impossible

You often wondered, watching him parade around on TV, if people would think you’re crazy if you said this. But by dating him, you had also made the decision to see him, in his entirety and completeness, from all the angles he made available to you; which were far from the young leading man adored by the entire football sphere.

Michael was a secretive man, not very talkative, austere even. He seemed to be dragging behind him a whole baggage that you’d have liked to help him lighten. But it was locked away. Certainly, there had been a few flashes, rare but precious moments when intimacy had been such that it had managed to untie, if only for an instant, the knot that constricted his tongue.

In the end, you had some pieces of the puzzle, but nothing that would ever have really allowed you to map the entire territory. Though it was progressing, sometimes. It was slow. It took time. But nothing was ever truly set in stone.

This required you to be just as observant as Michael. 

Michael, whose still-sleeping face was illuminated by the dawn. Slightly leaning against the headboard, you watched him slumber beside you, with his clear, tangled hair cascading over his face like a river, with his neck and collarbones marked by the passions that the night had allowed; and with a hand that somehow always found a way to cling to you.

You placed your own hand on his, used to the rough sensation against the pad of your fingers. Despite his slightly furrowed brows, it was still rare to see Michael so peaceful. He who always seemed so tense, always called away by something you couldn’t hear. Not yet, maybe. All of this made you want to see him sleep like that for as long as possible.

You allowed your gaze to wander over his exposed torso. Michael had a body that sheered the strength and determination he put into his work. The devotion he showed to it. A body that inspired respect, and perfectly illustrated the confidence, the power he exuded in front of the cameras. A body far removed from the fragility you might have imagined; a body that, despite its robustness, was not immune to suffering, as you unfortunately discovered one foggy night when you entered the bathroom, and found Michael in a state of distress you would never have suspected when you started dating him.

Your eyes stopped on a long, sharp scar that crossed some of his ribs. You frowned, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. The mark was fierce, a sharp line that undoubtedly reflected the violence of the action that had caused it. You didn’t remember him having a scar there. You knew Michael had one, yes, but you were convinced it was on his forearm. Perhaps your memory was failing you… 

Confused, your gaze searched for his forearm, as if to check that you hadn’t hallucinated. The left one, the right one.

There was indeed a scar on his forearm. There was a scar on his forearm too. Your hand slid gently towards it, caressing with a flick of your thumb the wound you so wished you could have healed. A strange mix of sadness, compassion and guilt began to wash over you; you could feel it as your eyes continued their journey over your boyfriend’s exposed body.

Michael’s sleeping face looked so fragile compared to what you were discovering, little by little, taking your time, yet everything seemed to happen so fast. A series of sharp lines and bursts, all heartbreaking. They told of past gestures, perhaps falls, moments on which you dared not dwell.

Your eyes lingered, lost their way, returned, and continued.

Some were pale, like fading memories, others more vivid, but you couldn’t date them precisely. Some of them came back to you in a strange, jarring way. As if you already knew them. And fact is — you had probably already seen them. But in isolated, momentary ways, on one occasion or another, without really thinking about it. And yet, today, in that brief, suspended moment of Michael’s sleep, you finally grasped the big picture. The overall composition. What was perhaps hidden in Michael’s silences and distant gazes. In those questions he dodged with the same skill as in front of an opponent’s tackle, or perhaps in those lips that opened and closed without ever uttering a sound.

Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but shake in astonishment, shock even.

Yes, Michael rarely talked about himself. You knew a few things though. You knew he was from Berlin. You knew his tastes, his worldview. Kind of. You knew that he particularly loved bread, breadcrust rusks to be precise, and that this unexpected dish was just about the only thing he could cook properly. One day, during one of those many debates he liked to have with you, he had said that “if he had had brothers or sisters…” and you didn’t quite remember what you two were talking about, but you had then deduced that he was an only child. He never spoke about his parents, nor any member of his family in particular. He did mention once a street fight with some guy, a supposedly “funny” story, according to him, but which hadn’t really amused you. Etc, etc. Isolated opinions, moments and incidents, again and again.

It seemed unlikely to you that the street fight he had once told you about could have caused all of those injuries. 

You squeezed Michael’s hand tighter than you intended. Dark thoughts began to overwhelm you as the image of that damaged body became clearer. You had recovered new pieces of the puzzle, and some were beginning to fit together in a sadly distinct way. A dull anger gripped your heart. Against yourself, against the world, against something.

You gently placed your hand on his hair, petting it slowly, before your fingers got caught in a knot, making Michael wince in a sound that indicated he was gradually leaving sleep.

“What the fuck are you doing…”, he mumbled, eyes still closed, voice muffled by the pillow and by his cheek which he was pressing against you.

His whinings drew a soft chuckle from you, warming your heart.

“Sorry”, you simply smiled. “Guess it’s time to wake up”

Michael rolled onto his back, groaning and running his hands over his face, as if to erase any trace of fatigue. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and your smile widened. He sat up and turned towards you, staring intently at you with eyes that still seemed to be searching for yours, before offering you a smile, so small, and always too rare for your liking.

The day then, inevitably, unfolded as usual.

Morning routines, getting ready before work. Planting a kiss on Michael’s cheek because you know he always waits for it, pretends not to care, but will worry if you don’t. Each going your separate ways, and doing, throughout the day, what society expects of you, all while trying never to lose sight of the talent that brought you two to where you are today. Going home. Preparing dinner while Michael stays too long at practice. Waiting for him to return. Michael coming back. Exchanging a welcome-back kiss that smells of sweat and wet grass, but also home. Him taking a shower. You waiting for him again.

Overthinking about all his scars as you’re waiting for him at the table wasn’t on the list. Yet, it invaded your mind. Again. So much so that you didn’t even see him sit down opposite you. How could all of this have escaped you? The question spiraled in your mind, giving you no rest.

Perhaps you had never noticed it until then because you never really cared about it. But not in the most commonly understood sense — in the sense that, for you, it didn’t define him, didn’t confine him to an identity, to a role, whatever it might be. He remained Michael, and you loved him, regardless of the clothes he might wear, the mud smeared on his face after practice, or the vulgarities he might hiss sometimes. Why would injuries have been an exception?

But you probably should have found a middle ground. This would probably have allowed you to understand certain things earlier, to know what to do with these pieces of the puzzle that you could finally, today, put together. But maybe dating him, being part of his life, was this. Maybe it was this need to investigate, gently and carefully, if only by paying attention to the smallest details. And maybe, then, he would let you in.

You were ready to make up for that lost time starting tonight, gradually.

Through your eyelashes, you watched him eat, and your gaze lingered again on the details you regretted never having noticed sooner.

Preciousness and panache clung to Michael’s skin. They were the pillars of his persona, of the mask he put on before going out, every day. And which he sometimes — often — forgot to take off when he got home.

An undeniable talent in his field and a smooth tongue, who knew how to say what others expected while turning it to his advantage.

Yet, things progressed, your eyes examined him, and you gradually realized that Michael had never actually hidden anything. It was simply that people, including you, had never sought to notice. Never seen the point in noticing. You wondered if that was what he was looking for. If, when he unleashed those grandiose “impacts” in front of the public, he was waiting for someone to notice the simmering distress in his eyes. If, when he offered you flowers, he was waiting for you to notice the trembling in his shoulders. If, when he pointed at the Moon, he was waiting for people to look away from the magnificent orb and instead focus on his injured hand.

To notice him.

Michael was there, eating in front of you, awkwardly and slowly as usual, as if he could never get used to this action. A trivial moment, perhaps, yet in the flow of your thoughts, you felt as if you’d had some kind of revelation. Your silence didn’t bother Michael. But he seemed more intrigued by the fact that you hadn’t touched your plate yet.

He looked up at you, his gaze filled with that mixture of defiance and innocence that was so… him. The dim light revealed the curve of another scar, a cut on his jaw; a slender, tiny bulging line that clashed ever so slightly with the fair color of his skin.

Michael was to household chores what a reckless driver was to road safety. This injury, therefore, must have a longer, rougher, less obvious history. Perhaps one day he would tell you about it — you supposed.

Stopping his fork halfway through, he silently questioned you, raising an eyebrow. You looked away, absentmindedly grabbing your own cutlery, and he frowned.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, as blunt and straightforward as he was when the cameras were off. He didn’t elaborate. But the alarm bells of his mind and self-punishment were starting to ring louder and louder.

“I was just thinking”, you replied quickly.

He tilted his head, putting down his cutlery.

“Thinking about what?”

The sentence sounded like a demand, a constraint even, yet you could clearly see the storm in the cyan sea of his eyes. Even though you hadn’t yet solved all the mysteries of your boyfriend’s mind, you knew him better than anyone else in many ways. His tone was certainly sharp, but it wasn’t an ultimatum. It was more of a plea.

His words hung in the air for a moment, a few seconds, no more, otherwise you knew he’d spiral out of control. Your eyes found their way back to the familiar path of his face, and you noticed a bit of food at the corner of his mouth, not so far from the scar after all. Part of you wanted to gently wipe it away, and perhaps even kiss the scarred skin, but you knew that touch wasn’t always Michael’s strong suit.

“You have something here”, you indicated softly, pointing to the spot on your own face.

Michael wiped his mouth with a quick, abrupt gesture using the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off you, his brows still nervously furrowed. He was still waiting for your answer.

“I never noticed this scar on your jaw”, you finally admitted, going frankly.

It was often like that with Michael. When he questioned you, it was better to tell him truths he might not want to know than to lie to him, thus delaying the inevitable tempest. He hated hearing certain things. But in the end, he always appreciated, silently, and a few days later, that you hadn’t kept them secret. Nevertheless, it always kept you both on edge. It was difficult to know where you stood.

You saw him stiffen discreetly, glancing away with a brief nod of his head as he let out a sigh whose underlying emotion was difficult to discern.

“’kay”, he mumbled too nonchalantly to be true, picking up his fork, twirling it between his fingers before resuming his meal. He was shutting down.

– “I’m not asking you to talk about it”, you clarified immediately, without sounding alarmist. Your voice remained calm, devoid of tension. Michael looked up at you, his face clouded by the fear he was always disguising as irritation. “It was just some thought I had.”

He simply let out a quiet grunt, closing his eyes for a moment as he continued eating. Despite the familiarity of the situation, you couldn’t suppress the pang in the heart that gripped you, and you bit your lip.

Michael must be feeling self-conscious now, you lamented. He’d probably stay silent for a while and shut himself away to read or watch some football match. There wasn’t much you could say or do. You just hoped you hadn’t hurt him to the point that he felt compelled to punish himself. Stifling a rueful sigh, you too resumed eating, but the food had lost all its flavor.

Though, before you had time to get depressed, he raised his head toward you, drawing your attention. Your eyes met — his gaze had changed. It was like the one he gave to the cameras, always accompanied by that smirk, brimming with an aggressive energy of contempt and arrogance; a kind of smile that barely existed once the doors of your home were closed. Michael tried to offer you that same smug expression, right here, right now. But something was distorting it. His feelings and fears, no doubt. You saw them. You said nothing. He didn’t falter.

“And what’s so fucking interesting about it, huh?”, he smirked, slightly revealing his teeth. “Don’t tell me I’m scoring another point in the charm department thanks to this shitty scar.”

Yes, he must have felt self-conscious. Scared, undoubtedly. Curious even. You tilted your head to the side and decided to play along. If he needed the mask to speak, then you accepted it. And hoped that one day, maybe, he wouldn’t need it anymore to open his heart — even if only to you.

“Perhaps so”, you replied, shrugging your shoulders. “I like people with a unique beauty”, you murmured, before pointing your fork at him. “Scars aren’t flaws. They’re stories.” Your gaze was sincere and determined. “And one has to know how to listen to them.”

Michael let out a disillusioned chuckle, rolling his eyes.

“Is that so”, he taunted, slouching somewhat against the back of his chair as he carelessly threw his own fork onto the table, “Then enjoy your fucking library of a boyfriend. I’m a real collection of stories.”

– “I know.”, you asserted, conviction evident in your voice, on your face; making him blink. “And I’m ready to listen to them all.”

You gripped your cutlery firmly. The mask cracked slightly. Michael sat up in his seat, tilting his head back slightly without taking his eyes off you, his lips caught between his teeth. He seemed to be trying to put on an intimidating expression, and you would have bought it, if you hadn’t seen him as he was every day. And if you hadn’t finally paid attention to that body of his, which told a story entirely different from the golden one he and the PIFA were creating for him.

After a few seconds of silence and a battle of glances, Michael lowered his eyes, shaking his head in a laugh that you assumed was more nervous than actually malicious.

“You’re crazy”, he jabbed.

– “Right, crazy enough to try to talk you out when I could just force you to speak with this knife I have in my hand. Or poison your food I guess”, you retaliated mischievously, before offering him a smile. “You’re lucky that I love you.”

The silence that followed was loaded. Heavy. With a lot of things. But his smug smirk had vanished. His gaze had become once again the one you were most familiar with: hazy but intense, fleeting but raw. Real. Never anything but his own.

“True”, he simply muttered after a while, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he was uttering this simple word, which nevertheless seemed to cost him so much.

He never said it back. At least, not in the way one would have expected. Michael liked words, yes. But always preferred to use them sparingly. And some were too expensive, no doubt, for reasons you only partially understood. Reasons that, maybe, were also illustrated by those scars. But you held onto hope that one day he would open up, that he would trust you more. Trust himself more. That he would be less afraid.

Michael resumed eating. You gazed at him for a while, without any pity or anger. You just relished in his now more relaxed features. He looked back at you.

“What now?”, he spat, cocking an eyebrow.

– “You’re cute.”

Michael’s surprise was palpable, and you couldn’t help but smile even more when you noticed his discreetly flustered expression, which he was trying so hard to hide, frowning. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue in an annoyed sound.

“Can’t even have a quiet meal in my own fucking house”, he mumbled, but you knew him too well not to see the corner of his lips lift up, a tiny bit. “Just eat, (y/n).”

His tone was lighter.

Yes, as he himself had said, Michael was a collection of stories. Troubled and complex stories, no doubt. Told in many forms, visible or not. He hadn’t told you anything more today. And for now, he probably won’t tell you anything, you suppose. But at least you had been able to tell him that you would listen. Always. It would never be quite enough, but never too much either. Michael loved words. You hoped he would remember the ones from tonight.

You nodded in a hum, and resumed eating as well.

“(y/n)-cchi! Welcome back!~”, he cheered, rubbing his nose against yours as his hands fell onto your hips.

He saw, felt you wince, and suppressed the urge to wince in return, saddened to see you like this. Meguru was like a sponge; he absorbed the surrounding emotions, churned them, and tried to make sense of them in a way that wasn’t always perceived or understood by others. By the “standards”.

“Hey”, you only murmured.

Your gaze was shifty, your smile small and unsteady. He guessed you needed space. He released you from his grasp and let you into the kitchen. While he was helping himself to some canned pineapple, Meguru watched you take a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water, place it on the counter, and gaze at it ruefully. Throughout the process, Meguru was smiling — you could see it when you glanced nervously in his direction. He was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes; it was gentler. Softer. More cautious, less… tornado-like.

You knew that Meguru knew something was going on. Meguru knew that you knew that he knew. But he didn’t ask you anything. As always. That was one of the things you loved most about him — there was never any pressure for structured speech, for pure rationality. He accepted feelings, raw and unpolished, like newly discovered diamonds. He takes them as they are. He takes you as you are… doesn’t he?

Tonight, you weren’t quite sure. It was one of those moments when nothing was certain anymore. Thousands of words threatened to roll off your tongue, but you didn’t know if you wanted to utter them or not. As if to swallow them back, you took the glass of water and brought it to your lips, unable to stop your gaze from falling on the glass door, observing your reflection. Thoughts and words spiraled in your mind, bumping into each other, sometimes complementing one another, sometimes clashing.

In a matter of seconds, and without you even realizing it, your body began to tremble, your eyes subtly becoming glassy. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the window.

“Meguru… do you love me?”

He considered you for a second, his eyebrows furrowing while his cheeks were full of pineapple.

“Of course I do”, he simply replied, mouth still full, holding the can in one hand, wiping the syrup that was dripping down his chin with the other.

He wanted to conclude with a little joke, to assure that you didn’t have to worry and that, even if that canned pineapple was like, yeah, super tasty, he obviously still preferred you to it. But your tremulous, anxious gaze called for something else.

“Are you sure?”, you questioned again.

He swallowed.

“(y/n)—”

– “I mean, it’s not like I’m that good. You could… you could have someone else. Someone prettier. Without all those… like…” You struggled to finish your sentence verbally, but your gestures followed your faltering voice, tracing the supposed contours you attributed to your body. “I… I just need you to be honest with me.”, you asserted, placing the glass back on the counter with a movement whose abruptness you hadn’t anticipated. “Tell me the truth.”

Meguru stepped towards you, gently putting the empty can next to your glass before looking up to meet your gaze. You couldn’t hold his eyes for very long, but your boyfriend filled the void.

“Is this about your monster?”

Your breath hitched as you looked away, your eyes falling once again on your reflection in the window. Yes, a “monster”. That’s how you two called it.

For Meguru, his own monster was simultaneously a companion, a helper, and a curse. Something that followed him through life, accompanied him, and brought about conflicting, mixed feelings. He didn’t always have the words to talk about it properly. But when he met you, he could tell — you too had a monster.

But yours was different. Certainly, it too filled voids and anxieties, but not in the same way. Not for the same reasons. You had needed time to talk to him about it, in half-hearted terms. But he had quickly grasped the extent of it. The fact that it was a wound that was always open, ready to bleed at any contact that was too abrupt. Too careless.

Your silence answered his question. Meguru gently tugged at your sleeve, pulling you towards him.

“Come”, he prompted, and the softness of his voice made it impossible for you, despite the pain, to refuse.

He gently led you towards the living room, where the coffee table and the floor were covered with pencils of all kinds and papers of various colours. Meguru moved them aside with a precise movement of his foot, before sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa and drawing you close to him, into his arms.

He smelled of soap, mixed with the sugar from the syrupy pineapple he had eaten earlier. You could feel Meguru’s warmth affecting you. It was… pleasant. And you might even have given in to it if you hadn’t been in the grip of so much torment.

“Tell me the truth”, you commanded again, but your voice came out broken, wavering with sobs that threatened to burst forth.

– “I will”, he hummed. “Don’t worry.” Lowering his head, he rested his cheek against yours. “What brought your monster out today?”

You were torn between telling him everything and swallowing your words, neglecting your own feelings and condition. But you knew you could never truly hide anything from Meguru.

He waited. Waited until you were ready to utter the words that had shaken your soul and woken your monster up. He waited, pulling you back to him.

“It… It was during the lunch break”, you began in a weak voice.

Meguru didn’t interrupt you, nor did he make any sound to make you continue. He listened.

“My colleagues were discussing one of the last matches of the competition, I could hear them talking… it was… not really about football.” You paused. “They were showing each other pics of the players, imagining their lives…”

– “Did they say anything about you?”

You felt your boyfriend’s grip tighten around you, as if he had just been hit. Fear, hurt even, was audible in his voice as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“No, no, of course not”, you quickly corrected. “I mean… They don’t even know that we…” You failed to finish your sentence, but he got it. And gave you time to pick up the thread of your story again. “One of them showed me some pictures of players, I don’t even remember which team it was. But she kept praising their talent, their physique. She said…” You swallowed hard, your voice wavering. “... she said that you probably had to be like a real model to be able to date them.”

Meguru let out a sigh through his nose, and you could feel him frown against your neck. He didn’t need any more clues to understand. Yet, you kept going.

“She said that… ‘normal people like us don’t even stand a chance’, and…”, you continued, your voice faltering due to the various tremors that seized you, your eyes becoming wet again. “So… I… I thought you too would… I thought…”

– “What did you think, (y/n)-cchi?”, he asked, gently raising a hand towards your face to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. Truth be told though, he already had an idea.

You could no longer hold back your tears, bursting into sobs as you brought your hands to your face.

“I’m not a model”, you sobbed. “I’m not…”

You couldn’t elaborate further. Because that was all you were thinking. All that had obsessed you for the rest of the day, and which had slapped you all the more when you found Meguru’s radiant, smiling face again when you got home.

Just words, some might have said. But for you, they had the effect of an earthquake. They were connected to your monster. To that shadow you were carrying within you, against which you were fighting, which made you so sensitive sometimes — but Meguru never held it against you. Just like now.

He let you cry for a while, let you release all that anxiety and pressure accumulated throughout the day. He let your monster speak, before lightly kissing the top of your head.

“Why would I want a model?”, he pouted. Another peck on your head. “I don’t need a model. I feel good with you!”

You frowned, turning towards him, your eyes red and swollen from tears.

“So I’m ugly?!”, you hissed.

Meguru shook his head, his tied-up fringe wiggling slightly.

“Since when do you have to be a model to be pretty?”, he asked, voice somewhat playful. You didn’t quite know what to answer. Meguru pulled you even closer to him, offering you a mischievous smile. “Models are one type of beauty among many. And it’s not mine.”

You gripped his sleeve fervently, your gestures and voice guided by your own hurt. Your emotions were raw, visible, and Meguru placed his hand on yours.

“What’s your type?”, you asked.

– “People who don’t conform. Who embody a form of beauty all on their own. Who know how to surprise me.”, he replied without pretense, shrugging his shoulders. He came closer to your face, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips, without openly claiming them. “People like you.”

You felt your cheeks getting hot, and you turned around, without breaking free from his embrace. You leaned back against his chest.

“That’s just some smooth-talking”, you jabbed.

– “Ouch! Thought you’d think higher of me, (y/n)-cchi.”, he chuckled, pinching your cheek. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”

That struck you. Even though he often said it as a joke, you hated it when Meguru put himself down in any way.

“You’re not stupid at all! I just—”

– “So you can imagine that I don’t have a fixed and rigid concept of beauty, can’t you?”, he winked. Your breath hitched. “How I see you isn’t limited to your appearance. I love your laugh, your vision of life, your fighting spirit. And I accept your own monster too. Because I love you, (y/n).” He smiled. “My (y/n)-cchi. I love the person you are.”

His tone was warm, peaceful even. Soothing. Much calmer than anyone could have imagined coming from him. But that was because Meguru knew the weight of standards. The weight of expectations. The way they can break minds and hearts.

Your view became blurry, more tears spilling out.

“You’re lying”, you accused. Trembling, your voice didn’t come out as threatening as you would have liked though.

– “You don’t have to believe me right now. But I think I’ve shown you many times that I’m sincere”, he whispered, his characteristic playfulness in his voice, but devoid of any mockery. “I can remind you someday if you want.”

You could feel his breath brushing against your neck, and it made heat creep up your skin. Meguru jolted, bringing you closer.

“No, wait— that sounded, uh… very explicit. That’s not what I meant! I mean, yeah, that’s part of it, but not entirely, like, we—”

– “You’re so silly”, you sighed, wiping out your tears as a smile gradually stretched across your lips.

Your reaction seemed to relax him. He placed a chaste kiss on your neck, and you felt his smile against your skin — sweet, loving.

“I guess I am. But I love you.”

You allowed a comfortable, simple silence to settle in, still cuddled against each other. Your eyes eventually fell on Meguru’s fingers, intertwined against your lower abdomen, and you noticed the faint, colored traces of markers that adorned them.

“What were you doing?”, you asked quietly.

– “Some mind maps to remember my Spanish lessons”, he smiled. “I’m improving quite a lot! Soon, I might even be able to compose a serenade for you, (y/n)-cchi ~”

This elicited a soft chuckle from you, and Meguru felt your shoulders relax somewhat in his embrace. His smile widened.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t believe me!”, he whined, pretending to be offended through a tiny pout. “I already have the lyrics, you know!”

You turned slightly towards him, still warm in his arms.

“Oh yeah?”, you smirked. “And what are they?”

Meguru tilted his head, taking on a pensive expression in that singular, expressive way he had of displaying his emotions. You could almost see his thoughts forming above his head in a bubble.

“Mmmhh, but I don’t want to reveal everything to you, otherwise it wouldn’t be as spectacular… But I can leak the title to you!”, he grinned. “It’s ‘el arbitraje fue correcto’!”

You rolled your eyes. “What kind of love song is this? That means ‘the arbitration was correct’. This is the sentence I’ve made you work thousands of times!”

– “And now, I remember it so well I’m making it our song. Isn’t that romantic?”

– “Oh my God, Meguru”, you smacked his forearm, now unable to stifle your chuckles.

Your laughter was music to your boyfriend’s ears.

“You didn’t even praise me for my wonderful accent”, Meguru playfully sighed, shaking his head before nuzzling in the crook of your neck, planting a soft kiss. “I’m afraid my mixtape will have to wait then…”

You relished in Meguru’s sweet, mischievous yet gentle touch. You two never completely erased your mutual pain. Was that even possible? But it remained certain that you both supported each other.

You heard and listened to each other’s monsters.

And perhaps that was enough, if only for the moment.