his fingers instinctively clutching the hem of his sweater. "Yes. Yoongi and I—"

"I don't care about the Min boy," Mr. Park interrupted smoothly, his tone cutting like a razor. "I care that you were not first. You have no room to be complacent, Jimin. Medicine was handed to you on a silver platter. You didn't even have the drive to choose it yourself."

Jimin swallowed the bitter taste rising in his throat. He kept his eyes locked onto the table, feeling the familiar, hollow ache settling inside his chest.

Medicine wasn't handed to me, he wanted to scream. You forced it down my throat.

"We spent so much energy trying to guide you," Mrs. Park added with a weary, deliberate sigh that blamed Jimin for everything left unsaid. "Sometimes I wonder why we even bother. You've always been difficult. From the moment you were born, you never quite fit in this family."

The words weren't new. They had been repeated in different variations since Jimin was seven years old. We never wanted you. You were a mistake.

Yet, no matter how many times he heard them, the words still sliced through his ribs like glass.

Taehyung suddenly pushed his chair back slightly, his fork hitting his plate a little too hard. "Mother, Jimin-hyung works really hard. He stays up studying until dawn every night—"

"Taehyung," Mr. Park warned, his voice softening instantly into a tone of gentle authority as he addressed his favorite son. "Do not interrupt when elders are speaking. Focus on your arts program. You at least show genuine passion for what you do."

Jimin looked over at Taehyung. His younger brother looked miserable, his head dropping as he bit his lip in quiet frustration.

Jimin felt zero resentment toward Taehyung. He loved his younger brother unconditionally. Taehyung didn't ask to be the favorite, and he never treated Jimin with the coldness their parents did.

"May I be excused?" Jimin asked quietly, his voice dangerously even. "I have a lot of pathology reading for tomorrow."

Mr. Park didn't even glance up as he waved a dismissive hand. "Go."

Jimin closed his bedroom door behind him, locking it with a soft click.

The silence of his room wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. He leaned his back against the cold wood of the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled tight against his chest.

He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in front of his parents in years.

Instead, his hands shook slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

There was a fresh text message waiting on his screen.

Yoongi: You alive, Marshmallow? Did Jin-hyung save you any steak or should I bring you takeout?

A shaky, quiet breath slipped past Jimin's lips. The heavy weight in his chest lightened just a fraction.

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, Jimin got up from the floor, walked over to his desk, and pulled a tiny silver key from beneath his mattress.

He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a dark brown, leather-bound diary. The pages were worn at the edges, filled with neat, cursive handwriting dating all the way back to when he was fourteen years old.

Jimin sat down at the desk, uncapped his fountain pen, and turned to a fresh page.

February 2

Today was cold. It always feels colder at home than it does anywhere else.

They reminded me again that I don't belong here. But when Coconut caught my wrist in class today, just for a second, I forgot where I was. He holds me together without even knowing he's doing it.

He asked if medicine was my dream again today. I lied, like I always do. Because if he knew the truth, he would feel guilty. And I would rather bear this whole world on my back than let him feel a second of guilt.

I love him so much it hurts. But having him as my best friend is enough. It has to be.

Jimin let the ink dry under the warm glow of his desk lamp. He traced the secret nickname with the pad of his thumb—Coconut—the only name he allowed his heart to call Yoongi in the dark.

His phone buzzed on the wooden desk, lighting up with an incoming call.

Screen: Yoongi

Jimin quickly closed the diary, locked it safely back in his drawer, and took a deep breath to push the sadness out of his voice. He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Yoon," Jimin spoke, his voice instantly turning bright, lively, and teasing.

"You took five minutes to answer," Yoongi's deep voice grumbled through the speaker, accompanied by the faint background sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement. "I was about to ride over to your house."

Jimin smiled softly, leaning back in his chair and twirling his silver ear piercing. "I was taking a shower, grumpy. Don't tell me you missed me already?"

"In your dreams," Yoongi shot back sarcastically, though his tone was warm. "Get out of your house. Me, Namjoon-hyung, and Jungkook are at the outdoor court near the river. Come get some fresh air."

Jimin looked at his locked bedroom door, then back down at his desk. The cold house felt a million miles away the second Yoongi spoke.

"Give me ten minutes," Jimin said, a genuine smile finally touching his eyes. "Save me a drink, Coconut... I mean, Yoon."

"What did you just call me?" Yoongi asked, pausing on the line.

"Nothing! See you in ten!" Jimin hung up quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs as he rushed to grab his jacket.

END OF CHAPTER 2.