It is on a Friday, the last night of your month-long shift swap, that reality smacks you in the face.

Reality is this: you will be forced to face Yoongi in three days, and things remain extremely awkward between you. He is still ignoring you. Not that you can really blame him, after these two weeks to contemplate that decisive moment. While you don't regret what you said to Jiwon, you probably shouldn't have stuck your nose into Yoongi's issue and taken over for him. Should have respected his decision to back off, no matter how unjust.

Which means you should probably apologize.

Just one problem. You hate doing that. Especially to Yoongi.

But you were the one who committed the wrong, so you have to be the one to extend the olive branch. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, nothing like the lattes you prefer but more like a dark roast: rich, full, and awful. That's how Yoongi had tasted too, his tongue sliding against yours so feverishly like a man possessed. You hadn't minded the flavor then.

"Hobi, how do you apologize to someone?" You rest your hands on the top of the mop, then your cheek on top of that.

Hoseok tilts his head to the side, a cute "hm?" coming out of his heart-shaped mouth. "Depends on how bad the situation is, I think!"

"Pretty bad, I guess?"

He hums, as if he knows exactly what this is in reference to. Then he raises a finger in triumph, like he's just discovered the secret to the universe. "Go with a gift! You can never go wrong with a present!"

Hm! You nod approvingly. That's a perfect idea.

Thus, your Saturday becomes dedicated to making a gift for Yoongi.

Yes, making, because you can't exactly afford expensive music equipment. You don't think Yoongi would appreciate a bag of coffee beans from his place of employment. Somehow, a stuffed animal doesn't seem to fit his aesthetic either; you also really don't want to add to the clutter of his place. So, your genius mind has settled on creating a mixtape. A playlist full of songs you hope can express how sorry you are, and how you hope to move on from this.

There's one surprise at the very end of the CD: a piece that's self produced. It's just two minutes of you, a shitty phone microphone, and some heartfelt rambling. Look, apologizing is hard, okay? You don't think you have the gall to do it in person, so this is the next best thing.

The sun is just beginning to set when you reach Yoongi's apartment, finished present in hand. You're contemplating whether to knock or just leave the tiny bag you have on the handle. One of these options is easier than the other. But maybe you owe it to him to at least ensure it gets to him.

Your knocks go unanswered.

Eventually, you have to accept that he's out, a fact that has relief pouring over you. You loop the bag straps around the door. He'll get it whenever he reaches home, you suppose. And if he chooses to snap it in half without listening to it, well, that's his prerogative too. You've done your part. You've been the bigger person.

You manage to get all the way back to your apartment without thinking of the package, blasting music from your headphones to drown out your thoughts. You eat your dinner, watch an episode of the latest KBS drama, water your plants. Hell, you even start actually doing the research for your paper due in three weeks. But throughout it all, you can't shake the listlessness that sits beneath your skin like an unwanted visitor, ever so often poking you with a sharp stick.

You know too well why it's there: your damn curiosity that won't leave you alone.

You want desperately to know if your gift has been received, and how. Will he understand what you're trying to say? Maybe you should have put your apology at the beginning instead of the end. Maybe you shouldn't have gone with Super Junior's Sorry Sorry, even though you needed something in the middle to break up the torrent of sappy songs. Oh god. The what ifs threaten to drive you stark wild for the utter lack of answers. (Though judging by your current state, perhaps they already have.)

"Uggggh, that's it!" You announce to your succulent, desk chair clattering as you shove viciously to your feet. "I'm going to bed!"