OUR STORY (BxB)

Chapter 27

-TAMARO-

After I calmed myself, Stephen and Jemuel quietly brought me home. As we stepped into the dorm, I saw everyone gathered in the living room. Akiro stood up almost instantly, his eyes brimming with tears. The sight of him like that—so raw, so vulnerable—hit me with a force I wasn't ready for. I looked away. It hurt too much.

"Let's talk," Renz said, voice low but steady.

The three of us—the ones who had just arrived—settled into the sofa. We faced each other, a fragile triangle of emotions caught between silence and what needed to be said. I kept my gaze on the floor, too afraid to look up. No one spoke. Not at first. Until Joshua, always the one to notice when quiet turns heavy, finally broke the silence.

"Tamaro, what was that?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. I blinked, confused, unsure what he was referring to. Then I felt Stephen's hand on my back—a gentle pat, followed by a soft, reassuring smile.

"They heard what you said earlier," Stephen explained quietly. "They needed to know."

That's when the tears came. My eyes welled up, overflowing as I looked around the room. One by one, their faces met mine, all painted with worry—each one silently asking if I was okay. Then I turned to Akiro.

He was crying quietly, staring at me like he didn't know how to help but desperately wanted to. I broke.

"I'm tired," I said—choking on the words before they turned into sobs.

"What about us? Do you think we're not tired too?" Renz said, his voice cracking with frustration. "We're holding each other up because it's what we want—because we choose to stay. If you and Akiro are hurting, why didn't you talk and try to fix it?"

I couldn't answer. I just lowered my head and let the tears fall silently.

"It's not just about me and Akiro," I whispered through sobs. "I'm tired, Renz. Emotionally, physically, mentally. I can't even think straight."

Renz didn't say anything else. But Harly, whose quiet strength always made me feel safe, stepped in. His eyes were wet too.

"What do you think of us, Tamaro?" he asked gently. "We're your brothers. You know you're our baby. We value you so much—because you're the most kind-hearted man we've ever known. We're here for you. You just have to come to us and talk. Don't carry it all alone, Taehyung."

"If you want to quit," Joshua said, voice trembling, "then let's all quit. Let's forget we ever knew each other. What's the point in communicating if we're no longer a group? Is that really what you want, Tamaro?"

I looked at him. His eyes were wet, the pain unmistakable. All of them were crying now—eyes fixed on me, waiting, breaking. And suddenly, the weight of everything hit me. What have I done?

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I choked out, bowing my head. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore."

Then I felt a hug—familiar, warm, grounding—and I already knew. No one else could hold me like this.

"Roo," Akiro whispered, his voice thick with tears, "I should be the one apologizing. I'm sorry for hurting you."

He held me tightly as I cried against his shoulder, wordless and trembling. When my sobs quieted and the storm inside began to settle, Akiro gently pulled away. He cupped my face with trembling hands and wiped my tears with such care it shattered me. His eyes met mine—eyes filled with pain—and the ache of it was unbearable.

"Just hear me out, Roo. Please," he said, his voice almost breaking from how much he needed me to listen. I reached out and gently wiped the tears from his face, managing a soft smile.

"Stop crying," I whispered. "Your tears... they hurt me."

Before either of us could speak again, Jemuel stepped forward, voice steady but heavy with emotion. "Tamaro, this is our dream, right? We promised each other we'd stay together—even when we're older. That we'd see this through."

"I'm really sorry," I murmured, my voice barely more than a breath. And then, as if they'd all been holding back just to give me space, they moved toward me—arms wrapping around me from every direction. We clung to each other, wordless but weeping, our silent tears saying everything we couldn't.

"We're bulletproof," Renz said gently. "We're brothers. We carry each other. We don't leave anyone behind. And we promised—we'd make more memories together. Let's honor that promise."

After the conversation, something in me settled. The heaviness in my chest lightened, just enough for me to breathe. But Akiro and I still hadn't talked—not really. The others had all gone to their rooms; dawn had already arrived, painting the dorm in pale morning light. Only the two of us remained in the living room. They left us space, trusting we'd find a way to talk.

"Roo," he said, gently calling my name.

"Akiro," I replied, my voice low and tired, "let's talk another day. I'm just... really drained right now."

I stood and walked toward our room without waiting for a response. I wasn't shutting him out—I was protecting whatever was left of me. The truth is, I felt betrayed. And right now, everything inside me was frayed and raw. I needed to clear my mind before I could face him, before I said something I'd regret. Not because I didn't love him, but because I still did.

I lay down on my side and closed my eyes. The faces of the members floated behind my eyelids—Stephen's gentle smile, Jemuel's worried gaze, Joshua's tearful resolve, Renz's quiet strength, Harly's warmth. I was lucky. Lucky to have them, lucky to be loved like that. They were right—we are brothers. And no matter how much it hurts sometimes, we never turn our backs on each other.

I was still lost in thought when the door creaked open. Akiro stepped inside and quietly slipped beside me. I didn't move. But then he edged closer and wrapped his arms around me from behind, his embrace trembling. I heard him crying—soft, restrained, like he didn't want me to know. But I knew. Of course I knew.

"I'm so sorry, Roo," he whispered, voice shaking. "I'll wait for you... whenever you're ready."

He held me tighter, like the hug might anchor us both. My tears spilled silently. No words. Just pain. And love. And the slow, aching promise that maybe—when the storm passed—we'd find our way back to each other.

As time passed, things slowly returned to normal. That talk with the members didn't just patch the cracks—it made our bond stronger. They checked in on me often, always making sure I was okay, always treating me like their baby. And I let them. Their quiet care felt like home.

As for Akiro and me—we hadn't talked yet. Not really. Whenever the moment came close, one of the members would offer gentle advice, a nudge toward reconciliation. Each time, I realized more clearly: I couldn't keep running from this. Whatever was broken between us, silence wouldn't fix it.

The break was nearly over. The evening light cast soft shadows across the room as I sat on the bed, lost in thought. Then the door opened, and Akiro walked in. He sat beside me without a word, close but hesitant. I could hear the breath he took before he spoke—heavy, deliberate—as if he was gathering everything left inside him just to begin.

"Tamaro, I know you're still mad at me," he said, voice fragile, almost breaking. "But... can you please just hear me out first?" Tears slid down his cheeks as he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

I watched him—watched how his shoulders curled inward, how even breathing seemed difficult now. He didn't look at me, not until I remained silent long enough for him to need the answer in my eyes.

And when he finally met my gaze, it shattered me. Pain ran through my veins like ice. His tears weren't loud or dramatic—they were honest. Familiar.

"I—I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," he cried again, no defenses left between us.

And there I was, aching all over, trying to hate him and failing. Why can't I hate this man, even for a little while? Why does my heart still reach for him despite everything?

I didn't speak. I just leaned forward and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. His face in my hands—so familiar it hurt. I looked at him, and everything unsaid hung in the space between us. Heavy. Still beating.

"I love you, Akiro. And I know you love me too," I said, voice trembling. "But sometimes, it's not enough. Your love... it's not strong enough to stop you from making decisions so easily—decisions that hurt me. I think I need to get used to that, if I want to keep you. I guess I need more understanding, more patience, just to stay by your side. And I'm willing. Because I love you more than anything."

I wiped my tears, trying to hold myself together as he broke down in front of me.

"Roo," he cried, "I know sorry isn't enough. But please... please give me another chance."

I let him speak. I listened to everything he had to say, to every regret and apology. And while part of me felt sorry for him—this boy I couldn't stop loving—another part of me was burning. I was angry. Not just at him. But at his friend. The one who fed his doubts, who pushed the wedge between us when we were already unraveling.

We were in the middle of our conversation when both our phones buzzed at the same time. The name on the screen was Stephen. I opened the message, and so did Akiro. It was long—far longer than anything Stephen had ever sent before. I stared at the screen, surprised. Of all the members, Stephen was the least expressive when it came to sharing his emotions. He was steady, observant, always present—but rarely vocal about what he felt. And yet here it was: a message so full of words it felt heavy in my hands. Akiro was already reading, and I could see the change in his face as he took it in. I knew whatever Stephen had to say—he meant it. And somehow, it made me brace myself for what was written next.

As I began reading Stephen's message, my vision blurred—tears spilling before I could finish a single line. I kept sobbing, silently, as each word pierced something tender in me. Stephen, who rarely shared his emotions openly, had written something that felt like a confession. He made sure we knew how much we meant to him. His support didn't feel performative—it felt like truth. And then I reached the end. The sweetest words I'd ever heard from him.

"Always remember that Stephen loves you always. I love you, Tamaro," I read aloud, voice shaking.

I couldn't stop crying. Akiro pulled me into his arms and I clung to him. We both wept—not just from grief, but from the sheer weight of being loved like that. The message was just for us. A quiet offering. But somehow, it unraveled everything and stitched us back together.

"Roo," Akiro said softly, broken but sincere, "I love you. And I'm sorry. Again."

"I love you too, baby. I missed you so much," I whispered, leaning in to press my lips against his. Akiro responded instantly, as if he'd been waiting all this time for that one touch. Our kiss deepened, slow and desperate, like the world outside had vanished. We kissed like it was the only way to speak—like it might be the last chance or the first of a thousand new beginnings.

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, until there was barely space between the beats of our hearts. Mine was racing. His too. I could feel it in his chest, the thud of something real. Something fragile. Something worth fighting for.

Everything that happened... all of it had led us here. To this quiet, aching closeness. I know there will be more storms—more challenges waiting just beyond today. But right now, I don't want to think about leaving, or losing, or letting go.

I just hope... when the next wave comes, we'll still be holding on. Both of us.

-AKIRO-

We're back to normal, at least from the outside. But something has shifted. The laughter doesn't echo the same way, and Roo still hasn't forgiven Mark. I can see it in the way he stiffens when Mark enters the room. Mark has tried to apologize—earnest, quiet—but Roo isn't ready. Not yet. And maybe neither am I.

I've started holding myself back too, choosing distance over connection. I barely speak to my newer friends, keeping conversations short, avoiding eye contact. It's not their fault. But I feel like I don't deserve comfort right now.

Ever since the talk about disbandment, I've gone silent. I don't joke with the members anymore, don't share how I feel. I just listen from the corner, replaying it all in my head. If I hadn't hurt Tamaro—if I had loved him better, steadier—maybe he wouldn't have grown tired. Maybe he wouldn't have thought about quitting. Maybe the word "disbandment" would've never touched us.

I keep blaming myself. And maybe that's fair. But it doesn't change anything. We're still together... but not untouched.

My anxiety has been getting worse. Questions keep swirling in my head—what if everything we have now disappears? What if we never reach our goal? What if our dream remains just that... a dream? These thoughts consume me, and I've found myself growing quiet, pulled inward by fear and doubt.

We're okay—at least on the surface—but I've started distancing myself. Not because I stopped caring, but because I didn't want anyone to absorb the heavy energy I was carrying. Even he noticed, but I just couldn't let it spill onto him. So, I expressed myself the only way I knew how: I sang. I covered "All of My Life" by Park Won, because every lyric echoes what I'm feeling right now. That ache, that longing, that quiet desperation to keep believing.

This dream—we've fought so hard for it. I won't let fear waste it. I won't waste a single moment.

I sat alone in the living room. Everyone else had gone to their rooms, but I stayed—drinking quietly, trying to sort through the chaos in my head. The bottle didn't help much. I was drowning in thoughts that refused to be reasoned with. It wasn't good, I knew that. But I didn't want to speak. I just wanted the silence to hold me.

I was a little drunk, sinking deeper into myself, when someone sat beside me. He didn't say a word, but I knew it was him. I recognized his scent before I saw his face, familiar and comforting in a way that made my chest tighten. Then he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and that was all it took. I broke.

I cried. No restraint, no performance. Just grief spilling from me in gasps and tears—every bit of weight I'd carried now pouring out. I was so drained. My heart felt scraped raw, and I couldn't pretend anymore. The pain had leaked into my friendships, into my work, into the way I moved around the people I loved.

But right then, I wasn't alone. He didn't ask questions. He just held me. And for the first time in days... I allowed myself to be held.

"I didn't ask why you've been silent all week," he whispered, wiping my tears with a gentleness that made me want to fall apart all over again. "Because I wanted you to open up on your own, baby. When you were ready."

We stayed like that—his arms around me, my pain spilling out—until the sound of soft footsteps filled the room. One by one, the members emerged from their rooms. No questions, no rush. Joshua quietly brought over bottles of soju and beers from the fridge. They sat with me—not to solve anything, but just to be there. And that's what I've always loved about them. They know when words can't reach, and presence speaks louder.

Then Renz broke the silence, his voice calm but edged with concern. "Akiro... you know you can rely on us. Why did you keep all of this to yourself?"

The room was quiet again, but the silence felt different now—gentler. Like all of us were waiting to hear not just the answer, but the heart behind it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, voice shaking. "I needed space... to understand myself better. The problem has always been me. I can't stop feeling guilty—thinking that Tamaro wanted to quit because of me."

I started sobbing again, the kind of cry that strips you bare. The room went quiet, until Roo turned to me, surprise and hurt etched into his face.

"What? Why are you thinking that, baby?" he asked gently, as if every word was meant to hold me together.

Joshua leaned forward, his tone both firm and kind. "Don't blame yourself, Akiro. Every one of us is tired. Not just you."

Stephen, always quiet but never absent, smiled softly and glanced at Tamaro before saying, "Akiro... always remember what I told you."

Then came Harly's voice—gentle, wise, protective. "You're our youngest, and we're all worried about you. You don't have to be good at everything. You need to know your limits. Don't push yourself too hard."

Their words didn't fix everything, but they wrapped around me like a soft thread—pulling me back from guilt, reminding me I was never alone in this. And for the first time in weeks, I felt the weight begin to lift.

"Haiztt, our youngest is getting older now. He's thinking too much," Jemuel said with a soft smile, though tears shimmered in his eyes. The members cried with me, letting their words carry comfort—gentle advice, warm reassurance, reminders of who I am beyond the ache. Slowly, piece by piece, they helped me gather the fragments of my strength again.

After we talked, something shifted. I felt lighter. The weight I'd been carrying, heavy and unspoken, began to lift just from being shared. There's a kind of relief that only comes when you let your pain be seen—especially by the people who love you without condition.

Tamaro, ever thoughtful, arranged a private trip for us. We've only been here for two days, but it already feels necessary. Like something we didn't know we were craving until we arrived. The silence here is gentle. The laughter is real. And for the first time in a while, I think we're all learning to breathe again.

On our first day, we grilled meat under the soft light of dusk, and something shifted—we found our laughter again. Jokes echoed through the air, easy and unguarded. It felt like us. Real. Our bond returned not in grand gestures, but in shared bites and silly teasing. But as the night fell, emotions rose. We ended the day crying in each other's arms, shedding the burdens we'd been carrying alone. We spoke openly for the first time in a while—about the cost of being admired, about the weight that fame presses into our ribs. Listening to the others, I realized I wasn't alone in my struggle. We all suffer quietly. We all hide pieces of our exhaustion from each other. Until now.

The second day bloomed gently. Still laughter, still warmth, but quieter. More grounded. This trip became what we didn't know we needed—a space to heal. A soft pause from everything. And Tamaro, despite how drained he's been, somehow knew exactly what to do. It made me see how much he's grown. He's learning to take care of others even while carrying his own weight. That's not just maturity—it's grace.

We drank together again on our second night, the air light with laughter and the comfort of being around the people who truly understood. Jokes flew between us, careless and silly, the kind that didn't need to be clever to be healing. The room glowed with soft light, and the weight from yesterday seemed to lift, if only for a moment.

Then Stephen cleared his throat.

All of us turned toward him. The laughter faded—not abruptly, just enough to make space for something deeper.

Tamaro leaned into me, his head resting gently on my shoulder, arms wrapped around my waist. His presence was grounding, a quiet reminder of resilience. Stephen was seated beside Jemuel, calm but visibly gathering his thoughts. Harly sat cross-legged on the floor, half-smiling, watching. Renz and Joshua were next to each other, their drinks forgotten as they learned in, curious.

Something was coming—something important. And we all knew it.

The room fell into complete silence. Jemuel looked visibly anxious, eyes darting toward Stephen as if bracing himself for something big. Stephen cleared his throat—calm, composed, serious in a way that made us all straighten up.

"I have something to tell all of you," he said, voice steady. "I think this is the right time for you to know."

We glanced at each other, confused, intrigued, suddenly very awake.

"Jemuel and I are in a relationship," Stephen continued without hesitation, reaching over to hold Jemuel's hand.

"WHHHHAAAATTT??" we all echoed at once, eyes wide, jaws unhinged.

"Close your mouths," Stephen deadpanned, unfazed. "An insect might fly in."

Cue everyone awkwardly clamping their mouths shut and swallowing hard—classic Stephen, always savage.

"Waaaahh, Jemuel!" Roo cried dramatically. "Why didn't you tell me? I'm your best friend!"

Jemuel just scratched his head, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

"Stephen," Joshua said with an amused smile, "since when?"

"Since last year," Stephen replied plainly.

"WHAAAT??" The room exploded again, a second round of disbelief ringing through the air.

"Can you stop shouting? We're all sitting right next to each other," Stephen quipped with his signature dry tone, prompting us all to clamp our mouths shut instantly. I tried not to laugh—but Jemuel's face, flushed as red as a ripe tomato beside Stephen, made it nearly impossible. He looked half ready to melt into the cushion.

Stephen cleared his throat again, more serious this time. "We kept it from all of you because these two were having a hard time in their relationship. And we didn't want to be a burden."

"Bro," Roo replied gently, "you're not a burden. None of you are."

"Thank you for that, Tamaro," Stephen said, offering a nod. "And one more thing—Jemuel wasn't ready for you to know. But now feels right. And thank you to Tamaro for planning this trip."

"Well then," Harly said, already lifting his glass, "let's drink to that and celebrate."

We all raised our glasses, laughter bubbling up again.

"To the success of BTS, and to the healthy relationship of Tamakiro and Stephjem," Renz toasted with a grin.

And with that, the room was filled with clinks, cheers, and the kind of love that comes only from surviving storms together. The night stretched on—soft, healing, ours.

We were all genuinely happy for Stephen and Jemuel. And as we sat together that night, celebrating and teasing, I realized something deeper: Stephen doesn't just love Jemuel. He loves all of us. His message, his presence—it said everything words often fail to express. If there's anyone among us who truly understands the weight of what we carry, it's Stephen.

But peace doesn't last long in our world.

After we returned from the trip, Media Patch began uploading photos from the exclusive shoot. One of them was a candid shot of me and Tamaro beneath a sunset—soft light, quiet smiles, just the two of us frozen in a moment no one else was meant to interpret. The photo itself wasn't the issue. It was the caption. That two-guys emoji. Just one little symbol, but enough to set the internet on fire. Fans were spiraling with theories again, and the tension returned like a shadow we never really outrun.

As if that wasn't enough, Mr. William told us we'd be meeting the company's new shareholders soon. Everything shifted after that announcement. There's a different kind of pressure now. One we can't name yet—but it's real, and it's already changing things.