Only one pair of bare feet tread the birch wood of the living room, trying to be as silent as possible though the age of the building does not exclude this particular apartment from its flaws and thus groans lowly and barely noticeable were it that the silence was not so incredibly empty except for the vague sounds of morning traffic outside the wintery white see-through curtains hanging in front of windows set in brick walls painted with enough alabaster paint to prevent the ugly dark clay colour from peeking out and framed in ebony Maccasar.

They pass the door that leads to the room of the man with raven hair that somehow always manages to find new ways in which to avoid the very person they invited to their home to become a flatmate, helping in setting up by carrying the light brown cardboard boxes stickered on all sides with warnings of "FRAGILE!" even when the goods were not from the entrance hall all the way to the third floor via the stairs, going up and down at least five, if not more, times. Any remark of the aid not being necessary to the extent it was offered, was met by a sarcastic yet polite comment of it being common sense and duty to help somebody move in when having offered them a home.

Despite living together, we barely know each other. Conversation over an early cup of black coffee, always the level of bitterness he likes, on the purplish grey velvet sofa tucked against one of the striped navy cushions consists of nothing more but a few exchanged words, topics started randomly and quickly becoming awkward as gazes avert down toward the shared beverages and voices lose enthusiasm in speech.

Nonetheless, even as I daily watch the upcoming lyricist and composer disappear to the studio set up in his room or to the job as a salesperson at a music shop in the dark brass mirror hanging on the far wall after he has put down his mug on the Pau Rosa coffee table whilst the roasted aroma of mine still fills the air, a kind of bond has formed via the little we know of each other.

But it is enough to live in peace and amiably, though the one-time disturbance of work at home met by a flurry of curses and a poisonous glare afterwards at dinner during the first week of living together taught me well enough not to interrupt when songs are being created. Otherwise, the apartment would have turned into a merciless battlefield long ago.

However, there is one thing that keeps gnawing away at curiosity, making it worse every early hour spent before going to the office and boring life of a receptionist at a real estate office or staying in on a free day without a partner to talk to: the precise reason why Yoongi keeps evading me at every twist and turn, now even neglecting the awkward though comforting hush that has become part of the morning routine.

Hence, whilst the coffee machine stutters alive with a loud buzzing and the soft trickle of the kick-starter in the glass jug takes some of the discomfort away, those very same feet padding the formerly present hush carefully make their way back into the small hallway and towards the door of the flatmate's chamber.

Were it not for the way they are stopped dead in their tracks in the entrance that parts the hallway from the living room by the person they came looking for, eyes still puffy with the last remains of slumber, bangs covering the forehead just as messy as the onyx shirt with an O-collar disheveled by the tossing and turning during the nightly hours, undoubtedly suffering from insomnia caused by the desire to continue the latest project.

For a moment those dark narrow eyes seem to widen, albeit it very possible it is just a fantasy conjured up by the still unconscious part of the self, when registering in spite of a groggy mind who is actually perceived before asking with a raspy hoarse voice laced ever so slightly with annoyance: 'What? What are you gawking at?'

A few seconds with the mouth agape, speechless by the sudden turn in events, not having expected to run into Yoongi even after knocking on the door across the bathroom like the initial plan was. Breathing stops altogether whilst regarding the man standing incredibly close yet feels so far away, especially after a shameful step backwards is set to create more space to move around in. 'Y/N, is something going to come out or are you just gonna stand there like a dimwit?'

The inquiring mocking look observing the body frozen in place brings back reality and sucker punches the mind into working properly again to throw a retort at the insult, at the same time igniting the desire to know the reason for the absence at the same time which once more suffocatingly closes off the throat, but not enough to counterattack. 'I'm no dimwit!'

'Are you sure? That sleepy head of yours doesn't look too possessive of a brain.' A step sidewards to walk toward the small kitchen, needful of a cup of joe and simply falling into the disturbed routine as if it has never been broken. A hand on a slender wrist stopping the composer, fierceness met by hesitance oppressed by determination when gazes meet, surprising the pale-skinned man whose expression grows softer at the look of doubtful terror. 'You know, that weird face doesn't really suit you. What's making you look like that?'

'Why are you avoiding me?' It comes out as a consecutive string of words, barely pronounced correctly in their fast desperate waterfall of chatter, no longer able to contain the need to know. 'We haven't been drinking coffee together nor eating dinner or any meal at that, even if we're both at home. All you do, is sitting in your room working on your mixtape and as soon as you see me on the rare occasion you come out, you immediately go back in. If you don't want me here, you bloody hypocrite, I'll just move out.'

'Don't move out.' All jeering has faded, leaving Yoongi with the most genuine of manners and the voice reduced to a soft-spoken kindheartedness containing a sliver of confusion that reaches the eyes carefully looking up from the grip on the wrist into mine, which are just as dazed. 'Stay. The apartment will be too empty if you're not here.'

This is perchance the best compliment ever given by the stoic flatmate in the four months since moving in, normally receiving a playful insult shrugged off with a grin once the wished for reaction is achieved. 'Then tell me why you do this because it already feels too devoid without the rare times we see each other.'

Silence, filled with nothing but breathing and incomprehension of anything that formerly seemed logical: us being merely two persons sharing an apartment, him a musical workaholic caught up in lyrics and tunes whilst I am typing uselessly away on a keyboard whilst pretending to care about appointments with fake professional friendliness.

The hold loosens and sets the musician free, who immediately saunters with head held low to the coffee machine, grabs two mugs from the cupboard above it and fills them after a pling and the trickle temporarily stops only to be resumed when pouring the dark liquid. Without a word, one of the mugs is handed over after joining him in an unnoticeable fashion although the surprise seems not to affect the company.

A whisper after a sip, the coffee somehow more bitter, begging for an explanation. 'Yoongi, answer me. Why?'

A defeated reluctant sigh, the beverage enclosed by slim fingers not much better than the other. 'Because... because I think I'm falling in love with you, okay? That's why I'm avoiding you.'

The heart begins to beat faster, thoughts endeavour to process the confession despite the difficulty they have with it, astonishment mingles with a greater sense of disbelief caused by the just grown worse bewilderment for it has never been considered to be someone's love interest. 'You think you're falling in love with me?' I repeat, mentally puzzling the pieces together to achieve a coherent image. 'Out of all people, you just had to pick the person who can sometimes literally strangle you, especially after this treatment, didn't you?'

The attempt at humour is appreciated and reciprocated with gratitude, the ghost of a grin formed on thin lips when answering. 'Yes, I guess I have and you'd be right to strangle me, but can you preserve that for after the coffee? Or after I finish the mixtape so the world at least gets to hear the story of Agust D? I just want to get my name out there before it's too late.'

'Put the cup down, the execution is happening now.' As a way to illustrate the unavoidable fate, mine is placed on the counter and arms are crossed in defiance, not tolerating any form of protest.

The sliver has now developed into a full-fledged gummy smile, not fading the slightest when a nip of black gold is taken. 'And this is precisely why I chose you, always teasingly stubborn yet serious with opinions.'

Weight is shifted from one foot to the other, an eyebrow sarcastically raised when remarking upon a nuance. 'And yet you think you have fallen for me. Think and have are two very different things, Yoongi.'

'Let me rephrase the earlier statement. I have fallen for you. Happy now, miss Detail?' Focus shifts to a point on the fridge off to the side, doubt crept back into demeanour when continuing. 'But do you feel the same?'

Eyes widen, clearly thinking of the appropriate correct answer that still contains an opportunity to take revenge for the past treatment. 'Yes. I mean, I think I do,' comes the reply, giving him a taste of his own medicine but offering a more sincere assuring confession when hopeful obsidian eyes redivide their attention. 'I do. After all, if I miss your company each morning and cannot stop thinking about every little word we say, it must mean I have fallen for you as well, doesn't it?'

An agreeing nod, a barely audible chuckle at the constant milling about emotions neither of us understands, the other cup finding its place on the counter too. 'I think it does. Say, how about a visit to a coffee shop to figure it out? Because this,' a slender finger points to the two half-empty mugs put beside each other suggestively, 'is just dirty bean water, literally. Normally your coffee is so much better, but it seems the machine somehow got itself killed. Unless it was you.'

A punch on the shoulder makes Yoongi change expressions in an instant from jeering to mischievously apologetic, rightfully so after that disrespect and thus earning myself a piece of satisfaction. 'Watch your tongue or else I'll make you drink mine as well.'

'Alright, I'm sorry.' With a pout and a fabricated hurt look, a slim hand rubs the spot where the blow landed.

'You don't mean that.' With a roll of the eyes and a slight grin, the show put up by the musician with a tough exterior but soft inside is regarded, overjoyed at the knowledge there is significantly more meaning to our relationship than initially thought. Although that will not be said out loud at the moment, fueling the current behaviour.

'No,' the devilish attitude has returned, albeit with a gentler undertone upon emptying the cups containing liquid like river water and entwining our digits, ushering us, or better said: pulling me along, rapidly to the coat rack in the hallway beside the door, 'but I do mean it when I say we go now and it's my treat. Afterwards, we'll go look for a new coffee machine because I don't trust this piece of trash anymore, certainly if you can't make it work for you.' Like a true gentleman, the favourite leather jacket is held up and made a gesture toward to be helped into it, which is gladly accepted, Yoongi's fingers smoothing out the ruffles in the tough material which causes a giggle and a very uncharacteristic blush on both our faces. 'Put your shoes on and let's get going. I'm getting a headache.'

'Due to me or a lack of caffeine?' I tease with a smirk that does all but conceal the amusement not present in voice, knowing the answer yet not able to pass the opportunity to inquire.

He sits down next to me to tie the laces of his favourite cherry red high-tops with ink black decorations on the side, grumbling a bit with a furrowed brow to keep the exerted pressure to a minimum, the pink flush vanished with the effort to diminish the pain. 'Normally it's you, but this time it's bothersome.'

'And I'm not?'

A shake of the head, the hand on the doorknob opening up to the fresh cold air in the staircase after getting up, the other outstretched to lend aid in pulling me to my feet, done tying the laces of the sneakers in a similar colour scheme to the musician's. 'No, you're my favourite kind of headache. One that I don't want to be cured.'

Nor do I of the ones he gives me, because they take the loneliness away in the silent apartment during the very first hours of a new day stretching all the way into the late hours of the night, but even though they heal a lot, there is one thing they are the best medicine for.

The mornings without him.