yuki

Have a great Day/Night!!!

I'm not sure if this gives off the arthur morgan letter vibes since I'm not that familiar with it, but I tried my best 😭

Dreaming requires time. Sleep. A body that isn’t frozen in this half-existence.

But he starts seeing you anyway.

Not the real you.

You never looked at him that gently. You never smiled like that unless you were exhausted and trying to convince yourself everything was fine.

This version of you is quiet. Kind. Forgiving.

So he knows it’s fake.

Still, it happens.

You're brushing your teeth. Reading. Laughing at something he can't hear.

Sometimes you look older. Sometimes like the day you died, hands trembling, body torn up, looking at him like he could fix it.

He couldn’t.

That’s the part that stays. Even here, where space doesn’t matter and time doesn’t move, he remembers that.

You looked up at him and said, "Goodbye, Satoru."

He doesn’t talk you.

What’s the point?

It’s not you.

It’s just pieces of memory stitched together by guilt.

His punishment, maybe. Or just the last scraps of a conscience he never deserved.

Still, he watches.

Day in. Day out. (If days even exist here.)

He watches you live.

You do the things he knows you wanted: you open a bookstore. You take cooking classes. You wear stupid ugly sweaters in winter.

And he thinks,

“You’d be bored of this in a month.”

“You hate gingerbread.”

“You always said you'd burn the place down by accident.”

And then, sometimes, you cry.

Alone. On the floor. Same spot every time.

He hates that part the most.

Because that feels real.

And even now, he can’t do anything.

Eventually, you vanish.

He doesn’t know when. Maybe he blinked. Maybe the Prison Realm got bored of tormenting him.

He waits for you to come back.

You don’t.

And Satoru just keeps floating in silence.

Because it’s quieter without you.

But not better.

He was fine. He was always fine.

The first time Satoru realized you were dying, he didn’t cry.

He didn’t panic.

Didn’t throw a tantrum.

Didn’t start tearing through cursed archives for some miracle buried under dust and blood.

He just blinked behind his covered eyes, that stupid grin tugging at his mouth like muscle memory.

"Funny joke.”

Because it was a joke. Had to be. Because people like you didn’t die. You were a hurricane. A pain in the ass. The only one brave enough to snatch his glasses right off his face and call him a nerd in public.

You were supposed to outlive all of them.

Outlive him.

And even when you started crumbling—

when your cursed technique faltered mid-mission, when you swayed in the hallway and brushed it off like it was nothing, when Shoko pulled him aside with a look in her eyes he didn’t want to name—

He just laughed.

Because if he didn’t laugh, he might crack wide open.

And if he cracked—

if he let even a splinter of it in—

he wouldn’t survive you leaving.

Not again.

Not you.

"You good?" He asked once. Just to hear you call him an idiot.

You were curled up on a hospital cot like you barely fit inside your own body anymore, pale under the fluorescent lights, fingers slipping off your phone twice in a row.

But you still cracked a smile.

“I look that bad, huh?”

He barked a laugh. "Please. You always look like shit. This is just limited edition."

You smiled at him like he’d handed you a goddamn crown.

And he sat there—grinning like an asshole—like he didn’t spend the entire morning eavesdropping outside your room, learning you had weeks, not months.

“You’re allowed to hate this, you know. You're allowed to hate me for it.”

He rolled his eyes. Flung an arm over the back of the chair.

"Hate you? You’re not that important."

You laughed.

And he memorized the sound like a dying man hoarding breath.

Because it was almost over.

And he was going with you.

After that, Satoru started keeping track of you like he was studying for the world’s worst exam.

He didn’t write anything down.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he promised he’d remember:

The way your cursed energy flickered when you lied.

The way you touched ramen bowls like they’d burn you, even when they were cold.

The way you lit up when it rained, like the whole sky had decided to throw you a party.

The way you always, always, left a light on for him when he came back too late even when you should’ve sleeping.

He thought if he memorized enough of you, he could rebuild you later.

Patchwork you back together when the world finally ripped you away.

As if remembering could save either of you.

One night, you asked him to take you outside.

You could barely keep your eyes open. Couldn’t stand without swaying like paper in a storm. Your breath rattled in your chest like loose change.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t waste a second.

Just scooped you up like you weighed nothing, like it didn’t kill him to feel your ribs under his hands.

He told himself you were just tired.

Told himself you weren’t slipping through his fingers.

You blinked up at the stars and mumbled, "If I make it to winter... will you take me somewhere it snows? Like really snows. So much you can’t even hear yourself think."

Satoru snorted. Because that's what assholes did when their world was ending.

"You’ve seen snow, dumbass."

"Not like that." You whispered.

You smiled and he felt something inside him tear.

"Yeah. I’ll take you."

"Liar.”

He grinned like he had a choice.

"Always."

And you smiled like you believed him.

You didn’t make it to winter.

Didn’t even make it to fall.

The last week, you stopped eating.

The last three days, you stopped talking.

The last day, you opened your eyes once—

found him immediately—

and smiled.

That was enough.

He stayed with you until the machines went silent.

Stayed even after the nurses stopped checking.

Held your hand like it still belonged to him.

Like if he squeezed hard enough, he could keep you here.

At the funeral, Satoru didn’t wear black.

Showed up in his uniform. Wore stupid sunglasses.

Because you would’ve roasted his ass for wearing a tie.

You would’ve laughed.

He stayed after everyone else slunk away. Sat cross-legged in the dead grass, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

Waited.

Like maybe you were just late.

Like maybe you’d come barreling around the corner any second, cussing him out for being a dumbass.

When the wind finally stirred, he leaned down over your headstone.

"You missed it..”

"It snowed yesterday."

It wasn’t the right snow.

But he said it anyway.

Because lying to you felt more honest than admitting you were really gone.

That winter, it snowed.

Not a dusting.

Not a polite frosting.

A real storm.

The kind that swallowed whole cities, muted every sound until the world felt abandoned.

Exactly what you'd asked for.

Satoru didn’t visit your grave.

Didn’t lay flowers. Didn’t say your name.

Didn’t need to.

(He needed to.)

He walked the streets like he always did.

Smirking at the sky like he was too good to care.

He told himself he was fine.

That people died all the time. That he’d seen worse.

That if you weren’t strong enough to stay, that was your fault, not his.

He kept moving. Teaching. Fighting. Winning.

(Losing.)

Because that’s what the strongest did. That’s what he was supposed to be.

Untouchable. Invincible.

Not the kind of idiot who looked over his shoulder every time he passed your favorite ramen shop.

Not the kind of fool who half-expected to see you there—

grinning like a menace, waving him over.

(You were gone. You weren’t coming back. He knew that. He knew that.)

But sometimes—

when the world went completely still—

when the snow muffled everything so perfectly it felt like standing in a dream—

Satoru slowed down.

Let his hand brush the side of a bench you once tripped over.

Let his breath fog up the air in front of him, because he's still a human. So breakable.

And he whispered it, just once, because no one was close enough to hear:

"I loved you, you know."

It disappeared into the snow like everything else he couldn’t hold onto.

Didn’t matter.

He said it anyway.

Still did.

"You're forever sixteen"

and he never made it out of seventeen.

You're forever sixteen.

And in his memories, you're always laughing.

But not the kind of laugh that fills rooms or turns heads.

No. Yours was quieter.

A soft, broken thing.

A laugh like rain bleeding down cracked glass.

The kind of sound that only exists if someone needs to hear it.

And he did.

God, he did.

You laughed through pain.

Not because it was funny.

But because it was the only thing you had left.

When your lungs stopped filling right.

When your vision slipped in and out like a dying signal.

When you gripped his hand and whispered, “Oops. Forgot to breathe again.”

He laughed with you.

Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

Cry?

Scream?

Beg the universe to pick on someone else?

He didn’t.

Not in front of you.

So he laughed with you.

Held your hand like that was ever going to be enough.

Like grip strength could replace godhood.

And you died.

And he—

He couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t do anything.

He was a sorcerer.

He was a weapon.

He was a curse given flesh.

But he couldn’t keep your heart beating.

You're forever sixteen.

And he’s been seventeen ever since.

trapped and rotting.

Stuck in a world that forgot you, even when he never did.

Satoru tried to help, once.

"Would they want to see you like this?"

Suguru didn’t answer.

Because yes. You would.

You’d want to see him wrecked.

You’d want to be grieved.

You’d cup his face in your too-small hands and whisper, “It’s okay. It means you loved me.”

You did say that.

Right before blood painted your lips.

Right before you slumped against him like your soul was too tired to stay.

He held you.

Like a goddamn fool.

As if holding you tighter would scare death away.

It didn’t.

You're forever sixteen.

And he can’t look at teenagers anymore.

They laugh like time isn’t real.

They smile like the sun will never set.

They run. They dance. They breathe.

You couldn’t even do that.

He hates them.

He hates them for living.

No one gets it.

Not even Satoru.

“They were strong." He said once.

But you weren’t.

You were fragile.

You were scared.

You were sixteen and terrified of the dark.

Sixteen and begging, “Will you still love me when I’m bald?”

Sixteen and scribbling “I love you” into notebook margins because saying it made your voice shake.

Sixteen and seeing your own death in every mirror.

Sixteen and whispering, “Will you be okay when I’m gone?”

He said yes.

He lied.

At twenty-two, he curses God.

At twenty-three, he curses himself.

At twenty-four, he forgets what your voice sounded like and claws at his skull trying to pull it back.

At twenty-five, he wonders what your funeral would’ve looked like if you’d had time to plan it.

If you’d wanted lilies or sunflowers.

If you’d wanted to be cremated or buried.

If you’d wanted to be forgotten.

He thinks about following you.

About taking the elevator down and never hitting the brakes.

But he waits.

Because he promised.

You made him promise.

“Make it to twenty...” You said.

Then, “Okay, twenty-five.”

“Then keep going… if it doesn’t hurt too much.”

It always hurt.

He’s twenty-six now.

And every year since you died has felt like being flayed alive in slow motion.

You're still sixteen.

He dreams of you.

But dreams are liars.

They give him the version of you that never existed.

The healthy you.

The whole you.

The alive you.

You’re barefoot in the sun, smiling like your lungs never gave out.

You call his name like it’s nothing. Like it never became a tombstone.

“You’re late, Suguru.”

And it breaks him.

Every fucking time.

Because in dreams, you never died.

In dreams, you never left.

In dreams, you lived.

You never got to be seventeen.

Never kissed him with your whole heart.

Never got to fight beside him.

Never got to say “I love you” and mean it with the weight it deserved.

You never got to be older.

You never got to live.

You're forever sixteen.

He dies at twenty-six.

As a villain they called it.

He sees you before the end.

The real you.

Or maybe just the version his heart made up to soften the blow.

No tubes.

No sickness.

No apology behind your eyes.

You smiled like time never touched you.

Like death never stole you.

Like this was how it was always supposed to be.

“You’re late, Suguru.”

And for the first time in ten years,

he didn’t flinch.

He took your hand.

Because you were still sixteen.

Still waiting.

And finally—

finally—

he wasn’t seventeen anymore.