[Ongoing] [BTS Jungkook's Binge-like Writing] Remember All the Days You Forgot Episode 2

✎ Author: jhHedgehog546

★ Rating: 5 points
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Strangely enough, I've been paying more attention to mornings lately. I wake up at a set time without a wake-up call, and even the act of opening the window feels unnecessarily cautious.

I used to rub my eyes and force myself out of bed to start a busy day, but these days I'm getting dressed and tying my shoelaces before my alarm even goes off.

Going to the same cafe every day without anyone knowing became a significant part of my routine much earlier than I thought. I'm not particularly fond of atmospheric spaces, nor am I the type to be called a regular. I honestly don't remember exactly how I first found that cafe.

But the song she played that day, the familiar tone and unfinished melody, it was that that caught my attention.

That song was definitely a demo I'd made. I'd made it years ago, in secret, but never released it. It was so deeply personal, and I was embarrassed to let anyone hear it, so I kept it buried in my hard drive.

But then that song was quietly flowing from her speakers. The sound quality was muffled and the composition was haphazard, but I knew right away. It was the song I'd written the moment I first remembered her.

She didn't remember the song. She said she didn't even know where it came from. That single word struck me a little. It was a vivid moment for me, but for her, it seemed like just another song, a passing note.

Strangely, those words lingered in my mind for a long time. It wasn't so much that I felt sad about being forgotten, but rather that those times were so special to me.

The window seat was still empty. She was busy again today. The water dripping down her wrist, the iced coffee being poured hastily, the fingerprints on the counter. I quietly observed the movement. To others, I might have been just a blank-faced customer, but I was the one who accumulated the most emotions in that cafe.

She added another scoop of syrup. Perhaps inadvertently. It was a mistake. She hesitated, wondering if she should say it, but eventually she spoke.

 

“You added one more syrup today.”

 

It was a meaningless remark, but she checked the syrup in surprise. I didn't laugh, but something inside me crumbled. I didn't even know why I remembered such words.

 

“Have you been coming here often?”

 

She asks me for the first time.

 

I held my tongue for a moment. Words carry weight. Emotions, in particular, are transformed the moment they are spoken. Words always create distortion, and some emotions are better left unsaid.

 

“Sometimes.”

 

He answered like that. And leaving those words behind, he sat back down.

 

 

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She probably doesn't know that it wasn't that cafe where we first met.
It was winter, my second year of high school, at music camp. It was cold, and I was sitting in a corner strumming my guitar. The group was composing songs and preparing for their presentations. I had slipped away from the crowd and was quietly opening my notebook. She sat down next to me and said, absentmindedly.

 

“That song is good.”

 

“Did you make it yourself?”

 

“This… I’ll definitely make it into a full song later. Seriously.”

 

That was the first time I experienced someone telling me they liked my music. It wasn't just conventional encouragement or expressionless applause. I felt sincerity, and it touched something deep inside me.

Since then, I've been reminiscing about that moment, and she's probably forgotten. She's someone who lives indifferently. No, she lives pretending to be indifferent.

He loved music more than anyone, but now he seemed to be distancing himself from it. His fingers were deftly pressing buttons, and his tone of voice was steady as he took orders. But there was always a slight wavering in the music he played in the cafe. It was as if he was lost in emotion, yet unable to completely cut it off.

Every time she treated me casually, I couldn't escape. It was painfully obvious that the time I was holding onto was meaningless to her. But at the same time, that's what kept me coming back. The unfounded hope that someday we'd be able to remember that time together.

Leaving the café that day, I hoped she'd play her own compositions again. I hoped I'd hear the song I'd composed again. And while listening to it, I hoped she'd smile at least once, with that same tone of voice as before.

 

 

Then, maybe then I can speak.

 

“It was from that time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Curious about what's next? 🤔

 

 

 

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