—Sayuri's Chapter—
The party pulsed with life—neon lights bleeding into each other, bass vibrating the floors, bodies swaying in shadows. Smoke coiled in the air like secrets no one dared speak out loud. It was 1:00 a.m., the peak of indulgence. The kind of hour where everything feels too loud, too close, too far.
That's when she saw him.
Across the room.
Right as Party On You began to play.
Sayuri froze. The music warped around her heartbeat, the refrain repeating like a curse: party on you, party on you…
JungKook.
Drink in hand, laughter ghosting his lips. The chaos of the party softened around him. When their eyes locked, time rewound.
Back to seventeen.
To half-eaten convenience store meals. Her slipping him crumpled bills from her monthly allowance. The soft ache of goodbye at a cold bus terminal to Seoul.
"Go live our dream," she had whispered.
And he had.
They both had.
But they didn't live it together.
He didn't move. Just looked. A calm, unreadable gaze. Still beautiful. Still familiar. But different.
Even after everything—the ugly end, the toxicity, the silence—he still remembered. She knew it. Knew he was remembering the promises, too. The ones made when love still felt like forever.
And yet, he raised his glass.
Just once.
A nod.
A small, content smile.
Not the one that tore hearts out. But the one that said, I'm okay now.
Sayuri smiled back.
But hers… didn't reach her eyes.
God, what she'd give to run to him. To bury her face in his shoulder and say sorry until her voice broke. To ask if they could start over. Not as who they were, but as who they'd become.
But she knew better.
Ivory had given her those Bulgarian roses. No explanation needed. Just grace. Quiet and sharp.
Sayuri looked down, swallowed the lump in her throat, and smiled bitterly to herself.
There was no one to blame anymore. Only herself.
So she stood there.
Watching the boy she once loved, laugh again.
Free. Dorky. Bunny-smiled.
Partying with The Trinity like the world owed him joy.
And for the first time in a long time, she let him go—fully.
Party on you... party on you…
The track looped.
*****
She hadn't planned on walking away.
No.
Sayuri came that day ready to fight.
To scream. To drag her down from whatever pedestal JungKook had put her on.
If not with words, then with nails.
She had rehearsed it in her head a thousand times. The way she'd accuse her, call her a fake, a homewrecker, a phase.
But what she met wasn't a naive girl desperate for attention.
It was a woman.
Poised. Quietly powerful.
Ivory had waited at the café—legs crossed, posture elegant in a fitted black dress that screamed old money and subtle war. Her bag on the table was worth more than Sayuri's rent, but none of that mattered.
It was the eyes.
Not cold. Not smug. But still. Observant. As if she already knew Sayuri wouldn't win.
And that man—Mr. Lee—loomed at a nearby table like a shadow in a tailored suit. One twitch, and he'd be on them like a trained hawk.
Sayuri remembered how she clenched her fists so tight her nails dug crescents into her palm. She almost did it.
Almost hurled every buried insecurity across the table.
Almost accused her of stealing the only person who ever made her feel whole.
But Ivory just reached into her bag.
Pulled out a small, white box.
And handed it to her.
"These are Bulgarian," she had said softly. "They reminded me of the ones in your photos."
Sayuri didn't open it at first.
She was too stunned. Too confused.
There were no insults. No sharp, veiled words.
Just a strange, unnerving grace.
"You loved him once. I believe that," Ivory said, standing up. "But I love him now. And I won't fight you for something that isn't a prize."
Sayuri sat there long after she'd gone. Mr. Lee disappeared too, leaving behind only the untouched cup of Americano.
Inside the box?
Roses. Red. Beautiful. Fresh. Like something sacred.
That was the moment Sayuri knew—this wasn't about who won JungKook.
This was about who grew.
****
The memory of Ivory faded like smoke, giving way to the present—music, lights, bodies swaying like waves, and him.
Sayuri's eyes found JungKook again—now mid-laugh, shoulder-bumping Taehyung in rhythm to the beat.
They were both twice their size now, muscles filled in from military days, confidence oozing with every move.
Women turned their heads. Some whispered. Others stared.
But Sayuri only looked at one thing:
His arm.
There it was.
Still inked in bold red.
A single Bulgarian rose.
She exhaled a bittersweet smile.
He hasn't covered it.
That flower—her flower—still bloomed on his skin. Not as love, no. Not anymore. But as memory.
A scar in bloom.
A marked lesson.
Like he used to say—"Every ink is a chapter I survived."
She reached for her drink, eyes never leaving him as she downed the last of it. Then she picked up her purse, stood up, composed.
One last glance.
JungKook turned.
Saw her.
Their eyes met.
And so, she waved.
Not the wave of a stranger.
But the wave. The one from years ago—
Middle school uniform, pigtails, after-practice light in her eyes.
"Hi!"
Only now, it wasn't hi.
It was goodbye.
JungKook smiled again. Soft. Nostalgic.
Then turned back to Taehyung, who was already handing him another bottle, yelling something only they could hear through the noise.
Sayuri walked out without a second look.
The party swallowed her absence.
But the rose remained.