is it really just a coincidence?

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you’re already feeling the ache deep in your bones when toji pulls up to the curb, the exhaustion from back-to-back lectures weighing heavy on your shoulders. the moment you slide into the passenger seat, though, you can tell something’s off. his jaw is tight, hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too hard, and that green-eyed glare flicks to you—sharp enough to cut through steel.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, careful.

toji’s tongue clicks, a humorless chuckle leaving his lips. “really, sweetheart?” he hums, voice all smooth danger. “giggling all pretty for some guy, lettin’ him touch you right in front of me?”

oh. your stomach drops. it was just a quick chat with your classmate—going over the lecture slides before toji arrived. harmless, you thought. but the way he’s looking at you now, dark and unamused, has heat crawling up your neck.

“i-it’s not—” you try, but toji’s already pulling out of the parking lot, one hand settling heavy and possessive on your thigh.

“save it,” he grunts. “we’ll talk at home.”

it’s all a blur, really, how you ended up draped over his lap with your hips lifted, cheek pressed into the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. all you know is that toji saw—saw the way you giggled at something your classmate said, how that guy’s hand lingered a little too long on your arm. and you didn’t mean to, didn’t think anything of it until you caught the glint in toji’s eyes from the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“count,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered, one large palm resting heavy on the curve of your ass. the other keeps your waist pinned, firm and possessive, holding you right where he wants you. “unless you wanna make it more than twenty.”

your breath stutters, face already warm. “t-twenty?” you echo, eyes wide and watery.

“what, think you don’t deserve it?” toji chuckles, the sound dark and condescending. “after lettin’ that guy get all touchy with you? lettin’ him see what’s mine?” his fingers squeeze your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. “c’mon, baby. be a good girl and count for me.”

the first swat lands hard, the sting immediate and sharp, and your breath catches on a broken gasp.

“o-one—”

another, harder this time, right over the same spot, makes you whine, toes curling.

“t-two—”

he builds a steady rhythm, every swat perfectly measured, just enough to leave your thighs trembling and your voice a wreck of hiccuped breaths and broken numbers. by seven, the tears start slipping free, hot tracks down your cheeks, vision blurring. your hips twitch instinctively, legs shifting with every sharp swat that lands, but toji’s hold is iron-tight, unyielding.

by ten, you’re sobbing—no, wailing, hands fisting the sheets so hard your knuckles ache, words slurred and desperate. “’m s-sorry,” you hiccup, voice high and breathless. “p-please, ‘m sorry—ah, toji—”

his hand rubs slow circles over the fresh sting, soothing for just a second before delivering another sharp smack, making you jolt with a choked sob. “oh, you’re sorry now, huh?” he drawls, mock-sweet. “weren’t so sorry when you were all giggles and smiles for that guy.”

“didn’t—didn’t mean to,” you cry, voice cracking, vision swimming with tears. your thighs are shaking, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears, and god, the sting is relentless, hot and aching and too much. “p-please, daddy—can’t—”

“oh, you can’t?” he coos, all faux sympathy, his palm massaging over the heated skin just to make you squirm. “poor baby, s’it too much for you?”

you nod frantically, the movement making more tears slip down, lip wobbling as you gasp out a broken, “y-yes—can’t—i can’t—”

but toji only chuckles, fingers sliding slow and taunting over your thighs. “too bad,” he hums, tapping the side of your hip. “still owe me seven more.”

your breath catches on a sob, shoulders trembling with the force of it. “no—please,” you beg, voice a wreck of hiccups and tears, legs kicking weakly against the mattress. “please, daddy—won’t do it again, promise—”

“oh, i know you won’t,” toji croons, low and dark. “not after this, huh?”

you can’t even form words by the time he reaches twenty, throat raw from crying, body limp and shivering in his hold. your sobs have melted into soft, hiccuping whimpers, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, cheeks hot and blotchy with the effort of it. every inch of you feels overheated, sensitive, the ache deep and pulsing.

toji’s palm smooths over the burning skin, gentle now, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “there we go,” he murmurs, almost soothing. “all done now, baby. you did so good for me.”

you sniffle, cheek sticky with tears, body still trembling with little aftershocks. it’s not until his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away the tear tracks, that you realize you’re mumbling something, soft and broken.

“g-gingerbread,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

and toji freezes, fingers stilling immediately, the shift in him instant. “oh, baby,” he breathes, guilt lacing every word as he gathers you up into his arms, turning you so carefully to cradle you against his chest. “oh, sweetheart—why didn’t you say sooner?”

you’re still hiccuping, face tucked into his neck, fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt. “tr-tried,” you sniffle, voice small. “tried—couldn’t—”

toji curses under his breath, hands sliding gentle over your sides, your back, anywhere he can reach to soothe the tremors. “shh, it’s okay,” he croons, pressing soft kisses to your temple. “it’s okay, baby. ‘m so sorry, shouldn’t’ve—fuck, didn’t mean to push you that far.”

he shifts, laying you carefully on your stomach across the bed, one palm rubbing soothing circles into your lower back while the other strokes slow through your hair. you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut despite the dull ache radiating through you, the exhaustion sinking in heavy now that the adrenaline is fading.

“just rest,” toji murmurs, guilt thick in his tone. “i’ll be right back, yeah? gotta get you somethin’ to eat—left you too long without a meal, didn’t i?”

you hum, soft and barely there, eyes already fluttering shut. and toji brushes another kiss over your temple, lingering for just a second before slipping out to the kitchen.

despite everything, you can’t help the way your chest aches, not from the sting but from the guilt in his voice, the way his hands were so soft, so careful once he realized. and when he comes back, tray balanced and expression so heartbreakingly gentle, you know you’re already forgiven, safe and warm in the arms of the man who holds you like something precious.

weekends with gojo satoru are always unpredictable. sometimes he drags you out of bed at an ungodly hour, insisting on spontaneous road trips or arcade dates. sometimes he sleeps in, face buried in your stomach, mumbling incoherent nonsense about how you’re “so soft, so comfy, so wifey.” and sometimes, like today, he’s simply around—lingering, orbiting, absolutely incapable of keeping his hands to himself.

you’re lounging on the couch, ipad in hand, scrolling through your to-do list for the day.

• make breakfast for satoru (done)

• clean the freezer (done)

• restock dental floss in the bathroom cabinet (done)

• wash all the white clothes (done)

• vacuum the bedroom rug (not yet)

it’s a peaceful afternoon. golden sunlight filters through the curtains, casting warm patterns on the floor. you hum softly, tapping your checklist with satisfaction when—

“my beautiful wife?”

you don’t even look up. “yes, mister gojo?”

his footsteps echo across the wooden floor as he saunters into the kitchen. “i bought your favorite kikufuku,” he announces, dramatically placing the box in the fridge like it’s a sacred offering.

you chuckle, finally glancing his way. “it’s your favorite.”

“yeah, but you like what i like, so.” he’s grinning as he walks back to you, but then—

he sees it.

the way you’re sprawled on the couch, lying on your stomach, white leggings snug against your legs. the soft curve of your hips, the casual arch of your back, the way your feet lazily sway in the air as you focus on your ipad.

his mouth goes dry.

oh. oh, you look so good.

before you can react, satoru launches himself onto the couch, draping himself dramatically across your body. his head lands directly on your butt, his arms wrapping around your legs like a koala.

you let out a loud laugh, startled but not surprised. “satoru!”

“mmmh,” he hums contentedly, face practically squished against you. “so comfy. so perfect.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m obsessed,” he corrects, adjusting so he can nuzzle against you even more. his fingers knead at your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles over the fabric of your leggings.

when you shift slightly, he takes it as an invitation to spread your legs just enough to fit himself between them, sighing dramatically. “baby, please put me in a headlock for the rest of the day.”

you snort. “i’m afraid you’ll pass out for that long, honey.”

“worth it.”

this isn’t the first time satoru has latched onto you like this, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. you’re not sure when exactly his obsession with your legs and hips started, but he’s never been subtle about it.

maybe it was back when you were still dating, that one summer concert where he hoisted you onto his shoulders so you could see your favorite band from afar. his hands had gripped your thighs the entire time, keeping you steady—but the way he held you, the way his thumbs rubbed slow, reverent circles against your skin, had felt different. like he was committing the shape of you to memory.

or maybe it’s just something ingrained in him, something about you that makes him crave closeness. he shows it in the way he absentmindedly caresses your legs during late-night cuddles, or how he holds your waist while you’re both brushing your teeth, or how his hand always finds its way to your thigh when he’s driving—whether it’s a ten-minute trip to the grocery store or a long ride out of town.

“you know,” you murmur, adjusting so that you’re sitting up now, fingers raking through his hair. “you don’t have to cling to me every time you see my legs.”

he gasps, scandalized. “how dare you.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you think i just choose to ignore divine beauty when it’s right in front of me?” he places a dramatic hand over his heart. “baby, i’m a loyal worshipper of your legs. i would never disrespect them by looking away.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your chest. “satoru—”

“no, no, let me finish,” he interrupts, hands squeezing your hips. “do you know what it does to me when you sit on my lap? when you put your legs over mine when we’re on the couch? when i wake up in the morning and see you all soft and comfy and mine?”

his voice drops slightly, playful but sincere. “you ruin me, baby.”

your heart stutters a little.

he’s ridiculous. absolutely insane. but he’s also so in love with you, so utterly devoted in a way that makes you feel warm and cherished.

satoru, sensing his victory, grins. “so?”

“so what?”

“so can i stay like this for the next few hours?”

you pretend to think. “hmm..,”

“baby.”

“hmm..,”

he groans, burying his face in your stomach now, wrapping his arms fully around you like he’s afraid you’ll escape. “i love you.”

you laugh softly, fingers threading through his hair again. “i love you too, you big weirdo.”

he sighs, utterly content. “that’s mrs. weirdo to you.”

this was so fun to write. gojo being a menace for his wife is canon and no one can tell me otherwise 🙄😬

i’ve written for jujutsu kaisen, haikyuu—those two are my main favorite fandoms to write fics about. but i also open to write for love and deep space and formula one drivers

you can open my profile, hit the box box button to request—but i kindly suggest you to read the navigation first 🥹🫶🏻✨

miya osamu didn’t believe in fate.

but standing here, in his own restaurant, staring at you as you casually directed your crew like you belonged here, he was starting to think the universe had a weird sense of humor.

it wasn’t like he’d never thought about you. he had—plenty of times, actually. when he started drafting the menu for onigiri miya, when he was perfecting his rice-to-filling ratio, when he was closing up shop late at night and his mind wandered back to high school lunch breaks.

you, sliding an extra onigiri onto his tray without a word.

you, rolling your eyes when he tried to act like he didn’t want it.

you, laughing when he finally gave in and took a bite, pretending it wasn’t the best thing he’d eaten all day.

but he hadn’t expected to see you again—especially not like this.

“long time no see, miya-kun.”

your voice was the same, warm and steady, like no time had passed at all. like you weren’t standing here as the director of a major media company, casually leading the team that was about to give his restaurant its biggest exposure yet.

osamu barely managed to blink before muttering, “ya knew?”

you raised a brow. “of course i knew. i read the assignment brief.”

right. obviously. you hadn’t been caught off guard like he was—you’d known you’d be meeting him today. and now that he was looking closer, he could see it. the slight excitement in your expression, the way your lips twitched upward, like you were trying not to grin too wide.

“should’ve guessed,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “and here i thought this was just another work day for ya.”

“oh, it is,” you said, but your tone was teasing. “just… a little more interesting than usual.”

osamu exhaled, shaking his head. he was so screwed.

the interview started smoothly.

the cameras were rolling, and osamu was doing his best to act normal, even though you were the one leading the questions.

you asked about the restaurant’s beginning, his transition from volleyball to the food industry, the challenges of running a business. osamu answered everything naturally, throwing in dry humor where he could, making sure he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.

but then you asked, “how much of an impact did atsumu have on this journey?”

osamu huffed out a laugh. there it was.

“hard not to mention him, huh?” he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “ya saw how he basically dragged this place into the spotlight.”

you smiled. “it was a good interview.”

“for him, maybe. i was sittin’ in my restaurant, mindin’ my business, then suddenly there’s a line out the door ‘cause ‘msby’s star setter’ said his brother’s onigiri was ‘decent’ on live tv.” osamu shook his head, exasperated but undeniably fond.

atsumu had always been like that. loud, reckless, taking up space without even trying. growing up, osamu had spent a lot of time being overshadowed, but… it wasn’t like he resented him for it.

it was just that sometimes, he wondered if people ever saw him for himself.

you tilted your head, thoughtful. “but even before that, you were doing well, right?”

osamu nodded. “yeah. nothin’ crazy, but i had my regulars. i was happy.”

“so what changed?”

he paused. that was a good question.

osamu wasn’t the type to seek out attention. if it were up to him, he’d run this place quietly, making food for people who appreciated it, no big headlines necessary. but after atsumu’s interview, everything exploded. the business took off, and suddenly, he had to keep up with expectations.

he could’ve turned down the media offers, could’ve kept things lowkey, but instead, he accepted this interview.

and now he was sitting here, looking at you, realizing that maybe… maybe part of him wanted this moment.

you gave him a moment to think, then shifted gears. “so, why onigiri?”

osamu blinked.

“out of all the things you could’ve specialized in,” you continued, “why this?”

he exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the counter. he could’ve given his usual answer—it’s simple, it’s nostalgic, it’s comfort food—but instead, he found himself saying something else.

“back in high school, i had this friend.”

he didn’t miss the way you sat up slightly.

“every day, she packed an extra onigiri for me. first time, i thought it was a fluke. maybe she made too much. but then it kept happenin’.” he paused, glancing down. “it was small, but it meant a lot. it meant someone thought about me before i even got there.”

the room felt quieter somehow, like the crew was waiting for him to say more.

“so when i started this place, i kept thinkin’ about that. about how food can make people feel remembered.” osamu let out a soft chuckle. “guess i just wanted to do the same thing.”

a beat of silence.

then you spoke, voice quieter than before. “sounds like a good friend.”

osamu glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “yeah. she was.”

after the interview wrapped, osamu pulled you aside.

“stay for a bit,” he said. not a request, not quite a demand. just… something he needed.

so you did. you stayed as the crew packed up, as the restaurant emptied, until it was just the two of you sitting at the counter, a plate of fresh onigiri between you.

“so,” you teased, picking one up. “how does it feel? knowing your restaurant’s about to get even more attention?”

“exhaustin’,” he admitted, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “but… not bad.”

you hummed, chewing thoughtfully. “you know, you could’ve just said my name.”

osamu raised a brow. “huh?”

“during the interview,” you clarified. “you didn’t have to be so vague.”

he exhaled a quiet laugh. “thought ya might kill me if i did.”

“true,” you smirked. “but still. i would’ve liked it.”

osamu looked at you for a long moment.

then, before he could second-guess it, he reached across the counter and took an onigiri from your plate.

just like old times.

“guess i’ll make it up to ya,” he murmured, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. “maybe next time, i’ll say it properly.”

you smiled, eyes bright with something unspoken. “i’ll hold you to that.”

and just like that, miya osamu realized something—

maybe he should start to believe in fate.

—the end.

the first thing gojo satoru registers is the pounding in his skull. a deep, relentless throb that syncs perfectly with the bass still echoing in his bones. he groans, shifting against the ridiculously soft sheets, his face half-buried in a pillow that smells vaguely of expensive cologne and a bad decision.

his mouth is dry. his limbs feel heavy. his stomach churns in protest the moment he shifts.

hangovers. god, he hates them.

he blinks up at the ceiling, this isn’t new. he’s had mornings like this before—waking up disoriented, mind fuzzy with the aftermath of too much liquor, too much noise, too much everything. but something feels off.

his phone vibrates on the nightstand. he doesn’t move at first, waiting for the nausea to settle, but then it starts buzzing. actually, no—blowing up.

he cracks one eye open, wincing at the blinding glow of the screen on his nightstand. notifications flood in so fast they blur together. messages, missed calls, news alerts.

missed calls from dad (4)

missed calls from mom (2)

missed calls from shoko (who literally never calls him, what the hell?)

messages from suguru (12)

his brows furrow. okay. weird.

he scrolls further, past the texts, past the concerned messages, until his eyes catch something else.

he fumbles for the phone, squinting against the assault on his retinas. the moment the words register, his stomach does a slow, unpleasant flip.

“heir to the gojo financial empire caught in scandalous video—questioning the leadership of university!”

“gojo satoru: law student or walking pr disaster?”

“leaked video: gojo satoru’s wild night with a stripper goes viral!”

his blood runs cold.

for a second, his brain refuses to process it. like the words are just a blur on the screen, some ridiculous clickbait that has nothing to do with him.

but then his fingers move—on autopilot, tapping the link.

and there he is—plastered across every social media platform, shirt unbuttoned, eyes half-lidded with intoxication, moving against a woman who is very clearly a stripper. her hands are in his hair. his hands are on her. they’re swaying together, his lips close enough to her neck that there’s no mistaking the intimacy of the moment.

his stomach drops.

he scrolls. the comments are brutal.

“bro didn’t even try to be subtle LMAO.”

“and this guy is supposed to be a law student? a future leader? yeah, right.”

“not just any law student. the heir to gojo corp. imagine the pr budget after this mess.”

gojo groans, flopping back onto the bed and dragging a hand down his face. he knows he fucked up, but come on—stuff like this happens all the time. he’s young, he’s got money, people party. why is everyone acting like he just committed a federal crime?

his phone rings, and he doesn’t even have to check the caller id. he already knows.

he lets it ring twice before sighing, bringing the phone to his ear.

“satoru.” his father’s voice is ice. sharp, controlled, and laced with the kind of quiet anger that’s somehow worse than outright yelling. “my office. now.”

the line goes dead.

well. that can’t be good.

gojo stares at his phone for a second longer, debating whether to just not show up and see how far his dad will go to drag him there. but knowing the old man, he wouldn’t even get the luxury of a warning. just a team of security guards breaking down his door and shoving him into a blacked-out car.

so, with a dramatic sigh, he swings his legs off the bed, wincing as the movement sends another wave of nausea rolling through him. god, he needs water. and maybe sunglasses. definitely sunglasses.

he stumbles into the bathroom, squinting at his own reflection. white hair still a mess from last night, shirt hanging off one shoulder, and a very faint lipstick stain on his collarbone. classy.

by the time he’s freshened up, thrown on a dark sweater, and grabbed his sunglasses, his phone is still going off. more texts, more headlines.

“university under pressure to respond to gojo satoru scandal—what does this mean for future funding?”

he scowls. okay, that is a little concerning.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

the company building is chaos when he arrives.

security is out in full force, trying to keep the press at bay. journalists shove microphones at employees walking in, camera flashes go off like fireworks, and the entrance is a swarm of bodies all trying to get the latest scoop.

gojo watches from inside the tinted car window, jaw tightening. shit.

his driver doesn’t even bother asking if he’s ready before pulling into the underground parking garage.

“so,” he says, glancing at the driver. “you think my dad’s gonna kill me?”

the man wisely keeps his mouth shuts and not even glancing from the rearview mirror.

as he steps out, a familiar weight settles in his chest—the weight of knowing he can’t charm his way out of this one.

the executive wing is eerily quiet. no one meets his eyes. no one even looks at him.

the assistant outside his father’s office glances up as he approaches. “they’re waiting for you.” she says, nodding toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

“they?”

she doesn’t answer.

great. now he’s walking into an ambush.

with a sigh, he pushes the doors open.

his father is seated behind his massive desk, posture stiff, eyes hard. across from him sits another man—one gojo recognizes immediately as the university’s dean.

well. that’s new.

gojo drops into the chair opposite them, draping one arm over the back like he’s settling in for a casual chat.

“so,” he starts, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. “who wants to yell at me first?”

his father doesn’t react. but the dean? he looks like he’s two seconds away from throwing something at gojo’s face.

“do you have any idea how bad this looks?” the dean snaps. “the university is under fire. parents are demanding explanations. donors are threatening to pull their funding. do you realize what that means?”

gojo does. he just doesn’t like acknowledging it.

he rolls his jaw, looking off to the side. “look, it was a party. i had a little too much fun—”

“you were caught on video grinding on a stripper like you had no concept of personal space!”

gojo winces. okay. when you put it like that.

“this isn’t just about you, satoru.”

his father’s voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. the weight behind his words settles deep in gojo’s gut, pressing down like a stone.

“the media isn’t just talking about your little… stunt at the bar,” his father continues, his expression unreadable. “they started digging into the case of the threat to a professor at the law faculty that recently just emerged. and guess what they found?”

gojo forces himself to sit still. “i don’t know. why don’t you enlighten me?”

the dean—who has been silent until now—slams a folder onto the desk. “look.”

gojo eyes the folder for a second before leaning forward and flipping it open.

a crypto transaction ledger.

his name isn’t on it. but his wallet address is.

and the payment—made in a discreet privacy coin—was sent to the account that funded the threats against professor nakamura.

gojo keeps his expression neutral, but his mind is already racing.

this is bad.

“what the fuck is this?” he mutters, swiping through the logs. the timestamps, transaction hashes—whoever set this up knew what they were doing.

“that,” the dean says, voice cold, “is proof that you paid for a faculty member to be harassed.”

“gojo satoru,” his father’s voice is eerily calm, “did you send this payment?”

gojo tosses the tablet back onto the desk, forcing out a dry laugh. “seriously? if i wanted nakamura gone, i’d do something way more efficient than sending him scary emails.”

the dean’s nostrils flare. “this is not a joke, gojo.”

“no, but it is bullshit.” gojo leans back, arms crossed. “i didn’t make that payment.”

“then explain why the transaction is linked to your wallet.”

“you ever heard of spoofing?” gojo snaps. “or do you think blockchain is some magical truth serum?”

his father’s expression darkens. “satoru.”

gojo clicks his tongue, jaw tight.

his father exhales. “there will be an investigation.”

“go ahead.” gojo stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. “just don’t expect me to sit around while someone drags my name through the dirt.”

“watch yourself, satoru.” his father’s voice is low.

gojo just smirks, heading for the door. he pauses, tilting his head.

“so… am i, like, officially expelled, or do i get a farewell party first?”

i’m so sorry for writing a new series while the last one discontinued for months 😔 i don’t even know what i wrote here and would it be written till finish 😣😅 that’s such a pressure if you ask me—i’m just a girl with a bunch of assignments and a little time to write but too much imaginations to represent 🥹😊

You sit on the chair, the weight of the conversation bearing down on you, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the desk’s surface. Every inhale feels shallow, as though the air in your lungs isn’t enough to settle the nervous tremor in your chest. Tsukishima waits, the silence growing heavier. From your peripheral, you catch him sitting casually on the edge of your bed, his legs folded, one hand resting loosely on his knee. His presence is calm but intent—he's here for answers, but he's giving you the space to gather yourself. That patience makes it harder to speak.

Finally, you point to the small prescription bottle on the desk, the label a stark reminder of the doctor’s words. “This is the prescription from my doctor,” you say, your voice fragile in the quiet room.

Tsukishima’s gaze sharpens as he leans slightly forward, his voice calm but direct. “And why did your doctor prescribe you that?” His words slice through the tension like a precise cut, offering no space for avoidance.

You try to meet his eyes but falter, feeling vulnerable under his scrutiny. His presence, typically so grounding, now feels like a magnifying glass trained on you. You part your lips to respond, but no words come. The vulnerability is too much.

Tsukishima tilts his head slightly, his frown deepening as he reads your hesitation. His voice, still calm, now holds a quiet insistence. “You’ve had trouble sleeping this whole time?” His eyes don’t waver, searching yours for the truth.

It’s impossible to hide. “I—” you stammer, but under his unflinching gaze, your defenses crumble. “Yes, I do. But it’s not severe. It’s not something you should be worried about or—”

“Hey,” Tsukishima interrupts, his voice soft but firm, “Look at me.”

The sudden shift in his tone pulls you from the spiral of words. His eyes, usually cold and detached, soften as he reaches out, his long fingers wrapping around your hand. The warmth from his touch steadies you in a way you didn’t expect.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice lowers further, coaxing your attention back to him. His thumb brushes gently against your knuckles, and for a moment, it feels like an anchor holding you steady in the storm inside your mind.

“I didn’t know how,” you finally admit, the words falling out before you can stop them. “I just didn’t know how to talk to you. Or to anyone.”

The confession makes you feel raw, like a nerve exposed to the cold air. You pull your gaze away again, focusing on the faint pattern of the rug under your feet, the heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck. The silence feels heavy now—not from Tsukishima’s presence, but from your own admission. You’ve never felt more inadequate, more clueless about how to navigate the complicated mess of being close to someone.

“I’m sorry for not knowing how to be a good girlfriend for you, Kei” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. Voice cracking as tears slip down your cheeks. Tsukishima hushes you gently, cupping your face with one hand, lifting your gaze to meet his. He tries to keep his composure, but his chest tightens when he sees you crying.

“Don’t say that. You don’t have to apologize for this.” he whispers, his voice carrying a weight you weren’t prepared for. His thumb softly wipes your tears, though more spill over, leaving him feeling helpless. “Now tell me about your appointment today,”

You swallow hard, feeling the tears build up again. It’s overwhelming, the tenderness in his touch and the quiet care in his voice. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. “I told the doctor how dizzy I feel in the mornings, how I can’t sleep because I’m up studying all night, and when I try, my mind won’t stop racing. I’m so tired, but I can’t make it stop.” Your voice shakes with hiccups in between.

“The doctor said I’m under a lot of stress, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this—I’m not good enough in class. You know that, right?”

Tsukishima shakes his head firmly. “You’re doing just fine. You’re so diligent, and you work so hard—that’s all I see,” he says, his voice calm yet final, as if there’s no room for argument.

A weak smile crosses your face, though it fades quickly. “You might think that, but my mom never will…” you chuckle bitterly.

Tsukishima frowns deeply. He’s noticed the signs, from when he first scolded you at the parking lot—counting your vitamins and tonics, to your birthday dinner where your mother’s expectations seemed more suffocating than proud. She monitors your meals, your routine, your every move—and he realizes how far her control goes.

It clicks into place for him. The pressure, the obsession with perfection in academic—it’s all coming from her. Rage simmers beneath his calm exterior, but more than that, he feels hurt for you, knowing you’re baring your soul to him because you can’t do the same with your own mother.

Tsukishima’s jaw tenses as he mutters, “What is wrong with your mother?” His hand remains gentle, still cupping your face, his thumb wiping away the remnants of your tears. His tall figure looms protectively in front of you, his gaze sharp yet soft with concern.

“I know it’s none of my business, but it just has been on my mind,” he continues, his voice low but filled with intent. “the way she treats you—with so much pressure. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

You look up, your head tilting instinctively, searching his expression, the weight of his words sinking in. You didn’t realize when your tears stopped, but now, in this moment, something has shifted inside you. It feels like a weight has lifted off your chest—like he’s offering you the validation you’ve always feared to give yourself. The part of you that had always been too scared to voice those thoughts, the part that felt like a coward, suddenly felt seen.

“I don’t know what happened to my mom,” you whisper. “She was absent most of my childhood, she had this big career, something that seemed more important than anything.”

Tsukishima remains silent, his hand still on your cheek, allowing you the space to speak. His presence feels like a quiet support, grounding you as you delve into a part of your life you rarely voice.

“She was a brilliant scientist,” you explain, your voice soft as you trace the memories in your mind. “A biochemical researcher, always working on these important projects. She was always in the lab, always focused on something else, something that wasn’t me. I think I grew up used to it… knowing she had more important things to handle. But…”

Your breath hitches slightly as you continue, the words forming heavy with emotion. “When I graduated from junior high school, something happened—she quit her job—I don’t know why, and suddenly, all of her focus shifted to me. She pushed me harder, hired tutors, sent me to private school—I lost all my friends. By the time I hit my final year, she decided I had to follow in her footsteps, join this major, and become someone like her.”

Your voice wavers as you continue, the weight of these memories pressing down on you. “She pushed me too hard. I couldn’t sleep or even take a break if I didn’t follow the schedules she made. I’m not naturally smart and I always struggled to keep up. I remember telling my dad I wanted to be a baseball player once, but that was before all of this. I had to endure all of that pressure, pushing through day after day, just to meet her expectations and get into this university. I felt like I had no other choice.”

Your hands tremble slightly, and you pause to take a breath, feeling the tension in your chest build as you approach the more difficult part of your story. Tsukishima doesn’t move, but his quiet presence feels comforting.

“And then… something happened,” you whisper, the weight of those memories pulling at your voice. “I told my parents I wasn’t feeling well—I was cold, dizzy… We thought it was just a fever, but it kept getting worse. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even respond properly when they spoke to me.”

You feel Tsukishima hold your hand tighter, his silent way of telling you he’s listening, urging you to go on.

“One night… I had a seizure. My parents rushed me to the hospital, and that’s when the doctors diagnosed me with stress-induced encephalopathy. It had damaged my brain functions.” Your voice cracks, and you look away for a moment, but Tsukishima’s touch keeps you anchored. “My dad didn’t know how hard my mom had been pushing me, so he thought I was just stressed about university.”

You swallow hard before continuing. “He put me in long-term treatments, the doctors said it was the only way to heal. I thought maybe, after everything, my mom would stop pressuring me, that she’d finally understand what it was doing to me.”

You pause, the bitterness rising in your throat as you speak the next words. “But no. She told me that I should be grateful for the chance to heal. And the only way to show that gratitude was to keep going. To excel.”

The words hang heavy in the air, the truth of them finally spoken. You’ve never said this out loud, not to anyone. But here, with Tsukishima, it feels… bearable. His thumb continues its slow, soothing motions against your cheek, grounding you as your emotions begin to settle.

Tsukishima’s eyes soften even further as he takes in what you’ve shared. “That’s not fair to you,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a protective edge.

His words strike deep, the truth of them cutting through the layers of guilt you’ve carried for so long. For once, you don’t feel like you have to justify it. You don’t have to make excuses for her or pretend that the pressure is okay.

Tsukishima, sensing the shift in you, lowers himself slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. His hand moves from your cheek to rest gently on your shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re okay now, I got you, Love,”

ohmygod i’m really sorry for not posting anything for so long, i’m afraid people start to forget about this whole story 😭😭

i’ve just been so busy and burnt out. i cried after taking mid term exams yesterday and don’t want to continue my life 😭😭 but it’s all good now

You sit on the edge of your bed, hugging your knees to your chest as the events of the day play on repeat in your mind like a broken record. The weight of everything—your academic struggles, the unspoken tension with your parents, and now the appointment result—presses down on you, your chest heavy with a nameless frustration. You want to scream, hit something, or just curl up and disappear, but all you can do is bury your face in the soft fabric of Tsukishima's hoodie, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne lingering on it.

The oversized sleeves feel like a small shield against the turmoil swirling inside you, but they can't stop the barrage of thoughts. What did the doctor say again? You try to recall every word, focusing on the moment instead of the whirlwind in your head. But even then, the tension in your body remains.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, snapping you out of your thoughts. You reach for it, flipping it open with half-hearted curiosity. It's a photo. From Tsukishima. Your heart skips, then thuds in your chest as you open the image—Tsukishima and his teammates, standing proudly with the volleyball championship trophy, their faces glowing with accomplishment.

Your lips twitch upward, an involuntary smile breaking through your melancholy. His message from this morning about the game resurfaces in your mind, and you wish you could’ve been there. Seeing him in that moment, surrounded by his teammates, makes you feel proud, even if a small pang of guilt tugs at your chest for missing it. You were supposed to attend his game but unfortunately you have an appointment scheduled by your mom today.

You stare at the photo for a while, unsure of what to say. He looks happy, genuinely happy in a way you don’t often see. He’s always so serious, so focused, but here, in this photo, he’s smiling with his eyes, that small smirk playing on his lips.

Finally, you type a response:

Congratulations, champ 🎉🎊

You add an extra line of happy stickers, trying to convey the joy you assume he must be feeling.

It doesn't take long before his reply pops up.

Are you done with your appointment? How was it?

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers hovering over the screen. How do you even explain? You’re not really sure what you feel anymore.

Yeah, it went fine

His next message comes almost immediately.

At your dorm now?

Yes, just got back.

Do you want to join us? We’re celebrating with Korean barbecue.

Your initial instinct is to say yes. It sounds nice—fun, even. A distraction from your racing mind, a chance to be near him again. But you stop yourself before you type. You know how you are right now. You’re not in the mood for loud celebrations, for crowded places, for the inevitable small talk that you’ll have to force with his teammates. They don’t know you, and frankly, you don’t feel like pretending everything’s fine. Not tonight. So instead, you respond,

I think I’ll skip this one. Feeling a bit tired 🥹

You watch the chat bubble indicating that he’s read the message, but no immediate reply comes. Your fingers grip the phone a little tighter, heart beating in your throat. You wonder if he’s annoyed or disappointed.

Finally, a message pops up.

Okay. Rest well 🤍

The simplicity of his words eases some of the tension, but only just. You reply with a quick, Have fun with the team! 😊 before tossing the phone aside. You fall back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. The quiet of your room feels suffocating, but you’re too drained to move.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes again, breaking the silence. You sigh, reaching for it with a sluggish arm. It's your mom this time.

Doctor Adi just sent me a prescription for your medication. Can you go to the drugstore and pick it up before dinner?

You groan, kicking your feet in the air in childish defiance, but you know you have no choice. Dragging yourself up, you grab your wallet and throw on the hoodie—Tsukishima’s hoodie, the one he gave you that night after your movie marathon at his place.

As you step outside, the evening air feels cool against your skin. The walk to the pharmacy is quiet, almost eerily so, but you appreciate the solitude. It gives you time to think, though you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Your mind is still racing, stuck somewhere between anger, sadness, and confusion.

You reach the drugstore and head inside, your thoughts still buzzing like white noise. The bright lights and sterile smell are grounding, in a way, pulling you out of your head as you approach the counter. You hand over your prescription and wait, shifting from foot to foot.

Just as you’re zoning out, you catch a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye. Tall, lanky, with those distinctive glasses perched on his nose—Tsukishima. Your heart skips, your body tensing. He’s standing at the cashier, his back to you as he pays for something. You freeze, instinctively pulling the hood up over your head, hoping he won’t notice you. Maybe—

His eyes meet yours.

Damn it.

His brows furrowing in that familiar, questioning way. He starts walking toward you, and for a moment, you consider bolting out of the store. But your feet are rooted to the spot “What are you doing here?” he asks, stopping just a few steps away, his voice low and calm.

You shrug, trying to play it off casually. “Picking up my prescription.”

He looks at you, his gaze sharp, like he’s assessing whether or not to believe you. “Are you sick?”

Your voice comes out higher than intended. “No! It’s just vitamins.”

He doesn’t seem convinced but doesn’t press further. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer, and you feel like you’re under a microscope.

“What about you?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation away from yourself. “What are you doing here?”

“One of my teammates burned his hand,” he replies, holding up a small bag from the pharmacy. “Had to pick up a first aid kit.”

You nod, unsure of what else to say. Silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. You can’t tell if it’s just your own nerves, or if something has shifted between you two.

“You’re still invited to dinner,” he says, breaking the silence. “We’re eating across the street.”

You hesitate again, your heart tugging in two different directions. Part of you wants to go, to be with him, to see him smile again like in that photo. But the other part—the heavier, louder part—wants to retreat, to hide away from the world and the strange, gnawing feelings inside of you.

“I’ll pass,” you finally say, your voice soft. “I’m really not up for it tonight.”

Tsukishima’s face remains unreadable, his calm demeanor unchanged. He nods slightly, giving a small shrug. “Alright,” he says, his tone neutral. “See you later then.”

You watch him walk out the door—crossing the street then entering the restaurant, leaving you standing there, the awkward tension hanging in the air even after he’s gone. You let out a deep breath, rubbing your temples as the dull ache in your chest refuses to go away. For a second, you wonder if you made the right decision. Should you have gone with him? Would it have been better to push through your exhaustion and just enjoy the dinner? Something’s off. Normally, he’d at least touch your cheek or pat your head, a small gesture he picked up after you started dating. But today, nothing. It’s like he’s keeping his distance.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear your name being called at the counter. As you approach, the cashier greets you with a curious question.

“Do you know the tall guy who was just here?”

“Yeah, I do,” you answer, wondering where this is going.

“Well, excuse me if this is inconvenient, but he left his credit card. Would you be able to give it to him?”

You blink, surprised, before you nod. “Oh, yeah, sure.” After paying, you take the card, glancing over at the restaurant where Tsukishima disappeared. You inhale deeply, debating for a second before finally deciding to go after him.

Crossing the street, you enter the restaurant, scanning the room for him and his teammates. You spot them instantly—a group huddled around a table, Tsukishima grilling meat while they talk animatedly. As you slowly walk towards the table, you hear fragments of their conversation.

“Hey, Tsukishima, where’s your girlfriend? Why doesn’t she come to your games?”

“Yeah, I thought she’d be here since it’s your last game—”

Your steps falter as you take in their words, heart racing. His last game? Why didn’t he tell you? A whirlwind of emotions swirls inside you—confusion, hurt, frustration. You hadn’t even realized how important tonight was for him. And why didn’t he say anything?

Just then, Yamaguchi spots you. “Oh, hey Tsukki, look!” He gestures toward you with a bright smile, nudging Tsukishima.

Tsukishima’s eyes lock with yours from across the room, and for a moment, the air between you two is thick with unsaid words. He stands, walking towards you with a steady calmness. You stammer slightly under his gaze, your grip tightening around his forgotten credit card. As he approaches, his familiar presence washes over you, but there’s still a gnawing tension beneath the surface.

When he reaches you, he takes the card from your hand without a word, but his fingers graze yours lightly. “Thanks,” he mutters, his voice softer than usual, before placing his hand on the small of your back, guiding you toward the table. The touch that you’d missed earlier is back, but it feels different now—charged, like there’s more that neither of you is willing to admit.

“This is her,” Tsukishima introduces you to the table with a smile that feels almost out of character, as though he’s both proud and slightly awkward about it. You give a small bow, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as the group eyes you with friendly curiosity. Tsukishima pulls a chair for you beside him, the gesture simple but grounding.

As you sit, he immediately starts preparing a plate for you, placing slices of grilled beef and arranging the sauce with his usual precision. Your eyes catch on the care in his actions—silent, but thoughtful. You want to say something, to ask him why he didn’t mention it was his last game, but you hold back, not wanting to cause a scene in front of his friends.

One of his teammates smirks, breaking the silence with a teasing tone. “So, Tsukki, when did you start dating freshmen? I thought older women were more your type.”

The comment catches you off guard, your surprise reflected in your eyes. You glance at Tsukishima, hoping for some kind of reaction, but he remains calm, focused on the grill as he flips another slice of beef. He doesn’t even acknowledge the jab, continuing to serve you without missing a beat.

Yamaguchi quickly jumps in, nudging the guy with a disapproving look. “That’s rude, man. Besides, she’s sweet, kind, and polite once you get to know her.” He said with a playful wink at you.

The guy mumbles an apology, and you force a polite smile, feeling an odd mixture of relief and awkwardness settle over you. The tension from earlier hasn’t left, but now it’s mixed with the pressure of being under the spotlight, surrounded by Tsukishima’s friends.

“I thought you wouldn’t make it,” Yamaguchi adds with a friendly grin. “But I’m glad you could join us after all.”

You chuckle softly, though your mind is still buzzing. “Yeah, I’m sorry I missed the game. I bet it was amazing. Congratulations on the win, you guys are really impressive.”

Tsukishima continues to silently serve you, placing food on your plate as the conversation around the table flows. His friends share stories about the game, and you do your best to laugh at their jokes, but it’s hard to concentrate. Your mind keeps drifting back to the earlier comment—his last game—and the fact that he never told you.

The night passes in a blur of laughter, shared food, and introductions to the other girls at the table. You try to engage, to be present, but your gaze keeps flickering back to Tsukishima, watching the way he interacts with his friends, wondering why he’s been holding back with you lately. The evening is warm and pleasant on the surface, but underneath, there’s a lingering feeling that something important is still unsaid.

You walked in silence next to Tsukishima, the cool evening air brushing against your skin as the two of you made your way back to the dorm. The streetlights cast long shadows on the ground, but all you could focus on was the heavy tension in the air. His silence gnawed at you. It wasn’t the usual comfortable quiet; tonight, it was laden with unsaid words, and you could feel the frustration bubbling inside you, making your chest tighten.

You sighed softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. His face was calm, his gaze forward, but there was something off. After everything today—from rushing to your appointment, the sudden dinner with his teammates, to this strange silence—you felt drained. The more you thought about it, the more your frustration grew. Why hadn’t he told you? Why did you have to hear about his retirement from someone else?

After a long moment of brooding silence, you couldn't hold it in anymore. The words spilled out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your last game?” Your voice cut through the quiet night, the annoyance clear in your tone. “You never mentioned that you’d be retiring from the team so soon.”

Tsukishima came to a halt, turning to face you with a look that made your heart sink. His lips twitched into a faint smirk, though there was no humor behind it. “I’m in my last year of uni, if you haven’t realized yet,”

His words were laced with that typical sass you were used to, but tonight, instead of rolling your eyes or laughing it off, they felt like a slap to the face. Normally, you could handle his biting comments, even find them amusing, but after the emotional exhaustion of the day, this hit a little too close to home.

“And what about it?” You couldn’t hide the irritation bubbling to the surface. “Like it’s that hard to tell me personally?”

Tsukishima's expression shifted, the faint smirk disappearing as he met your gaze with a frown. “Did you even interested about this part of my life?” His voice was casual, almost like he was throwing a joke into the mix, but it felt like an accusation.

Your chest tightened at his words. “What do you mean?” You took a small step toward him, your hand almost reaching for his, but you stopped, unsure. The gap between you felt more noticeable than ever. “I’m your girlfriend. Of course I am. I care about every part of your life.”

Tsukishima’s gaze flickered away from you, avoiding your eyes as his brow furrowed slightly. “Then maybe you should’ve asked about it whenever we had conversations.”

The calmness of his voice hurt more than if he had raised it. Your heart sank further into your chest, and you could feel the guilt settling in. He was right. You hadn’t asked—not about volleyball, not about his team, not about his games. You’d been so caught up in trying to navigate this new relationship, in figuring out how to be his girlfriend, that you never stopped to think about the parts of his life that mattered to him.

But still, his words stung. You felt like you were being blamed for something you didn’t even realize you were supposed to do. “Why are you blaming me for something I didn’t know?” Your voice came out quieter now, laced with hurt. “I’m sorry—”

“When was the last time you came to one of my games?” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing as he stared at you. “Do you even remember?”

You opened your mouth to answer but quickly realized you couldn’t. You haven’t been to one of his games in months. Not since Yamaguchi dragged you along during your winter class Since then, you had been too wrapped up in your own academic struggles and the whirlwind of emotions that came with your new relationship to even think about attending.

Tsukishima scoffed at your silence, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you, then. Volleyball has been a huge part of my life for years. Retiring today wasn’t an easy decision, and you didn’t care enough to find out.”

The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just frustration in his voice now—it was hurt, too. Your breath hitched as you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, his disappointment in you sinking deeper than you could bear.

“I’m sorry, Kei,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The tears you had been holding back were now threatening to spill, and you hated yourself for it. You never wanted to make him feel this way, and the realization that you had hurt him was more painful than anything he could’ve said.

Tsukishima inhales deeply, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself down. He steps closer to you, his expression softening just a fraction as he places his hand on your waist, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, though his voice still holds a touch of tension. “I’m sorry I lashed out. Let’s just get back to your dorm.”

But there was still a tension in his body, and you could feel it. His embrace was warm, but it wasn’t the comforting kind of warmth you were used to from him. It was almost like he was holding back—keeping some of his emotions buried, away from you. And that hurt even more.

The two of you continued walking, hand in hand, but the silence that stretched between you felt heavier than before. His grip was firm, as if he didn’t want to let you go, but the air was thick with things left unsaid. You kept stealing glances at him, wondering what he was thinking, if he was still upset, if things would ever feel normal again.

When you finally reached the entrance to your dorm, you swiped your access card, the beeping sound cutting through the tension. You were about to step inside when you heard him call your name softly.

You turned back, your heart in your throat as you met his gaze.

“Next time,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “just… tell me what’s going on in your life. And ask me what’s going on in mine. We need to update each other. That’s how this is supposed to work.”

His words were gentle, but they carried a weight of importance, and you nodded, guilt gnawing at you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “It’s my first relationship… I should’ve—”

“I know,” Tsukishima interrupted, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. “And it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

His smile was small, but it was enough to make your heart warm again, if only for a moment. You nodded, biting your lip as you took a step toward the door. But just before you could leave, his voice stopped you once more.

“Hey.” He gestured toward the plastic bag you’d been holding from the drugstore. “Are you going to tell me about your sleeping medication?”

Your freeze, heat rushing to your face as you fumbled for a response, completely caught off guard. You hadn’t been prepared for that question, and once again, you found yourself at a loss for words.

decided to post it tonight since i can’t study—my brain doesn’t want to cooperate with me—for my test tomorrow 😖🤧 so wish me luck guys

You wait in front of your dorm building, the early afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. Your backpack hangs loosely from one shoulder as you check your phone. Just as you’re about to text him, you spot your dad’s familiar car pulling into the parking lot. His suit jacket is crisp, his tie slightly loosened from the day’s work.

He steps out of the car, his face lighting up as he sees you. “Hey, sweetie,” he greets, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing your forehead with that same familiar warmth. His cologne lingers faintly. “Just finished class?”

You nod, tossing your bag into the backseat, then slide into the passenger seat. “How’s the law firm doing?” you ask, looking at him curiously.

He glances over as he buckles his seatbelt. “Busy as always,” he says with a sigh. “We’re hiring new lawyers, expanding the staff. Seems like every year it just keeps getting bigger.”

You nod, listening intently. It still amazes you that your dad’s firm, built from scratch with his friends two decades ago, is now one of the largest in the country.

“Open the dashboard, sweetie. Your mom asked me to pick something up for you.” You do as he asks, pulling out a small paper bag. Inside, you find an eye cream and lip balm, exactly what your mom always sends along to ensure you’re well-stocked. You chuckle softly. “Did I get it right?” he asks, half-smiling.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad.” You place the items back in the bag and set them aside.

He glances at the medical file in your hand. “Got your medical file with you?”

You nod, holding it up. He smiles approvingly, turning the car toward the clinic. “Good. How about ramen after?”

Your stomach growls at the thought. “Yeah, sounds good,” you say, settling into your seat as the city streets rush past.

---

The clinic is bright, the scent of antiseptic and soft murmurs of nurses filling the air as you and your dad step inside. The receptionist recognizes you and waves you back, and before you know it, you’re in your nutritionist’s office. Dr. Adi greets you with a warm smile, her neatly tied bun and glasses resting on the edge of her nose as she reviews your file.

“Come on, lie down, and let’s take a look,” she says, gesturing to the examination bed. You follow her instructions, the cold surface making you shiver slightly as you settle in.

She checks your blood pressure first, her hands firm but gentle, and then moves to check your pulse, brow furrowing slightly. “Your anemia still affecting you recently?” she asks, keeping her tone light but focused.

You nod slowly. “Yeah… I’ve been staying up late a lot, so when I wake up, I’m dizzy and tired. It fades after a while, but I still feel exhausted sometimes.”

Dr. Adi moves closer, examining the pallor under your eyes, her fingers lifting your eyelid gently to check for paleness. She frowns slightly but says nothing for a moment, focusing on your condition. “Have you been taking anything for the dizziness?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.

You shake your head. “No, I just let it pass.”

She nods thoughtfully, writing a few notes in your file. The room is quiet except for the soft scratching of her pen on paper, the air punctuated by the hum of the overhead lights. “Did you get the flu or a fever this month?” Dr. Adi asks again, looking up from your medical file.

You shake your head while pulling on your black sweater. “No.”

The doctor nods. “Good, that’s a sign your immune system has improved significantly.” She offers a small smile.

Your dad sits across from Dr. Adi, his expression calm but concerned. You can see the subtle furrow in his brow as he watches the doctor’s movements closely.

“Thanks to the ginseng tonic her mother keeps forcing her to drink,” your dad chimes in, his voice filled with light humor. The doctor chuckles softly, nodding in agreement.

“And your mother’s careful monitoring of your diet has helped as well,” Dr. Adi continues. “Your weight has stabilized at the ideal level we set for you, which is a huge accomplishment.”

You nod, feeling a small sense of relief. Then, she glances back at the file, her expression turning more serious again. “Unfortunately, your anemia still seems to be a challenge.”

Your dad shifts in his seat, his voice concerned. “And that means?”

Dr. Adi adjusts her glasses, leaning forward slightly as she speaks directly to you. “The exhaustion and dizziness you’re feeling—especially in the mornings—are signs that your body is struggling to maintain a balance. After checking your latest results, I noticed your blood pressure and oxygen levels are quite low from the time you wake up until lunch. That dizziness you’re feeling? It doesn’t just disappear, it lingers—you’ve likely just gotten used to it or are too busy to notice. It’s your body’s way of telling you that it’s under too much stress.”

You nod, feeling a bit uneasy now, realizing you’ve been pushing yourself harder than you thought.

The doctor’s gaze softens. “We all know how to eat and digest food, but not many of us know how to ‘digest’ exhaustion,” she says, using her hands to emphasize her point. “Your body is sending you signals—every time you pull an all-nighter or skip rest, the dizziness is that signal. You might think you can just power through it, but how long have you been doing this? When was the last time you actually took a break and listened to what your body was telling you?”

You sit there, suddenly at a loss for words. You hadn’t considered it from that perspective before.

Dr. Adi continues, her tone empathetic but firm. “Everyone’s body has limits. It’s completely normal to feel this way because you’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You’ve done an amazing job in so many areas, but now it’s time to focus on regulating your tiredness. A consistent sleep schedule is key. Skipping sleep might seem necessary to get things done, but think about it—how long have you been running on empty? You need to listen when your body says enough is enough.”

You nod slowly, her words sinking in, your mind swimming with thoughts of all the late nights, skipped meals, and ignored signals. You glance over at your dad, who offers you a reassuring smile, his hand reaching across the table to give yours a comforting squeeze.

The room feels heavier now, but also filled with a sense of clarity. You realize this isn’t something you can ignore anymore.

After the appointment, the drive to the ramen restaurant is quiet. You lean against the window, curled up in your seat, lost in thought. Your dad glances at you, and just before entering the restaurant, he rubs your back gently. His touch is soft—reassuring—but it does little to ease the turmoil in your heart.

Once seated, you focus on the menu, but your mind is elsewhere. Your dad starts, “Do you need help with tracking your sleep time, sweetie?” His voice is calm, but there’s a subtle worry underneath.

You force a smile. “No, Dad. I’ll just fill out a new tracker in my phone.”

He watches you for a moment, as if gauging whether to push further. “Are you having trouble sleeping, like insomnia or something?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of his concern but also the growing frustration inside. “Sometimes, I’m just so caught up in assignments that I don’t realize it’s late. I have to re-read things so many times to understand them... And by the time I try to sleep, my brain won’t stop. It’s like I can’t turn it off.”

Your dad’s face softens with sympathy. “I’m sorry you’ve been struggling, sweetie. I know you want to do well, and I’m proud of you for trying so hard... But if it’s hurting you too much, you need to tell us.”

His words are kind, and you feel a familiar warmth in your chest—the love he’s always shown you, the softness he offers that’s so different from your mom’s tough exterior. But as much as you love him, there’s a bitter part of you that recoils. You look at him, the man who’s always been gentle, but too passive. The man who never stood up to your mom when it mattered most.

“I told you from the start, Dad... I’m not naturally smart in this,” you whisper, avoiding his gaze as the resentment begins to rise, unspoken but heavy between you.

There’s a silence. He sighs, leaning forward slightly, his shoulders slumping. “I know, baby, I know. But your mom and I— we just want the best for you,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. He knows it too. He glances at you, but your eyes are distant. “But this isn’t about the major anymore. It’s about your health now. No matter what you study, you push yourself hard, but I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

You want to lash out, to say what’s been building inside you for so long, but instead, you just press your lips together tightly. “I can take care of myself, Dad. I’m twenty now. Being sleep deprived is normal for students. No one else at my university goes to a nutritionist to monitor their deficiencies or sleep schedules.”

His eyes narrow slightly in concern. “But not everyone at your university had a near-death experience before they got there.”

The air between you freezes. His words are soft, but they cut deep, bringing you back to a time you’ve tried to forget.

Two years ago, just as you were about to graduate high school, you had a fever—what seemed like a minor illness at first. But it grew worse. Your body ached, and soon you couldn’t move without help. Eating became impossible, even speaking was difficult. One night, everything escalated. You had a seizure, and your parents rushed you to the hospital. That night, you were diagnosed with stress-induced encephalopathy. You remember the doctor explaining how many factors has damaged your brain function, and how long-term treatments was the only option. Those months were a blur—nights spent in the hospital, your body so weak you couldn’t stand without assistance. Your dad was by your side every day, never leaving. And when you finally recovered, your parents vowed to never let your health slip again.

It was why your mom had pushed for the nutritionist, why she had insisted on watching every aspect of your life, as if by controlling it she could shield you from ever coming that close to death again. But you hated it. You hated how they controlled every part of you after that. Most of all, you hated how your dad—your kind, gentle dad—just stood by and let it happen.

“You know your mother and I are just trying to keep you safe,” he says quietly, but you can hear the unspoken tension in his voice. He never pushes back, never challenges her decisions.

You stare out the window, the memories stirring something painful inside you. “I can’t live my life like this forever, Dad,” you whisper, the weight of two years of silent frustration pressing on your chest. “I survived. But I’m not fragile.”

Your dad says nothing for a long moment. He just looks at you, his eyes soft, but filled with something you can’t quite place—regret, maybe. Or guilt. Maybe both.

“I know, sweetie. I know.” His voice breaks slightly, and he reaches across the table, placing his hand gently on yours. “But we love you. And I—” he hesitates, his grip tightening just a little. “I just don’t want to see you go through that again.”

You want to believe him, but the memory of him sitting silent as your mom dictated your future flashes in your mind, and you pull your hand away gently. “Then don’t let it happen again,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

The tension hangs in the air as your ramen arrives, and the conversation shifts, but the unspoken words linger between you—both of you feeling the weight of what’s been left unsaid for too long.

sorry i woke up and chose the drama 🤧 i’m running out of plot development so i’ll give you guys some angst 🥹