[Minji’s POV]

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain tapping against the windowpane. Tokyo always feels heavier on days like these. The clouds loom low, reflecting the weight in my chest. 

It’s been five years since Jungkook and I tied the knot. Five long, uneventful years.

When I look at him, I wonder if he ever feels the void between us the way I do. He is always working—buried in meetings, deadlines, or business trips. 

The rare moments we share are perfunctory at best: dinners eaten in silence, a polite “good night” before he turns to his side of the bed.

Sometimes, I stare at his back as he sleeps, tracing the outline of a man I thought I knew. A man I was told would be my partner in life. But Jungkook feels more like a stranger every day.

Today, I brought it up. The conversation I had been dreading for months, maybe even years. I wanted to talk to him about having a baby.

I waited until the evening when he came home. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, his hair slightly disheveled.

“Jungkook,” I said softly, standing in the kitchen doorway. He glanced at me briefly, his eyes devoid of emotion. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” His tone was clipped, but he didn’t sound entirely dismissive. I took it as a chance to push forward.

“I was thinking… It’s been five years. Maybe it’s time we start a family.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the tremor of vulnerability betrayed me.

He froze, the glass of water in his hand paused mid-air. Slowly, he set it down on the counter and turned to face me.

“Minji,” he began, his voice heavy with something I couldn’t place, “I told you before, I’m not ready for that.”

“But why, Jungkook? Five years is a long time. I’ve waited… I’ve been patient. Don’t I deserve this? Don’t we deserve this?”

His jaw tightened, and I could see the frustration building in his eyes.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he said, a slight edge to his tone. “I don’t want a baby right now.”

“Right now?” I echoed bitterly. “You’ve been saying that since we got married. How much longer, Jungkook? Another five years? Ten?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not just about the timing, Minji. I don’t think I want a baby at all.”

Those words hit me like a freight train. I felt the air leave my lungs as I stared at him, disbelief clouding my vision.

“What do you mean you don’t think you want a baby?” My voice cracked, and I hated how small I sounded.

“I mean exactly what I said.” He crossed his arms, his posture defensive. “I’m not ready to be a parent, and to be honest, I don’t think I ever will be. At least not like this.”

“Not like this?” I repeated, my heart pounding. “What does that even mean?”

“Minji,” he said, his voice softening slightly, as if he pitied me, “our marriage… it’s not what it should be. You know that as well as I do.”

I stared at him, willing myself not to cry. “And whose fault is that, Jungkook? You never even tried! You’re always working, always busy, always avoiding me. Do you know how lonely I feel? How alienated I am in this city, in this house?”

“Don’t put this all on me,” he snapped, his calm demeanor finally breaking. “I’ve tried, Minji. I’ve tried to make this work, but it’s not there. The connection, the compatibility—it’s just not there.”

I felt my knees weaken, and I leaned against the kitchen counter for support. “So… what are you saying? That you don’t love me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His silence was more damning than any words he could have spoken.

“Jungkook,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face, “do I mean anything to you? Am I just a roommate to you? A placeholder?”

He looked away, his jaw clenching. “You’re not just a placeholder, Minji. You’re… you’re my wife. But this marriage was never about love. You know that.”

“That doesn’t mean we couldn’t have built something together!” I cried, my voice rising. “I’ve tried so hard to make this work. I’ve sacrificed so much for you. I left Korea, left everything I knew, just to be with you. And what have I gotten in return? Loneliness? Indifference?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “I didn’t ask you to leave everything behind, Minji. That was your choice.”

His words felt like a slap in the face. I couldn’t believe how easily he dismissed my sacrifices, my pain.

“So, what?” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re just going to keep living like this? Ignoring me? Pretending I don’t exist? You won’t even touch me, Jungkook. Do I have no rights as your wife? No rights to your time, your body, your love?”

“Minji,” he said, his tone weary, “don’t do this.”

“No, I need answers,” I insisted, stepping closer to him. “Why won’t you be with me? Why won’t you give me the one thing I’ve been longing for? Why won’t you give me a baby?”

He stared at me, his eyes filled with something I couldn’t decipher—guilt, maybe, or regret.

“Because I don’t want to,” he said finally, his voice cold and resolute. “I don’t want to have a baby with you, Minji. I don’t feel that way about you.”

His words were a dagger to my heart. I felt myself breaking, piece by piece, under the weight of his indifference.

“What did I do wrong?” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“It’s not about you,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “It’s about us. This marriage… it’s not working. It never has.”

“Then why did you marry me?” I demanded, my voice rising again. “Why did you agree to this if you never wanted it? If you never wanted me?”

“Because it was what my parents wanted,” he admitted, his eyes downcast. “I thought… I thought maybe I could make it work. But I was wrong.”

“Jungkook,” I said, my voice trembling, “I’ve lost everything. My parents, my home, my sense of belonging. I thought… I thought you could be my family. I thought we could build something together. But now… now I don’t even know who you are.”

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry, Minji. I really am. But I can’t give you what you want.”

I spent the rest of the night in the spare bedroom, clutching a pillow to my chest as I cried myself to sleep. The rain continued to fall outside, mirroring the storm inside me.

I don’t know what the future holds for us. But tonight, I feel like I’ve lost something I can never get back. Not just my dream of a family, but the hope that things could ever be different.

–

[Jungkook's POV]

The shower water beats down on me, hot and relentless, masking the tears that spill down my cheeks. I stand there, motionless, my hands clenched at my sides. 

The weight of everything Minji said, of everything I couldn’t say, feels like it’s crushing me.

I don’t know if I’m angry at her or at myself. No, that’s not true. I know exactly who I’m angry at.

Me.

My fingers tremble as I lower my gaze to the one part of me that has haunted me since I was a boy. 

My stomach churns as I look down at my body, at the small, unimpressive truth between my legs. 

I hate it. I hate me.

I cup myself, my hands shaking as I do. It’s small—too small. I’ve known this for as long as I can remember, but knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I press my back against the cold tiles, my tears mingling with the water cascading down my face. “Why?” I whisper to no one, my voice cracking. “Why did it have to be like this?”

Ever since I was a kid, it was obvious. While other boys laughed and boasted in locker rooms, I stayed quiet, hiding myself away. It didn’t grow right. 

The doctors said it was due to a medical condition—something about hormones and growth. But knowing the reason never made it easier to live with.

I close my eyes and run my hand along my shaft, pressing down like I’m trying to will something to change. Like if I rub hard enough, I can fix what’s broken. My other hand grips myself tighter, the motion desperate, almost frantic.

“You’re not a man,” I mutter to myself, the words echoing in the small, steamy bathroom. “You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.”

My mind races back to our honeymoon. That night… God, that night.

The lights were off, thank God. I’d insisted on it, saying I wanted it to be “romantic,” but the truth was, I couldn’t bear for her to see me. I was too ashamed.

I remember how nervous I was, how my heart pounded as I climbed into bed beside her. I had told myself it would be fine, that I could make her happy. That I could make her feel good. But the moment I entered her, I knew.

She lay there, so still, her head buried in the pillow. The room was silent except for the sound of my labored breathing. I kept moving, hoping, praying that she’d respond. That she’d feel something. But she didn’t.

And then…

“Why are you just teasing with the head? God you're so awful at this.” she had whispered, her voice tinged with frustration. 

“Just put it in already.”

I had frozen, my entire body going cold despite the heat of the moment. She didn’t know. She couldn’t see. But her words cut deeper than anything.

I finished quickly after that, too embarrassed to do anything else. I told her to wait, that I had something “special” for her. I fumbled in the drawer for the toy I’d bought before our wedding—something I had hoped I’d never need.

The moment I used it on her, she moaned. Loud, uninhibited, pleasure-filled moans that echoed in the dark room. I should have been happy. I should have been proud. But all I felt was shame.

While she writhed beneath me, lost in her pleasure, I sat there staring at myself. At the small, pathetic part of me that could never make her feel that way.

Back in the shower, I sink to the floor, my knees pressing against the cold tiles. I hate myself. I hate my body. I hate the fact that I can’t give Minji what she wants—what she deserves.

I don’t even know if I can give her a child. The doctors said it was possible, but the thought terrifies me. 

What if I can’t? What if this broken part of me ruins everything?

I cry harder, the tears burning my cheeks as they mix with the water. I rub my shaft again, the motion futile but comforting in its own way. 

‘Please,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Please, just grow. Just work. Just… be enough.”

I rub harder, the movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. It’s like I’m trying to scrub away the inadequacy, the shame, the pain.

Eventually, the tension inside me breaks, and I feel a momentary release—a fleeting, hollow reprieve. But it doesn’t help. It never does.

I sit there for a while, the water cooling as it drips over my skin. My body feels heavy, my mind even more so. I think about Minji’s face earlier, the pain in her eyes as she pleaded with me. The way her voice cracked when she asked if she had any rights to me.

I want to tell her it’s not her fault. That she’s not the reason I pull away. That she’s not the reason I can’t touch her, can’t love her the way she wants me to.

But how do I say that? How do I tell her that the problem isn’t her, but me? How do I tell her that I’m not a man—not in the way she needs me to be?

I stand up, my legs unsteady, and turn off the water. As I step out of the shower, I catch my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. I wipe it clean with my hand, staring at my tool before me.

I don’t like what I see.

Not a man. Not a husband. Not enough.

I pull on my clothes and step out of the bathroom, the weight of my secrets pressing down on me. Minji is in the spare bedroom, the door shut tight. I want to knock, to tell her I’m sorry, to explain. But I can’t.

Instead, I retreat to the couch, lying down and staring at the ceiling. The silence of the apartment is deafening.

And all I can think about is how much I hate myself.

—

[Jungkook's POV]

15th December, 2024 

Winter vacations are supposed to bring peace—a break from the mundane, an opportunity to reconnect. But here I am, standing in the kitchen, watching Minji bang plates onto the table like she’s trying to smash through every bit of calm left in the room.

The clanging of the plates rattles through me, each sound sharper than the last. I flinch when she slams one down particularly hard, and I can’t help but whisper, “Easy…”

But before I can finish, she storms off, her footsteps heavy and resolute.

I stare at the table, the plates half-arranged, and sigh. Her rebellion isn’t subtle. It’s loud, deliberate, and entirely expected after last night.

Later in the afternoon, I stand in the bedroom, ironing my clothes for the upcoming staycation in Hokkaido. It’s a ritual I’ve done for years—packing, organizing, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. But this time, it feels heavier.

I pause as I pick up a pair of trousers. The material is tricky, the kind that creases in strange ways if not ironed perfectly. I glance toward Minji, who’s sitting on the bed, scrolling through her phone with a pointedly indifferent expression.

“Minji,” I call softly, holding up the trousers. “Could you help me with this one? It’s a bit tricky, and you’re better at it.”

She looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly, but she doesn’t argue. She walks over, takes the iron from my hand, and begins working on the trousers.

At first, her movements are precise, almost mechanical. But then she stops, her grip tightening on the iron. I watch as she presses it firmly against the fabric—right on the crotch area.

The hiss of the iron against the material fills the room, and I see the burn mark forming.

“Minji!” I step forward, startled. “What are you—”

She places the iron down and looks at me, her eyes sharp and challenging. “Oops,” she says flatly, her voice dripping with mockery. “Guess it’s ruined now. Just like your little tool which refuses to give me a baby.”

I know what she’s doing. The silent taunt is louder than any words she could’ve said. The burn on the trousers feels like a metaphor for the one she’s trying to inflict on me.

I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice. “Minji… I know you’re upset. But we don’t need to have a baby right now. We can think about it later, or if it comes to it, we can adopt. There are so many children who need homes.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they’ve hit a nerve.

She spins around, her face flushed with anger. “Adopt?” she barks, her voice rising. “Why would we adopt when we can make one of our own? Do you think I’m some kind of charity worker? I want my own child, Jungkook. One that comes from me and you. Is that so hard to understand?”

Her words cut through the air, sharp and relentless. I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn’t let me.

“And you know what else?” she continues, her voice dripping with disdain. “It’s been five years, Jungkook. Five years, and I haven’t been pleasured. Do you know how humiliating that is? Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

My chest tightens as she steps closer, her gaze fierce.

“In college, my boyfriends would’ve died to be with me. They couldn’t keep their hands off me. None of them backed out when it came to pleasuring me.” Her voice wavers, but the venom remains. “But you? You can’t even—”

“Stop,” I say quietly, cutting her off. My voice trembles despite my efforts to stay calm. “Minji, please.”

Her words sting more than I want to admit. The comparison, the way she throws my inadequacies in my face—it’s too much. But I can’t let her see how deeply it hurts.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I’m not backing out because I don’t care,” I say softly, looking her in the eyes. “I just… I’m not ready. I’m scared. Of so many things.”

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “Scared of what? Being a father? Or being a husband who actually acts like one?”

Her words hit like a slap, but I don’t let it show.

“I don’t want to bring a child into this world until I know I can give them everything they deserve,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “And I don’t want to do it if it means forcing something between us that isn’t there.”

Minji shakes her head, her anger still palpable. “There’s nothing between us because you’ve made it that way, Jungkook. You’ve spent five years keeping me at arm’s length, and now you’re using that as an excuse?”

Her words echo in my mind long after she leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the burned trousers in my hands. The mark is dark and irreversible, much like the damage between us.

I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can.

All I know is that I hate the person I’ve become—the husband who can’t be what his wife needs, the man who can’t even face his own fears.

And as much as I want to tell her the truth, I can’t bring myself to say it. Because admitting that I’m not enough—that I’ll never be enough—feels like a wound that will never heal.

–

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A/n : Please drop a like and a comment if you liked this part!