박지민 (Park Jimin)

Autumn Seoul greeted him with a fine drizzle, the kind that soaks not only your clothes but your mood as well. Seventeen-year-old Min Yunho sat by the window of a small cafe in Hongdae, indifferently tracing the rim of his cooled americano with his finger. He hated this feeling—as if the lights inside had been switched off. Not a burnt-out bulb, but as if someone had simply flipped a switch, and that was it. "A mild case," the doctor his mother forced him to see had said. But for Yunho himself, this "mildness" weighed a ton. His world had long since turned black and white. The only splash of color was the music of BTS. And especially—Jimin.

His heart did a somersault. And then another. A guy his age had never been a loud fan. He didn't have posters on his walls (only a couple of posters hidden in the closet "just in case"). But now, he recognized those shoulders. That line of the neck. How could you not recognize them when you'd woken up and fallen asleep to the same melody for three years?