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P.S.: tumblr pmo and I didn't wanna make this a 2 parter so a chunk is gone but hope it still makes sense :P
---------------------------------
Keisuke Baji never used your front door.
You told him to. Repeatedly.
You told him your mother was going to have a heart attack one day if she walked into your room and found some six-foot delinquent folded awkwardly halfway through your window like a stray cat with commitment issues.
He always looked at you like you were being dramatic.
“First of all,” he said once, one leg hooked over your windowsill, hair slipping loose from its tie, “I’m not six feet.”
“That’s the part you’re focusing on?”
“Second of all, your mom loves me.”
“My mom thinks you’re a bad influence.”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning as he dropped down onto your floor with a soft thud. “Lovingly.”
You hated that he was kind of right.
Your mother did like him, despite herself. Despite the bruised knuckles. Despite the scuffed shoes left messily by the window. Despite the motorcycle rumbling too loudly outside your building at hours where decent people were supposed to be asleep.
Maybe because Baji was hard not to like when he wanted to be.
He was all sharp teeth and sharper elbows to most people, too loud, too reckless, too quick to swing first and ask questions never. But in your room, under the soft yellow light of your desk lamp, he became something else.
Still loud and definitely still annoying.
Still completely incapable of sitting in a chair like a normal person.
But softer around the edges.
He would sprawl across your bed like he owned it, school uniform wrinkled, hair fanned messily over your pillow. He would complain about being hungry even after eating half the snacks you kept hidden in your drawer specifically because he always did this. He would steal your blanket, kick your homework with his foot, and then have the audacity to ask why you were looking at him like that.
Like what? he’d ask.
Like you’re impossible, you’d say.
And he’d grin. Like it pleased him. Like being impossible to you was different from being impossible to everyone else.
Tonight was no different.
Rain tapped faintly against the glass, soft and steady, blurring the city lights into little trembling streaks of color. Your textbook lay open in front of you, untouched for the past twenty minutes because Baji had decided your lap was a suitable place to rest his head.
“You’re heavy,” you muttered.
He made a low, offended sound without opening his eyes. “Shut up.”
“I have homework.”
“Do it.”
“You’re on my notebook.”
“Skill issue.”
You looked down at him.
His lashes rested dark against his cheeks. There was a small cut near his eyebrow, already scabbed over, and a bruise darkening along his jaw. He smelled faintly like rain, motor oil, and the mint gum he chewed when he was pretending he wasn’t tired.
Your fingers moved before you thought about it.
You brushed a loose strand of hair away from his face.
His eyes opened.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Baji looked at you from your lap with a kind of quiet that still surprised you sometimes. Like something in him had gone still just because your hand was near his face.
Then he caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to keep you there.
“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.”
“That’s convincing.”
He rolled his eyes, but his thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist. Back and forth.
Barely there.
You hated how much that tiny motion could do to you.
Outside, a car passed through the wet street below, tires hissing against pavement. Somewhere in the apartment, your mother turned on the sink. The pipes groaned faintly in the walls.
Normal sounds. A normal night.
Baji’s gaze drifted toward the window, toward the rainy blur beyond it.
“Toman meeting tomorrow,” he said.
You hummed. “I know.”
“You know?”
“You told me yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“And the day before.”
He frowned. “Did I?”
“You also told me Mikey ate all of Draken’s food and then acted like Draken was being unreasonable for getting mad.”
At that, Baji’s mouth twitched.
“That was funny.”
“It was stupid.”
“Those can be the same thing.”
You tried not to smile.
Failed.
He noticed, of course. He always noticed when he got you to crack.
“There it is,” he said.
“What?”
“That face.”
“I have one face.”
“Nah.” He sat up just enough to lean closer, his hand still around your wrist. “You have the face you make when you think I’m annoying.”
“That’s most of them.”
“And then you have this one.”
You swallowed.
His voice had changed a little. Not much. Just enough.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
“What one?” you asked.
Baji looked at you for a long moment, rainlight caught in the dark of his eyes.
“The one where you’re happy I’m here.”
Your heart did something stupid.
You looked away first, because one of you had to.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said easily.
Then, softer:
“You are, though.”
Your throat tightened in that strange, embarrassing way it sometimes did around him. Not because you were sad. Not exactly.
Because you were known. That was the thing about Baji.
He missed homework deadlines. Forgot appointments. Lost pencils. Got into fights over insults he only half-heard and then refused to explain why his hands were split open after.
But he remembered you.
He remembered which vending machine drink you liked even though you changed favorites every few months. He remembered that you hated being asked if you were okay in front of other people. He remembered that when you got quiet, it usually meant you wanted someone to stay, not leave.
And when he looked at you, really looked, it felt like he was cutting through every performance you had ever learned how to put on.
You pulled your wrist gently from his hand.
“Do your homework,” you said.
“I’m not in school mode.”
“You are never in school mode.”
“Exactly. So why start now?”
You shoved his shoulder. He caught himself before falling off the bed, laughing under his breath, and the sound warmed the room more than the lamp ever could.
You wanted, suddenly and painfully, for things to stay like this.
The rain. The messy bed. His hair tie abandoned on your floor. His hand knocking against yours like it belonged there.
You wanted to keep him here, in this version of the world where nothing had gone wrong yet.
Where Toman was still just something he came back from.
Where meetings ended and fights healed and Baji climbed through your window afterward with bruised knuckles and a grin, acting like your room was the safest place in Tokyo.
“Hey,” he said.
You blinked.
He was watching you again, expression less playful now.
“You okay?”
You almost laughed.
Of course he noticed.
“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”
He studied you for another second, like he didn’t fully believe you, then leaned forward and bumped his forehead against your shoulder.
It was clumsy. Too hard to be graceful. Very Baji.
But he stayed there. You let your cheek rest against the top of his head.
His hair was still damp from the rain.
“You smell like outside,” you murmured.
“You smell like homework.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Smells bad.”
You pinched his arm.
He laughed again, then shifted until his face was half-hidden against your shoulder.
His voice came quieter.
“I’ll walk you home tomorrow.”
“I’ll already be home.”
“Then I’ll walk you somewhere else and back.”
“That’s pointless.”
“Yeah.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His hand found yours on the blanket. No drama. No announcement. Just his fingers sliding between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he had done it a hundred times before and would do it a hundred more.
You squeezed once. He squeezed back.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
You didn’t know then that one day, you would replay that exact moment until it hurt.
His wet hair against your shoulder.
His hand in yours.
The stupid warmth of him.
You didn’t know there would come a time when he would stand in front of you and refuse to touch you at all.
You didn’t know that love could become a room you kept returning to long after the door had been locked.
Back then, Baji still looked at you like he had no reason to leave.
Back then, you believed him.
-----
The first sign that something was wrong was not dramatic.
That was the worst part.
There was no explosion. No screaming match. No slammed door. No single moment you could point to later and say, There. That was where it began.
It started quietly.
A missed call.
Then another.
Then a message left unread for four hours.
You stared at your phone during lunch, thumb hovering over his contact, watching the screen dim and brighten and dim again.
Across from you, one of your friends was telling a story about a teacher crying during class because someone released a beetle into the faculty room.
You smiled at the right parts.
Laughed when everyone else laughed.
Your phone stayed silent in your lap.
Baji was bad at texting, sure. He always had been.
But he was bad at texting in a specific way.
He sent nonsense. Blurry photos. Half-finished insults. Messages at three in the morning that just said, u awake? followed by never mind if you didn’t answer within thirty seconds, followed by answer coward, followed by I’m outside.
He did not leave you on read.
Not like this.
You told yourself he was busy.
Toman had been tense lately. Even you could feel it from the edges, in the way conversations died when you walked too close, in the way Chifuyu’s smile looked strained, in the way Baji started leaving earlier and coming back later.
Something was happening.
You knew that.
You just thought he would tell you.
Because Baji told you things.
Not always directly. Not always well. But eventually, in pieces, with his head in your lap or his shoulder against yours, he would grumble out the shape of whatever was bothering him.
He always came back.
So when your phone finally buzzed that afternoon, your heart jumped stupidly.
You turned it over too fast.
busy.
That was it.
One word.
No apology. No explanation. No stupid little insult to soften it.
Just:
busy.
You stared at it until the letters stopped looking real.
Then you typed, Okay.
Deleted it.
Typed, Are you alright?
Deleted that too.
Finally, you sent:
Tell me when you’re free?
The message delivered.
It did not read.
You placed your phone facedown on the table and looked back up.
Someone was still talking.
The world had kept moving without your permission.
You hated that.
------
The second sign was Chifuyu.
He found you outside the convenience store two days later, standing under the buzzing white light near the entrance, pretending to decide between two drinks you didn’t want.
“Hey,” he said.
You looked up.
Chifuyu stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed by the wind. There was something careful in his face that immediately made your stomach tighten.
“Hey,” you said. “Have you seen Baji?”
The question came out too quickly.
You heard it.
So did he.
Chifuyu’s expression flickered.
Only for a second.
But you saw it.
“I saw him earlier,” he said.
Earlier.
Not, He’s fine.
Not, He’s with Mikey.
Not, Want me to tell him you’re looking for him?
Earlier.
You adjusted your grip on the drink bottle until the plastic crackled under your fingers.
“Is something going on?”
Chifuyu looked away.
That scared you more than if he had answered.
“Chifuyu.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “You should probably ask Baji-san.”
“I’m trying.”
The bitterness slipped out before you could stop it.
His gaze snapped back to you.
For a moment, he looked guilty.
Not confused.
Guilty.
A cold, slow feeling opened in your chest.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said immediately.
Too immediate.
You almost laughed.
It would’ve sounded ugly, so you didn’t.
“Everyone is really bad at lying lately,” you said.
Chifuyu flinched.
The automatic door slid open beside you, spilling convenience store warmth and a cheerful jingle into the night. A couple stepped out laughing, sharing a plastic bag of snacks. They passed between you and Chifuyu without looking at either of you.
For a second, you envied them so intensely it made you feel sick.
When they were gone, Chifuyu’s face had changed.
Not softened, exactly.
But lowered.
Like someone had switched off part of the light behind his eyes.
“Just…” He swallowed. “Don’t take it personally.”
Your fingers went numb around the bottle.
“What?”
He seemed to realize too late how that sounded.
“I mean, he’s dealing with stuff. It’s not you.”
Not you.
That phrase.
People only said that when they knew it felt exactly like you.
You looked down at your shoes.
There was a dark scuff near the toe from where Baji had accidentally stepped on you last week and then insisted it was your fault for having feet.
The memory hit so suddenly that your eyes burned.
You blinked hard.
“Right,” you said.
Chifuyu said your name quietly.
You hated that too.
The gentleness. The pity.
You looked back up with a smile that felt wrong on your face.
“Tell him I’m looking for him, okay?”
Chifuyu’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell him.”
You both knew, somehow, that he already had.
------
The first time you saw him wearing the Valhalla jacket, you thought, stupidly:
That doesn’t look like him.
Not because it fit wrong. It fit him perfectly. Too perfectly.
The white stretched across his shoulders like it belonged there, black lettering stark against the light. His hair was down, wind-tossed and wild around his face, and there was blood drying near the collar of his shirt that definitely wasn’t his.
People moved around him differently now.
Wider.
More careful.
Like they were waiting for him to explode.
Baji noticed you the second you stepped into the alley behind the arcade.
You saw it happen.
That instant shift in his posture. Tiny. Almost invisible.
But there.
For half a heartbeat, he looked like himself again.
Then it vanished.
“Keisuke,” you said.
The name felt strange in your mouth suddenly.
Around him, a few Valhalla members glanced between the two of you curiously. One of them snorted quietly under his breath.
Baji didn’t look away from you.
“What’re you doing here?”
The words were flat.
Not cruel.
That somehow made them worse.
You stared at him.
Rainwater dripped from a rusted fire escape nearby, tapping steadily against concrete. Somewhere farther down the street, motorcycles roared past loud enough to shake the puddles.
You had spent the entire walk here rehearsing things to say.
None of them survived seeing him like this.
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
The question hit you like a slap.
Not because of the word itself.
Because Baji knew why.
You looked at the boys behind him. One of them was smoking. Another was watching you openly now, interest bright in his expression.
Heat crawled up your neck.
“Can we talk alone?”
Baji’s jaw tightened.
“We’re busy.”
We.
Not Toman. Not Mikey. Not us.
We.
You felt something sharp twist beneath your ribs.
“You haven’t answered me in four days.”
“So?”
The alley went very quiet.
You stared at him.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought distantly: He doesn’t mean this.
But another part of you whispered: Then why is he saying it?
“Baji-san,” one of the Valhalla boys said slowly, “you know her?”
You watched Baji go still.
Just for a second.
Then:
“Not really.”
The world tilted.
You actually thought you misheard him.
Your brain rejected it immediately, the way people reject pain before it fully lands.
Not really.
You knew the shape of Baji’s hands.
You knew the exact sound of his laugh when he was genuinely caught off guard. You knew he hated pickled vegetables and loved terrible horror movies and slept diagonally across the bed like he was trying to occupy as much space as physically possible.
You knew the scar near his shoulder from when he crashed his bike at fourteen.
You knew he tapped his fingers twice against surfaces when he was angry but trying not to show it.
Not really.
“Oh,” you said.
It came out tiny.
Something moved across Baji’s face.
Fast.
Gone before you could name it.
The guy beside him laughed. “Damn. Cold.”
Baji said nothing.
You waited for him to fix it. To grin suddenly and say, Kidding. To shove the guy beside him. To look at you like he always did and make this whole horrible interaction disappear.
He didn’t.
Rainwater continued dripping steadily into a growing puddle beside your shoe.
Your hands felt strange.
Too light.
“Okay,” you said carefully.
Baji looked everywhere except directly at you now.
That hurt too.
Because even this morning, even after days of silence, some pathetic hopeful part of you had believed: Once I see him, it’ll make sense.
Instead you stood in an alley looking at someone wearing Baji’s face and speaking with a stranger’s mouth.
“You joined Valhalla?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Wanted to.”
That answer was worse than no answer.
Because it wasn’t true.
You knew Baji.
Knew the restless energy under his skin. Knew the way he loved Toman with something dangerously close to devotion. Knew how fiercely loyal he was beneath all the recklessness.
This wasn’t random.
Something had happened.
Something bad.
And he was shutting you out of it completely.
“You could’ve told me,” you said.
At that, Baji finally looked at you fully.
There it was again.
That awful almost-expression.
Like guilt trying to crawl its way to the surface.
But then someone behind him lit another cigarette, laughter rose farther down the alley, and the moment disappeared.
“Nothin’ to tell.”
Your throat tightened.
You became suddenly, horribly aware of the audience.
Of the boys watching.
Of how humiliating this was becoming.
Still, you stepped closer anyway.
Because you loved him.
Because some part of you still believed if you got close enough, he’d crack.
“Keisuke,” you said softly. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes flickered.
For one terrible second, you thought he might answer.
Instead, Baji stepped backward.
Away from you.
The movement was small.
It destroyed you anyway.
Something in your face must have changed because his expression tightened immediately afterward, fingers flexing once at his side like he regretted it.
But he didn’t take it back.
Didn’t come closer again.
You wondered if the other boys noticed the way your breathing caught.
If they noticed how carefully you kept your face together afterward.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Baji said.
The lie sat between you, huge and rotting.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then slowly nodded.
“Right,” you whispered.
Nobody spoke.
A motorcycle revved nearby, deafening in the silence.
You realized suddenly that if you stayed here any longer, you were going to cry in front of strangers.
Baji would hate that.
No.
Not Baji.
This version of him.
The one standing in front of you now with his shoulders squared like a wall.
You swallowed hard.
“I should go.”
Baji’s hand twitched.
Again.
Like he almost reached for you without meaning to.
But he just shoved it into his pocket instead.
“Yeah,” he said.
Yeah.
Not:
I’ll call you later.
Not:
Be safe.
Not even:
Sorry.
Just yeah.
You nodded once because you didn’t trust yourself to speak anymore.
Then you turned and walked out of the alley before your dignity could completely disintegrate.
You made it halfway down the block before the tears started.
Not dramatic.
Not sobbing.
Just silent tears sliding hot down your face while neon signs blurred together in the rain.
People passed around you holding umbrellas, laughing, smoking, living entire lives that had nothing to do with yours.
You wiped your cheeks angrily with your sleeve.
Your phone buzzed suddenly in your pocket.
Your heart leapt so violently it hurt.
You grabbed it too fast.
For one humiliating second, hope flooded you.
Baji.
It wasn’t him.
Chifuyu: did you see him?
You stared at the message through blurry vision.
Then typed back:
yeah.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Finally:
i’m sorry.
That hurt almost worse than the alley.
Because Chifuyu knew.
Not the full truth, maybe.
But enough.
Enough to pity you.
You shoved the phone back into your pocket.
Rain soaked slowly through your sleeves as you walked.
You thought about the way Baji stepped away from you.
Like your closeness burned.
You thought about the way he said not really.
You thought about how carefully he avoided your eyes afterward.
And underneath all of it, ugly and persistent and impossible to kill, one thought kept surfacing no matter how hard you shoved it down:
He used to love me.
Didn’t he?
----
Baji’s apartment building looked different this late.
Meaner somehow.
Dark windows stacked endlessly upward. Flickering vending machine light reflecting off wet pavement. Cigarette smoke lingering faintly near the entrance.
You stood across the street for a full minute staring at it.
This was pathetic.
You knew that.
Showing up unannounced after he’d ignored you for days and humiliated you in an alley was deeply, profoundly pathetic.
Still, your feet carried you forward anyway.
The lobby smelled faintly like old carpet and rainwater.
You pressed the elevator button with trembling fingers.
The ride upward felt endless.
You watched the numbers climb slowly while your stomach twisted tighter with every floor.
Maybe he wouldn’t even be here. Maybe he’d ignore the door.
The elevator dinged softly.
You stepped out into the quiet hallway.
Baji’s apartment sat near the end.
You knew that because you’d walked here dozens of times before. Usually with him bumping shoulders against you the entire way because apparently walking normally was beneath him.
Tonight the hallway felt cold.
Your footsteps sounded too loud.
You stopped outside his door.
Stared at it.
The light beneath it was on.
Your heart lurched.
He was home.
You should leave.
That thought arrived immediately and with surprising force.
Because suddenly this felt real.
Not messages. Not rumors. Not Chifuyu’s careful eyes.
Real.
Your hand hovered near the door.
Then slowly curled into a fist.
Three knocks.
Silence.
You waited.
Nothing.
Maybe he wasn’t-
Footsteps.
Your breath caught instantly.
Slow. Heavy.
Then the lock clicked.
The door opened halfway.
And there he was.
Baji looked tired.
Not physically. Not just that. Something deeper.
His hair hung loose around his face, still damp at the ends. There was a fresh bruise near his throat and another split across his knuckles. A white Valhalla jacket hung open over a plain black shirt.
For one awful moment, seeing him made relief flood your body so hard it almost hurt.
Then his expression settled into something guarded.
The feeling vanished.
“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.
Not angry.
That almost made it worse.
You swallowed.
“I wanted to see you.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You saw me earlier.”
The alley flashed violently through your mind.
Not really.
You forced yourself to stay standing.
“Can I come in?”
Baji looked at you for a long moment.
Then stepped back automatically.
Your chest tightened at the familiarity of the gesture.
You stepped inside before he could change his mind.
The apartment smelled like smoke, rain, and instant ramen.
Very Baji.
Normally that would’ve comforted you.
Tonight it just made your throat ache.
The room was messy in the way his spaces always were. Jacket tossed over a chair. Manga stacked unevenly near the couch. Half-empty drink cans abandoned on the counter.
Signs of him everywhere.
And somehow you had never felt less welcome around him in your life.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Neither of you spoke.
You heard Baji move farther into the apartment instead of staying near you.
Distance.
Always distance now.
You turned slowly.
He leaned against the kitchen counter with crossed arms, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face.
Like looking directly at you cost him something.
The realization made your stomach twist.
“You scared me,” you said finally.
Baji’s expression flickered.
“You’re not answering me,” you continued softly. “You joined Valhalla out of nowhere. Chifuyu looks miserable. You’re…” Your voice thinned slightly. “You’re acting like you hate me.”
“I never said that.”
The response came too fast.
Too sharp.
Your heart cracked a little anyway.
Because he hadn’t denied the rest.
-----
Silence settled between you after that.
Heavy.
Breathing thing.
The refrigerator hummed softly from somewhere behind Baji. Rainwater slid slowly down the balcony glass. Outside, tires hissed against wet streets far below, Tokyo continuing on like your world wasn’t quietly collapsing inside this apartment.
Baji uncrossed his arms.
Crossed them again.
You noticed immediately. Restless. Agitated. Like he wanted to leave his own skin.
Your throat ached.
You looked around the apartment instead because looking directly at him was becoming unbearable.
There were traces of you here still.
Your shampoo in his shower. Instant noodles you liked stacked beside the microwave because he kept forgetting which flavor was yours and eventually just started buying all of them.
Evidence. Proof.
You wondered if he noticed them too.
Or if he had already started separating himself from you long before you realized it.
“You could’ve told me,” you whispered again.
Baji exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Told you what?”
The question snapped something inside you.
You laughed once.
Small.
Disbelieving.
“Seriously?”
He looked away immediately.
There it was again.
That guilt.
That horrible, flickering guilt.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself.
“Something is happening,” you said. “And maybe you can lie to Mikey, or Chifuyu, or whoever else, but don’t do this to me too.”
Baji’s shoulders went rigid.
“You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it!”
The sudden volume startled both of you.
Your voice cracked harshly through the apartment before dissolving into silence again.
Baji stared at you. You stared back harder.
Because underneath the fear and confusion and hurt, something uglier had started growing now.
Humiliation. You felt humiliated.
By the alley. By the silence. By the fact you were standing here begging for scraps of honesty from someone who once looked at you like you hung the moon over Tokyo yourself.
Baji dragged a hand through his hair roughly.
“I can’t explain it.”
“You mean you won’t.”
His expression darkened instantly.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Push this.”
You blinked.
The words landed strangely.
Not threatening exactly.
Desperate.
Like he was trying to stop something before it broke apart completely.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Why?” you asked softly.
Baji looked exhausted suddenly.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Just exhausted.
He rubbed at his face with one hand, eyes squeezed shut for a brief second before looking at you again.
“You should go home.”
The sentence hit harder than yelling would have.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No,” you said quietly. “No, actually, I don’t think I did.”
Baji’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“You being here right now is a bad idea.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Keisuke.”
“I said go home.”
You felt something inside yourself begin to shake loose.
Not dramatic heartbreak.
Not cinematic devastation.
Something smaller.
Worse.
Like realizing you’ve been standing outside in the cold for hours and only just noticing you can’t feel your hands anymore.
“I keep trying to make this make sense because I know you.” Your throat tightened around the words. “I know you, Keisuke. You’re reckless and insane and impossible sometimes, but you’re not cruel.”
Baji flinched. Tiny. Visible.
You stepped closer again.
“So I keep thinking there’s some explanation,” you whispered. “Something big enough to justify this. Because the alternative is…”
You broke off.
Because the alternative was standing right in front of you.
Baji hurting you on purpose.
The apartment felt too warm suddenly. You became painfully aware of your own heartbeat. Baji pushed himself off the counter abruptly.
“Stop.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“Why are you acting like this?” you asked.
Baji moved past you toward the window instead of answering, hands shoving roughly into his pockets. Distance again. Always creating distance.
Rain-speckled city lights reflected across the glass in fractured streaks of red and gold.
You watched his reflection instead of his face.
“You used to tell me everything,” you said.
Baji laughed once under his breath.
It sounded awful.
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I really didn’t.”
“You told me things that mattered.”
At that, silence swallowed the room whole.
Because you both knew what you meant.
Not gang fights. Not stupid stories. Not surface-level things.
The real things.
The nights he admitted he was scared of losing Toman someday.
The rare moments where his anger dropped away completely and he confessed things quietly into your shoulder like it physically hurt him to let them exist out loud.
You had held all those pieces carefully.
Like they were fragile.
Like he was.
Baji’s reflection shifted slightly in the glass.
“You shouldn’t wait for me anymore,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
His shoulders tightened beneath the Valhalla jacket.
“When I don’t answer,” he continued, voice low and controlled in that way people spoke when they were barely holding themselves together, “stop waiting up.”
You stared at him.
Your ears rang suddenly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious.”
“Why would you even say that?”
Baji finally turned around.
And for one terrible second, you saw it.
Pain.
Raw and flashing and immediate before he buried it again.
Because despite everything, despite the silence and distance and coldness, Baji looked wrecked too.
That almost made it harder.
“I’m not good at this,” he said roughly.
“At what?”
“This.”
His hand moved vaguely between the two of you.
Your relationship.
Love.
Whatever remained of it.
Something inside your chest cracked quietly.
“Since when?”
Baji looked at you for a long moment.
Then away.
“That’s the problem,” he muttered.
Your eyes burned instantly.
Because that sounded horrifyingly close to regret.
You shook your head hard.
“No.”
Baji frowned slightly.
“No what?”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“You don’t get to act like this thing between us was some mistake you suddenly realized you didn’t want.”
Baji’s expression changed immediately.
Sharp.
Pained.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The words trembled coming out.
You hated that.
Hated how fragile you sounded now.
Baji looked like he wanted to say something.
Didn’t.
You wondered how many unsaid things were rotting inside him lately.
“You’re standing right here,” tears finally burning over despite your best efforts, “and I somehow miss you.”
Baji closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Like the words physically hurt.
Your voice broke completely after that.
“How can you see my standing here crying,” you asked quietly, “and not do anything?”
Baji’s eyes snapped open instantly.
You regretted the question the second it left your mouth.
Not because it wasn’t true. Because it was.
The apartment went deathly still.
Baji stared at you like he’d stopped breathing.
And slowly, so slowly you almost thought you imagined it, his hand twitched at his side.
Toward you.
Instinct. Muscle memory. Love.
Then he stopped himself.
Your heart shattered so cleanly you almost felt calm afterward.
Because there it was.
The answer.
You saw it happen in real time:
the impulse to comfort you.
The choice not to.
Baji noticed your expression immediately afterward.
Something awful crossed his face.
Your eyes filled completely.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Not dramatic. Not angry. Just devastated.
Baji took a step forward finally.
You stepped back on instinct.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved.
Baji looked stricken.
You looked away first.
Because if you kept staring at him, at the guilt written all over his face, you were going to completely fall apart.
You laughed shakily instead.
A small, broken sound.
“That’s crazy,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “That’s actually crazy.”
Baji’s brows pulled together immediately. “What is?”
“You almost did it.”
His expression flickered.
“You almost comforted me.” Your throat tightened harder with every word. “And then you stopped yourself like-”
You cut yourself off violently.
Like I was something dangerous. Like I was someone you shouldn’t want anymore.
Baji took another step toward you.
Slow.
Careful.
“Don’t,” you said immediately.
He froze.
The apartment suddenly felt unbearably small. Too warm. Too close. You could hear both of your breathing now, uneven in the silence.
You wiped angrily at your face before the tears could fully fall.
“I think,” you said shakily, “I think I would’ve rather had you scream at me.”
Baji stared.
“What?”
“At least then it would make sense.” Your voice cracked again. “At least then I could tell myself you stopped loving me.”
His entire face twisted instantly.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true.”
The answer came so fast it almost sounded panicked.
Your chest hurt.
“Then what is true?” you asked quietly.
Baji opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
That hurt more than anything else tonight.
Because you could see it happening in real time:
him wanting to tell you.
Wanting to explain.
Wanting to fix whatever this was.
And choosing not to.
Again.
Always choosing not to.
You nodded slowly.
“There it is.”
Baji’s jaw tightened. “There what is?”
“The part where you leave me alone in this.” Tears blurred your vision completely now. “You keep acting like I’m supposed to understand something without actually letting me understand it.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
The words slipped out too fast.
Both of you froze.
Your heartbeat stopped.
Baji looked like he wanted to rip the sentence back out of the air.
Your voice came out barely audible.
“From what?”
Silence.
Again.
Again.
Always silence.
Something inside you finally broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just completely.
You looked at him standing there in his Valhalla jacket, eyes exhausted and guilty and distant all at once, and suddenly you couldn’t recognize the boy who used to climb through your bedroom window anymore.
That realization hollowed you out.
“You know,” you whispered, “I kept thinking if I was patient enough, you’d come back.”
Baji looked sick.
“I thought maybe you were scared, or angry, or hurting or-” You laughed weakly through the tears. “I don’t know. Something. Something fixable.”
You swallowed hard.
“But this doesn’t feel fixable anymore.”
Baji’s breathing turned uneven.
“Don’t,” he said roughly.
You shook your head.
“No, because I need you to hear me.”
His eyes squeezed shut briefly.
Like he already knew this was going to hurt.
“You used to look at me like…” Your voice cracked badly enough that you had to stop for a second. “Like I was your favorite thing in the world.”
Baji looked away immediately.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
“And now I feel like I’m embarrassing you just by standing next to you.”
“That’s not-”
“You stepped away from me.”
The sentence landed hard between you.
Baji went completely still.
“In the alley,” you whispered. “you pretended like you didn't even know who I was.”
His throat bobbed visibly.
You laughed again, quieter this time.
“I’ve been trying so hard not to make this harder for you,” you admitted. “I keep telling myself there’s some reason for all this, because I know you. I know you, Keisuke.” Tears slipped hot down your cheeks. “But I don’t know how much longer I can keep loving someone who makes me feel this unwanted.”
Baji looked shattered.
Not angry. Not defensive. Shattered.
For one dangerous second, hope flared painfully in your chest.
Because he looked like he was about to break. Like he was finally going to tell you everything. His hand twitched toward you again.
“You should go,” he said instead.
The hope died so fast it made you dizzy.
You stared at him. Then slowly nodded.
“Okay.”
Baji’s expression changed immediately.
Like he hadn’t expected you to agree. That almost made you angry.
You moved toward the door on shaky legs.
Behind you, Baji didn’t move. Didn’t stop you.
The realization settled into your chest like something freezing. You slipped your shoes on without looking up. Then finally turned toward him one last time.
Baji stood exactly where you left him near the window, shoulders tense beneath black fabric, eyes fixed on you with an expression so miserable it almost didn’t look human.
You wondered suddenly if he was waiting for you to save him from this. The thought made your chest ache. Because you would have.
A month ago, you would have crossed the room without hesitation.
You would have held his face and told him whatever nightmare he’d trapped himself in didn’t matter more than the two of you.
Now you weren’t sure he’d let you.
Your hand wrapped around the doorknob.
“Keisuke.”
His eyes lifted instantly.
You swallowed hard.
“When this is over,” you asked quietly, “are you even gonna come back?”
The question visibly wrecked him.
His mouth parted.
Closed.
And somehow that silence was answer enough.
Your vision blurred completely. You opened the door before he could see you break.
-----
The rain had started again by the time you reached the street.
Not heavy.
Thin. Cold. Persistent.
Tokyo glowed around you in smeared neon colors, headlights streaking across wet pavement while strangers hurried past beneath umbrellas.
You stopped near the edge of the building instead of leaving completely.
You weren’t sure why.
Maybe because some pathetic part of you still thought: He’ll come after me.
You stood there in the rain for five full minutes.
Then ten.
Water soaked slowly through your sleeves and into your hair.
Your fingers went numb.
Still, you waited. Because Baji had always come after you before.
After arguments. After misunderstandings. After every stupid fight where both of you were too stubborn to apologize first.
He always came back.
You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes hard enough to hurt.
Please, you thought. Please.
The apartment building doors finally opened behind you.
Your heart leapt violently.
You turned too fast.
Baji stood there.
Rain caught immediately in his dark hair, dampening the shoulders of his jacket as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
For one awful second, relief flooded your entire body.
He came.
He came after you.
Baji stopped a few feet away.
Breathing hard.
Like he’d run downstairs.
Neither of you spoke.
Cars hissed through puddles nearby. Somewhere farther down the block, someone laughed loudly before disappearing into the rain.
The city kept moving.
Your world didn’t.
Baji looked at you like he was memorizing you.
That hurt immediately.
Because people memorized things when they thought they were about to lose them.
You wiped your face angrily.
“Why did you come down here?”
Baji swallowed.
“I couldn’t let you walk home crying.”
Your breath caught painfully.
Because that sounded like him.
The real him.
Not the stranger from the alley. Not the cold version from upstairs.
Keisuke.
The boy who walked on the outside of sidewalks without thinking about it. The boy who held your wrist crossing streets. The boy who once rode across half of Tokyo at two in the morning because you texted him that you “felt weird.”
Your chest cracked open all over again.
“Then why,” you whispered, voice trembling violently now, “are you treating me like someone you never loved?”
Silence.
Baji froze completely.
Rain slid down his face slowly, catching in his lashes. His expression crumpled with something so raw it almost made you take the words back immediately.
Almost.
Because you meant them.
Every single one.
“You don’t touch me anymore,” you whispered. “You don’t talk to me. You look at me like it hurts. I don’t-” Your voice broke entirely. “I don’t understand what happened.”
Baji looked devastated.
Not annoyed. Not angry. Devastated.
His breathing turned rough.
His hand flexed once at his side.
Then again.
Like he was fighting himself.
You waited.
Because this was it.
This was the moment.
Either he finally told you the truth or he let you lose him.
Baji’s eyes filled suddenly with something dangerously close to panic.
He took one step toward you.
Stopped.
You saw the exact moment he almost chose you.
Then something shuttered behind his eyes.
Slowly, horribly, Baji stepped back instead.
Your stomach dropped.
“No,” you whispered immediately.
Baji looked wrecked.
Rainwater dripped from his hair onto the pavement between you.
“Keisuke-”
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out shredded.
Your heart cracked straight down the middle.
Baji looked at you one last time. Like he was trying to memorize the damage. Then he turned around. And walked away. Not fast.
That was the worst part.
You stood frozen in the rain watching him disappear back toward the apartment building.
Waiting for him to stop. To turn around. To come back.
He didn’t.
The doors shut behind him softly. And suddenly you were alone.
A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
You covered your mouth immediately afterward like that might somehow shove the grief back inside you. It didn’t.
Rain soaked through your clothes slowly while tears blurred the city into streaks of color and light.
You thought: He loved me.
You knew he did. That was what made this unbearable.
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P.S: I wrote this at like 3 AM so if it doesn’t make any sense oh well, and yes there will be a part 3
-----
You move first.
You don’t think about it. Thinking would mean staying.
Thinking would mean acknowledging the way his eyes have widened, the way his breath caught like he’s just surfaced from deep water.
Thinking would mean hearing your name when he finally says it.
So you don’t.
You turn and walk.
At first it’s slow. Controlled. Just another guest quietly leaving after the ceremony.
No one stops you. No one notices.
They’re too busy clapping. Too busy smiling. Too busy congratulating the newly married couple standing at the front of the pavilion.
But every step feels heavier than the last.
Because you know what’s happening behind you.
You know the exact moment his mind finishes catching up. You know the exact moment everything falls into place.
The kitchen. The couch. The snow. The nights he stayed because he didn’t want to go home.
You reach the end of the aisle.
The applause fades slightly behind you as guests begin shifting in their seats.
Someone laughs. Someone says something about the reception.
You push through the exit doors before your chest can tighten any further.
Cold air hits your face immediately.
The sky is still gray, clouds heavy above the estate.
Your vision blurs. You don’t realize you’re crying until the wind stings your eyes.
“…Of course,” you whisper hoarsely.
Because of course he remembers now.
Of course the universe waited until the one moment it would hurt the most.
Your shoes crunch softly against the gravel as you cross the driveway.
Cars line the circular path.
Your car is parked near the far end.
You walk faster. You don’t look back. You can’t.
Because if you turn around and he’s there-
No.
Don’t think about that.
Your hand is shaking slightly when you reach your car door. You fumble with the handle.
Get in. Start the car. Leave.
That’s the plan. Simple. Clean.
You slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door harder than you meant to.
Your breathing is uneven now.
Your hands grip the steering wheel.
You close your eyes.
Just for a second. Just long enough to steady yourself.
You did it. You came. You saw. It’s over.
A soft knock on the window makes your heart stop.
You freeze.
Slowly, painfully slowly, you turn your head and see him standing there.
Shoto Todoroki.
Still in his wedding suit. Still wearing the ring.
Your stomach drops.
For a moment neither of you move.
The silence stretches between you.
Then he lifts his hand and knocks again.
Not impatiently. Just… once.
You stare at him.
“…You should go back,” you say through the closed window.
Your voice sounds distant. Like it belongs to someone else.
He doesn’t move. Instead he says something. You can’t hear it.
You shake your head slightly.
“No.”
He says your name.
You see it clearly on his lips.
Your chest caves inward. You look away.
Because that’s the problem. He remembers.
And that changes everything and nothing at all.
You start the car, the engine turns over with a low rumble.
Shoto’s hand presses against the glass.
“Wait.”
You hear that one. Barely.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
Then you pull away.
The tires crunch against gravel as the car rolls forward.
You don’t look back. Not even when the estate disappears behind the tall gates. Not even when the road curves out of sight.
-----
You don’t remember deciding where to go.
Your hands move automatically on the steering wheel.
Left. Right. The familiar turns come without thinking.
Which is why it takes you a few minutes to realize where you’re heading.
Your chest tightens slightly.
“…Seriously?” you murmur.
Because of course it’s here.
The ocean appears slowly between breaks in the trees. Gray water stretching endlessly beneath the cloudy sky.
You pull into the small parking lot overlooking the beach. The same one.
You haven’t been here in months. Maybe longer.
Your car rolls to a stop. The engine shuts off.
Silence settles around you.
For a moment you just sit there.
Then you step out, cold wind rushes toward you immediately, carrying the sharp scent of saltwater.
The waves crash steadily against the shore below.
You walk down the narrow path without thinking.
The sand is damp beneath your shoes.
The tide is low.
Everything looks exactly the same and completely different.
Because the last time you stood here Shoto had been beside you.
You remember it clearly.
It had been late. Nearly midnight.
The city lights glowing faintly in the distance.
He’d been unusually quiet that night.
Staring out at the ocean like he was trying to solve something.
“Bad patrol?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Family stuff?”
A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah.”
You leaned your shoulder against his.
“They’re idiots.”
He glanced at you.
“…You’ve never met them.”
“Don’t need to.”
That made him huff a quiet laugh.
You remember the sound vividly. Soft. Rare.
“I’m serious,” you continued.
“If they’re making you this miserable, they’re idiots.”
Shoto stared at the ocean again.
For a long time he didn’t say anything. Then he spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“I think I’m done trying to make them happy.”
Your heart skipped.
“You mean that?”
He nodded once.
“Yeah.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
The memory fades slowly as the present settles back in.
The ocean stretches endlessly in front of you.
You wrap your arms around yourself. Your chest aches. Because this place used to feel safe. Now it just feels empty.
Footsteps crunch softly behind you.
Your eyes close.
“…You always did hate giving up.”
You don’t turn around.
The voice is deeper than you remember. Rougher, but unmistakable.
Shoto.
The wind lifts your hair slightly as he steps closer.
“You drove fast,” he says quietly.
“You followed me.”
“I needed to talk to you.”
You laugh once. It’s not a happy sound.
“You probably shouldn’t be doing that.”
Silence falls again.
The waves crash steadily against the shore.
Then he says your name. Not uncertainly. Not confused.
Just… your name.
Your throat tightens.
You turn slowly. He’s standing a few feet away. Suit slightly disheveled. Hair messy from the wind.
And his eyes-
His eyes are completely different.
Not cold. Not distant. Just overwhelmed.
Your gaze drops automatically to the ring on his finger.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say softly.
He follows your gaze. His hand curls slightly.
“I remember,” he says.
You nod.
“I figured.”
“I didn’t at first.”
You look back up.
“What do you mean?”
His brow furrows.
“It was… fragments.”
“Fragments?”
“Little things.”
His voice is quiet. Careful.
“The kitchen.”
Your breath catches.
“The couch.”
Your fingers curl slightly into your sleeves.
“The snow.”
He swallows.
“And you.”
The wind rushes between you.
Your heart is beating too fast.
“Shoto-”
“I loved you.”
The words land softly but they feel like an earthquake. He looks at you like he’s still trying to understand the sentence himself.
“I know I did.”
Your vision blurs again.
You nod slowly.
“…Yeah.”
Your voice is barely there.
“You did.”
Silence stretches between you.
The ocean moves endlessly behind you.
Shoto takes a step closer.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You blink.
“What?”
“After the hospital.”
His voice tightens slightly.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Your chest aches.
“I did.”
His expression falters.
“What?”
“I tried.”
The words feel heavier than they should.
“They wouldn’t let me see you.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Understanding flickers across his face slowly.
Your gaze drops again.
“They said it would be better for your recovery.”
Your laugh is quiet.
“They said you needed a clean slate.”
Shoto’s jaw tightens.
“They told me you stopped contacting me.”
You shake your head.
“I didn’t.”
“I would never-”
“I know.”
Your voice cracks slightly.
“I know you wouldn’t.”
The wind rushes across the water. Shoto runs a hand through his hair.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” you agree softly. “It doesn’t.”
He looks at you again. Really looks. Like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
“I keep remembering things,” he says quietly.
“Little moments.”
Your chest tightens.
“The way you laugh.”
Your throat burns.
“The way you take your coffee.”
You look away.
“And the way you used to steal my hoodies.”
You laugh weakly.
“They were comfortable.”
“They were mine.”
“Technically.”
His lips twitch slightly. The almost-smile disappears quickly.
“I loved you,” he repeats.
“I know,” you whisper.
He steps closer again.
“Then why are you acting like that doesn’t matter?”
You finally meet his eyes.
“Because it doesn’t.”
Confusion flashes across his face.
“How can you say that?”
You gesture vaguely behind him.
“Because you’re married, Shoto.”
The words hang heavily in the air. His expression shifts. Your gaze drops to the ring again. The metal catches the gray light.
“You’re not supposed to be here with me,” you continue softly.
“You’re supposed to be back there.”
“Why?”
You blink.
“What?”
“Why am I supposed to be there?”
You stare at him.
“Are you serious?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You just got married.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
Frustration flickers across his expression.
“You’re the one who left.”
You laugh again.
“Of course I did. What did you expect me to do?”
He responds without hesitation, “Stay.”
“Stay?” Your voice rises slightly. “And watch the rest of it?”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“But you do now.”
Silence crashes down between you. The wind pulls at your clothes. Your chest feels too tight.
“You were supposed to be happy today,” you say quietly.
Shoto stares at you.
“That was supposed to be us.” The words slip out before you can stop them. Your throat burns immediately after.
“You remember that night?” you ask softly.
He nods slowly.
“The balcony.” You swallow. “You said if you ever got married it would be because you chose them.”
Shoto’s expression tightens.
“I remember.”
Your voice cracks slightly. “I thought…”
You stop.
“What?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Your chest aches.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”
The wind rushes across the beach again.
Shoto takes another step toward you.
“Come back with me.”
You stare at him.
“…What?”
“Come back.”
“Shoto-”
“I can fix this.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not broken.”
His brow furrows. “You’re unhappy.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
You gesture toward his hand again.
“That.”
The ring glints faintly.
“You made a vow.”
“I didn’t remember you.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re married.”
Frustration flickers across his face. “So I’m just supposed to ignore this?”
Your voice softens. “You’re supposed to honor the life you chose.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“You said ‘I do.’”
His shoulders tense.
“You think that means something?”
“Yes.”
Silence settles heavily between you. The ocean continues moving endlessly.
You take a slow breath. “I can’t be the person who ruins your life.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.”
Your voice is steadier now. “I’d be the other woman.”
“You were never-”
“But I would be now.”
Shoto doesn’t answer. Your chest aches again.
“You deserve to be happy,” he says quietly.
You laugh weakly.
“Funny.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s exactly what I want for you.”
His eyes soften. “But it’s not what I feel.”
Your throat tightens. “You just remembered me.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything.”
“No.”
The word is quiet. Firm.
“You had your chance.”
Shoto stares at you. “I lost my memory.”
“I know.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“I know.”
“Then why-”
“Because life kept moving.” Your voice is barely above the wind now. “You kept moving.... and so did I.” Your eyes meet his. “And we ended up in different places.”
Shoto’s expression cracks slightly.
“I loved you.”
You nod slowly. “I know.”
The ocean crashes against the shore behind you.
He takes one more step closer.
“Do you still-”
You shake your head quickly. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t change anything.”
Silence falls again.
Your chest hurts. Your hands are shaking slightly.
“I’m glad you remembered,” you say softly.
His brow furrows.
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because now I know it was real.”
He looks confused.
“What?”
“You remembered.”
Your voice trembles slightly. “That means it mattered.”
Shoto’s gaze softens.
“It did matter.”
“I know.”
You take a step back. “I should go.”
His eyes widen slightly.
“That’s it?”
You nod. “That’s it.”
He doesn’t move.
“Say something,” he says quietly.
You look at him for a long moment.
Trying to memorize the way the wind moves his hair. The way the ocean reflects in his eyes.
Then you smile slightly. The same small smile you gave him the night on the balcony.
“I know you loved me.”
His breath catches.
“And I loved you too.”
The wind rushes past again.
“But that was a different life.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
You turn.
Your footsteps are quiet against the sand.
Shoto doesn’t follow. He just stands there. Watching.
The distance between you grows slowly.
Then his voice reaches you one last time.
“I love you.”
You stop. Just for a second. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you say softly.
Then you keep walking.
The ocean continues moving behind you. Like nothing in the world has changed. Even though everything has.
Note: i'm in my comeback era, also idk why I always revert to amnesia but just go with it
------
It starts with an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Cream colored.
You know who it’s from before you even turn it over.
You know because no one else would send something this expensive just to say something this cruel.
You stare at it for a long moment on the kitchen counter.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. It wasn't always like this.
Once, there had been the constant hiss of a kettle boiling too fast on the stove. The low crackle of frost spreading across a countertop because someone forgot to turn his quirk down.
Once, there had been another pair of shoes by the door.
Now there’s just the envelope.
You flip it over.
The wax seal is unmistakable. The Todoroki family crest.
Your chest tightens.
“…Of course,” you mutter to the empty apartment.
Because if there’s one thing the Todorokis love, it’s ceremony.
You pick it up. It’s heavier than it should be.
The paper inside must be thick too. Probably handmade. Probably imported. Probably selected by someone whose job is to make sure everything about the Todoroki family looks perfect.
Your thumb slides under the seal.
For a moment, you hesitate.
You could throw it away.
You could burn it.
Hell, if you wanted to be dramatic, you could freeze the entire thing in a block of ice and shove it in the back of the freezer where it would never see the light of day again.
But you don’t.
Because there’s a stupid, stubborn part of your heart that still whispers the same impossible thought.
Maybe it’s not what you think.
Maybe it’s an apology.
Maybe it’s an explanation.
Maybe-
You break the seal.
The paper slides out smoothly. Of course it does.
Even the invitation feels practiced.
Your eyes scan the elegant script. And then stop.
Your breath leaves you in a thin, quiet line.
There it is. Right in the center.
Shoto Todoroki.
Your fingers tighten on the card.
The rest of the line swims for a moment before your eyes finally force themselves to read it.
Requests the honor of your presence at the marriage ceremony of Shoto Todoroki and-
You stop.
You don’t read the other name. You don’t want to.
Instead, your gaze drifts upward again.
Back to his.
Back to the name you used to say like it meant home.
Shoto Todoroki.
Hero. Prodigy. Your boyfriend.
Your-
You swallow hard.
Not anymore. Not for a long time. Not since the accident.
You sink slowly into one of the kitchen chairs, the paper still trembling slightly in your hands.
The words blur.
You blink. You force yourself to keep reading.
The ceremony will be held in three weeks.
Private venue. Close friends. Family.
Your laugh is short and humorless.
“Close friends,” you repeat under your breath.
That’s funny.
Because you haven’t spoken to Shoto Todoroki in almost a year. Not since the hospital. Not since the doctors stood in a sterile white hallway explaining things with careful, clinical voices.
Not since someone said the words memory loss.
You close your eyes and suddenly you’re there again.
The smell of antiseptic. The beep of monitors. His hand lying limp in yours.
You remember the moment he woke up. The moment his eyes opened. You remember the hope that had exploded in your chest so fast it hurt.
“Shoto?” you whispered.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
Then his brow furrowed. And he asked the question that shattered everything.
“…Who are you?”
You squeeze your eyes tighter.
Even now, the memory feels like a punch straight through your ribs.
The doctors had warned you.
Memory regression, trauma response.
Large portions of the past few years gone.
And the worst part?
Without those memories, Shoto had… changed.
Or maybe it’s more accurate to say he’d reverted.
Back to the colder version of himself. Back to the person he’d been before he learned how to laugh in quiet kitchens. Before he learned how to sleep without nightmares. Before he learned how to love you.
You open your eyes again.
The invitation sits in your hands like a blade.
Shoto Todoroki is getting married, to someone who isn't you.
Your gaze finally drifts to the other name, you don’t know her. Of course you don’t.
But the last name tells you everything you need to know. Another powerful hero family. Another perfect alliance.
Political. Strategic. Exactly the kind of thing his father would want.
Your jaw tightens. Because you know Shoto.
Or at least you knew him.
And he used to hate this kind of thing. He hated being treated like a pawn. Hated the idea of being forced into something just because it would look good on a headline.
You remember the night he told you that.
Clear as day.
You’d been sitting on the balcony, legs tangled together under a shared blanket while snow fell softly over the city.
“I’m never doing that,” he said quietly.
“Doing what?” you asked.
“Marrying someone because it benefits my family.”
You nudged his shoulder. “Good.”
He glanced at you then, mismatched eyes soft.
“If I ever get married,” he said, “it’ll be because I chose them.”
Your throat burns.
You stare down at the invitation again. Chosen. Right.
Three weeks.
The location is listed at the bottom, an expensive venue outside the city.
Your fingers trace the printed letters slowly. You should throw it away. You should crumple it up. You should absolutely not go.
Because what kind of masochist willingly sits through the wedding of the person they loved more than anything?
You know the answer; the kind that never got to say goodbye.
Your gaze drifts to the empty space across the kitchen table.
To the chair that used to be his.
You remember mornings where he’d sit there with messy hair, half asleep, staring blankly into a bowl of cereal while you tried to wake up enough to function.
You remember late nights where he’d come home exhausted from patrol and collapse into that chair while you shoved food at him.
You remember the night he left.
Not by choice but because the hospital said he needed somewhere quieter.
Somewhere supervised. His family had taken him.
And once he was back under their roof everything changed.
He stopped answering your messages. Stopped taking your calls.
Eventually someone from the Todoroki estate contacted you.
The message had been polite. Cold. Efficient.
Shoto Todoroki will no longer be maintaining contact.
That was it.
Like the last three years of your life had been a scheduling conflict.
You stare at the invitation again.
Then you stand up abruptly.
Your chair scrapes loudly across the kitchen floor.
“…Fine,” you say to the empty apartment.
Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
“Fine.”
You grab the invitation.
Fold it once. Twice.
Then slide it back into the envelope. Your heart is beating too fast now. Your hands shaking slightly. But the decision settles in your chest with surprising clarity.
If this is the end you’re not going to hear about it secondhand. You’re not going to see pictures online and pretend it doesn’t hurt.
No.
If Shoto Todoroki is going to marry someone else you’re going to be there to see it. Even if it breaks you.
You glance at the envelope one last time. At his name written in careful ink.
And for a brief moment-
Just a moment-
You wonder if he even knows the invitation was sent.
-----
Three weeks pass faster than they should. Too fast for something you’ve been dreading this much.
The morning of the wedding arrives cold and gray, clouds hanging low over the city like the sky itself knows better than to look cheerful today.
You stand in front of your closet for a long time. Too long. Every outfit suddenly feels wrong.
Too bright, too casual, too much like you’re trying.
Eventually you settle on something simple. Dark. Quiet. The kind of thing that lets you disappear into the background if you need to.
You stare at yourself in the mirror after getting dressed.You look… normal.
Which feels strange. Because nothing about today feels normal.
You grab your bag from the counter. The invitation is still inside. You haven’t taken it out since the day it arrived.
Not because you forgot about it. Because you thought about it every day.
The venue is farther outside the city than you expected.
A long drive through quiet roads and carefully maintained estates. Tall gates. Perfect hedges.
The kind of place where everything looks expensive even when it’s trying not to.
You pull into the gravel driveway and immediately feel underdressed.
Luxury cars line the circular drive. Professional heroes. Influential families. People whose names show up in headlines.
Of course they’re here. The Todoroki family doesn’t do small events.
You sit in your car for a moment longer.
Your hands are gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
“…You came all this way,” you mutter to yourself.
Your voice is quieter than usual.
“Don’t chicken out now.”
You step out of the car. The wind is colder than you expected. It brushes against your face as you walk toward the entrance, carrying faint sounds with it; voices, laughter, the distant hum of conversation.
A wedding. People celebrating. Your stomach twists.
At the front gate, a staff member checks invitations.
You hand yours over. They glance at the name on the envelope, then at a clipboard. Their smile tightens slightly. But they step aside.
“Enjoy the ceremony.”
You almost laugh.
Enjoy. Right.
Inside, everything is beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
White flowers line the walkway.
Soft music drifts through the open-air pavilion where rows of chairs face a raised platform at the front.
The altar.
You stop walking, for a moment your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing.
This is really happening.
Shoto Todoroki is getting married here today.
Your chest feels tight. You scan the crowd slowly.
So many faces you recognize from the hero world. Some glance at you in passing, but no one really pays attention.
You’re just another guest. Another seat to fill the audience.
Good.
That’s what you want.
You slip quietly into a chair near the back, the ceremony hasn’t started yet.
Guests are still arriving.
The low murmur of conversation fills the air.
You stare straight ahead. Trying not to think. Trying not to imagine what it will feel like when he walks down that aisle.
But your mind betrays you.
Memories creep in anyway. You remember the first time Shoto stayed over at your apartment.
It hadn’t been planned. He’d just shown up late one night after patrol looking exhausted.
Hair messy. Eyes heavy.
“You should sleep,” you told him.
“I will,” he replied.
And then he sat down on your couch and didn’t move.
You watched him for a minute.
“…You’re not leaving, are you?”
He blinked slowly.
“No.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Great.”
He tilted his head.
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Maybe.”
Another pause.
Then he said quietly, “I didn’t want to go back there tonight.”
You didn’t ask where there was.
You already knew.
Instead you tossed him a blanket.
“Then don’t.”
He looked at you like the idea had never occurred to him before.
You blink back to the present.
The music shifts slightly, someone nearby laughs.
You press your hands together in your lap. Shoto had changed slowly after that night.
Little things at first.
He started showing up more often, started staying longer, started learning the quiet routines of your life.
He learned how you took your coffee. You learned how he liked his food cooked.
He started leaving spare clothes at your place. You started buying groceries for two.
One night, months later, he was standing in your kitchen watching snow fall outside the window.
“You know,” he said.
You looked up from the stove.
“Know what?”
“I haven’t been back there in a while.”
You understood immediately.
His family.
You smiled slightly.
“Good.”
He watched the snow for a moment longer.
Then he said something that made your heart stop.
“I don’t think I’m going to.”
You turned around.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded once.
Your chest filled with something warm and overwhelming.
“Shoto…”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since you met him, he looked… peaceful.
A chair scrapes somewhere nearby, pulling you back to the present.
More guests are sitting down now.
The ceremony is going to start soon.
Your pulse quickens; you know what comes next.
The groom usually arrives first.
You stare at the empty aisle. Trying to prepare yourself. Trying to convince your heart not to react when you see him. But your heart has never been very good at listening.
Movement at the front of the pavilion pulls your attention forward. The music shifts again.
Lower. More formal.
Your breath catches.
Because someone has stepped onto the platform.
Tall. Straight posture. Two-toned hair catching the light.
You know him instantly. Even from this distance. Even after all this time.
Shoto Todoroki.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of your dress.
He looks… the same.
And not the same at all.
His expression is calm. Composed. But there’s something colder in his eyes now. Something distant.
Like the version of him that existed before he learned how to smile in quiet kitchens.
He stands at the altar beside the officiant.
Guests begin to settle into silence.
You can’t look away.
You thought it might be easier seeing him again after so long.
You were wrong.
Because every small detail hits you like a punch. The way he stands. The way his shoulders square slightly when he’s nervous.
The way he glances briefly at the crowd before looking away again.
You know those habits. You know him.
But he doesn’t know you. And the worst part is he never even looks toward the back row. Not once.
------
You tell yourself that’s a good thing.
If he looked at you, if his eyes landed on you even for a second, you’re not sure what you would do. Smile? Leave? Break down in the middle of a room full of pro heroes?
So maybe it’s better this way, better that you’re invisible.
Better that this is just another ceremony to him. Another step in a life that moved forward without you.
The music shifts again.
Softer now. Lighter.
Someone in the front row stands.
Then another.
The ripple spreads through the crowd as everyone rises to their feet.
Your stomach drops.
The bride.
You stand with the rest of them automatically, even though every instinct in your body is screaming to sit back down.
To leave, to run; But your legs stay locked in place.
You stare down at your hands instead of turning around. You don’t want to see her.
You don’t want to know what kind of person he’s chosen- no, not chosen. You swallow hard.
What kind of person was chosen for him.
The music swells as footsteps begin moving slowly down the aisle.
Soft gasps ripple through the guests.
“She looks beautiful,” someone whispers nearby.
Of course she does. That’s how these things work.
Perfect bride. Perfect hero groom. Perfect alliance between two powerful families.
You keep your eyes on the ground as the steps grow closer. Closer.
Then they stop.
You look up before you can stop yourself.
The bride is standing at the front now, beside him.
She really is beautiful.
Elegant white dress. Hair pinned perfectly. A calm smile resting on her face like she’s been preparing for this moment her entire life.
She glances at him.
And Shoto nods politely.
Polite.
The word hits you strangely.
It’s not the kind of look someone gives the love of their life. But maybe you’re imagining that. Maybe you’re seeing things that aren’t there because you want to.
The officiant begins speaking.
You barely hear the words.
Something about union, about families, about honor.
Your mind drifts instead.
Back to the last real conversation you had with him.
Not the hospital. Not the blank look in his eyes when he asked who you were.
Before that.
The night before the accident.
You had been sitting on the couch together, a terrible movie playing in the background.
Shoto had his head resting against your shoulder.
Half asleep.
“You’re not even watching,” you told him.
“I am,” he murmured.
“You’re snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
You snorted.
“Liar.”
He lifted his head slightly, mismatched eyes blinking lazily at you.
“…What?”
“You’re snoring,” you repeated.
“I’m not asleep.”
“You literally drooled on my hoodie.”
That made him pause.
“…I did not.”
You leaned forward slightly and pointed.
“There.”
He touched his lip slowly.
Then looked at the damp spot on your sleeve.
“…Oh.”
You burst out laughing.
The sound startled him at first. then something softer crept into his expression. that quiet, rare smile.
The one that only really appeared when it was just the two of you.
“I guess I did,” he admitted.
You nudged him with your shoulder.
“Disgusting.”
“Sorry.”
But he didn’t move away.
Instead he leaned back against you again.
A comfortable weight.
Warm.
Safe.
You remember thinking, in that moment, that you could stay like that forever.
Your throat tightens painfully as the memory fades.
Because forever ended the next day.
“…Do you, Shoto Todoroki, take-”
The officiant’s voice snaps your attention back to the present.
Your pulse jumps.
The vows.
It’s happening.
You watch him carefully now.
Shoto stands straight, hands folded neatly in front of him.
Calm. Composed. Untouchable.
Exactly the way the media likes to describe him.
Your chest aches.
Because you know what he looked like when he wasn’t like this.
You know the version of him that sat on your kitchen floor at two in the morning eating cold leftovers straight from the container.
You know the version that stared at snowstorms through your window like they were magic.
You know the version that once fell asleep halfway through a conversation and nearly dropped a bowl of ramen on the carpet.
That version of him feels like a ghost now.
“…I do.”
The words hit you harder than you expected.
Short. Simple. Final.
Your heart lurches painfully in your chest.
You stare at him.
Waiting for something. Anything. A flicker of hesitation.
A pause, but there isn’t one.
The officiant turns to the bride.
“And do you-”
You stop listening.
Your vision feels strange. Blurry around the edges.
This is it.
This is the moment.
The moment where every stupid, hopeful part of your heart finally has to accept the truth.
Shoto Todoroki is marrying someone else and he will never remember loving you.
“…I do.”
A soft murmur ripples through the guests.
Your nails dig into your palms.
The officiant smiles.
“Then by the authority vested in me-”
Your breathing feels shallow now. Too fast. Your chest hurts.
“I now pronounce you-”
You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have come. You should leave before-
“-husband and wife.”
The words echo strangely in your ears.
There’s a brief pause. Then the officiant smiles wider.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Applause begins around you.
Shoto turns toward her.
Your stomach twists violently.
You look down.
You don’t want to see that part.
You can’t-
Cheers erupt from the front rows.
You flinch slightly.
It’s done. It’s over.
You let out a slow breath.
Your hands are shaking now.
You need to leave.
You start to move, just slightly.
Just enough to slip out quietly before the crowd starts moving and that’s when it happens.
A strange shift in the noise.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… different.
The applause falters slightly. You glance up instinctively.
And meet his eyes. Across the entire pavilion. Across rows and rows of guests. Across a life that used to belong to both of you.
Shoto Todoroki is staring directly at you. Not through you. Not past you. At you.
Your breath catches, for a moment neither of you move.
The world seems to shrink around that single point of contact.
And then something in his expression changes.
It’s subtle. But you know him well enough to see it instantly.
Confusion. Sharp. Sudden.
His brow furrows slightly.
Like he’s trying to place something.
Trying to grab hold of a memory that keeps slipping out of reach.
Your heart slams violently against your ribs.
No.
No, no, no-
His gaze sharpens and suddenly the distance between you feels dangerously thin.
Recognition flickers across his face.
Not polite curiosity, not vague familiarity. Something deeper. Something real.
Your stomach drops. Because you know that look.
You’ve seen it a hundred times before.
The moment something clicks inside his head.
“…you…”
He breathes the word so quietly you almost don’t catch it.
But you see it.
You see the way his entire body goes still.
You see the way the color drains slightly from his face.
hey... hey... how you doing...?
YES! I am alive, I got extremely sick a couple of months ago and then I had to go back to university. sooo I've just been super busy with classes to really focus on any writing right now but I've got a couple of things cooking
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-> When you return to your hometown for the holidays, you never expect to fall back into the life you left behind, least of all with Manjiro Sano. Some roads, no matter how long you stay away, always lead you back home. And sometimes… back to him.
Word Count: 880
---------
The airport feels colder once you’re inside. Like the warmth from Mikey’s jacket, his arms, his voice, is already fading. Like the sliding doors behind you sealed off the version of you that belonged in his orbit.
You check your bag. You walk through security. You sit at the gate.
Every step feels like your body is moving without your permission.
Your brain says: This is your life now. Get on the plane.
Your heart says: I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you too. Come back.
Your chest tightens painfully. You stare down at your boarding pass until the letters blur.
MANJIRO SANO.
His voice. His breath trembling on your forehead. His arms around you like he wanted to memorize your shape. His whispered, breaking: “Before I ask you to stay.”
But he did ask. Not with words. With everything else.
A shaky breath leaves your lungs. The final boarding call echoes over the speakers. Passengers begin lining up.
You stand. Automatically. You step forward. Automatically.
But halfway to the gate, your foot catches on- nothing. Just air. Just fear. Just realization.
You stop walking. A woman behind you mutters in annoyance. You don’t move aside.
You’re frozen.
Because suddenly, terrifyingly, loudly, the truth breaks open in your chest:
You don’t want to leave.
Not him.
Not this.
Not anymore.
You don’t want a life where you pretend this wasn’t real. Where you pretend he didn’t love you in the most Mikey way possible. Where you pretend you didn’t love him back in every stolen look and trembling breath.
Your hands shake. A tear slips down your cheek.
You whisper into the air, “I can’t go.”
Nobody hears. But you do. And that’s enough. You turn around.
And you run.
Not a dramatic movie run, a messy, panicked, I’m-going-to-miss-my-life run. Your bag bumps against your leg. Your breath catches. People stare.
You don’t care.
You sprint out of the terminal, down the hallway, back through the sliding doors into the cold that feels like home now. You don’t stop running until you reach the pickup lane.
He’s not there. Of course he’s not. He left because you told him to. Your chest heaves.
“Mikey,” you whisper, like your voice might summon him.
It doesn’t. So you pull out your phone. Your fingers shake so badly you almost drop it.
You call him.
One ring. Two rings. Three-
He answers.
“…Hello?” His voice is soft. Tired. Broken in a way he tried so hard to hide from you.
Your breath trembles. Two words sit on your tongue. The only ones that matter.
“I’m here.”
Silence.
Then-
“…Where?” He sounds breathless. Like he’s scared this is a dream.
“Airport,” you choke out. “I- I didn’t get on the plane. I couldn’t.”
You hear the faint sound of him standing up fast. Something clatters. A chair? A cup? His whole world?
“You’re still here?” His voice cracks on the last word.
“Yes,” you whisper. “If you still want me-”
You don’t finish. Because you hear a motorcycle engine roar to life on the other end.
Then Mikey, breathless, urgent, raw: “Don’t move.”
The call ends.
You stand there, shaking, crying, laughing through the tears at how ridiculous this is, how you are ridiculous, how he is ridiculous, how love is ridiculous.
But then, You hear it.
Fast. Sharp. Familiar.
His bike, racing down the street like it’s chasing the rest of your life.
He turns the corner too fast. He barely parks straight. He rips off his helmet like it was strangling him.
And when he sees you, when he actually sees you standing there, his face breaks open.
“Mikey-” you start.
He doesn’t let you finish. He grabs you. Pulls you into him with a sound you’ve never heard before, something between a gasp and a sob and a laugh all at once.
His arms crush you to his chest. Your fingers bury in his jacket. He’s trembling. So are you.
“You,” His voice breaks. “You came back.”
You shake your head against him. “No,” you whisper. “I never left. Not really.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and shining.
“You got off the plane,” he says, disbelieving, breathless.
You laugh through a sob. “Yeah. I got off the plane.”
And then he kisses you.
Not soft this time. Not tentative. Not aching. But alive.
Full. Desperate. Grateful. Like he’s kissing you for every version of you he thought he lost. You cling to him with everything inside you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead stays pressed to yours.
“Stay,” he whispers. Not a demand. A plea. A promise. A home.
Your voice is quiet. Steady. Certain in a way you’ve never been before.
“I’m staying.”
He exhales like he’d been drowning.
Then Mikey smiles, a real smile, bright and disbelieving, the kind that turns him back into the boy you grew up with.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Cause I’m not letting you get on another plane without me.”
You laugh. You cry. He kisses you again.
Around you, cars move. People rush. Life keeps going.
But right here, in this exact moment, You’re not leaving. He’s not losing you. And the road not taken has finally led you back to him.
Oh my goshhhhh, how do you post so quickly. Do you write ahead and then post according to a schedule of sorts? Thank you for sharing your writing with us💌.
Okay so in all honesty these past two weeks I’ve been off of college because of winter break, thank god but because of it I genuinely have nothing but free time. But I don’t really have a schedule it’s just I start a lot of different fics at once and I publish them once they’re finished so like I’ll post 3 in a day for example one could’ve taken me like an hour and a half, another like a day, and the third one multiple days.
Also for me when I get an idea I really don’t want to forget it so I enter like a flow state and write and write and write. But if for one I have more of a concept for it I’ll write out like different ideas I have and when I’m going about my day and an idea pops in my head I’ll write a scene based on it.
So for example my two most recent fics I posted eventually and the worst, I wrote eventually in genuinely an hour tops, but the worst it took me around 4 days. But because I finished them so close together I posted them virtually back to back!
But yeah my writing process is literally writing down every idea I have in my head and for some it’s super easy to get into the flow of it and write it super quickly and others take a while, like I have 7 different ones in the drafts right now, but because I work on them all pretty much simultaneously 2 could be ready around the same time but have taken drastically different times to complete!
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
yeah you’re my new favourite writer. i would jump in front of a bullet for you. great work. may all of your efforts pay off and you live a long and prosperous life Ok? You are loved
