Silhouettes

There are no declarations here. No love letters. No moments where the world stops and music swells. Just two people—Bakha and Jungkook—drawn to each other like shadows at dusk, always almost touching, always almost speaking. They’ve never really met, and yet they know each other in a way that defies logic. Like dreamers recognizing each other in a crowd, like strangers who remember the same ache. Bakha lives inside her head—quiet, watching, always wondering if she’s too much or never enough. Jungkook exists in that same weightless space, laughing with others while something inside him stays untouched. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. With her, silence feels like conversation. There’s something about the way they linger near each other in the pages of life—as if fate tied their names together and forgot to give them instructions. School, family, responsibilities—they all move around them like noise. But the real story is in the pauses. The moments where their eyes meet and the world seems to hesitate, unsure whether to continue or stay suspended in that fragile closeness. Love doesn’t shout here. It waits in hallways. It hides in shared glances. It aches when she thinks of him at night, when he wonders if she ever knew. It’s the kind of love that doesn't need to happen to exist. The kind that stays, quietly, even when they walk away. This is not a story of falling in love. It’s a story of already being there— and trying to live with everything that love cannot say out loud.