⋆.˚ summary: some people are meant to be wrapped in arms, while some people are meant to be wrapped in grief. and you’ve always known which one you are.
⋆.˚ warnings: office romance angst ; coworkers, misunderstanding, mention of hospital, meds, depression, anxiety. scars, reader having an episode, being vulnerable infront of akaashi, burdening. again heavy angst, bad ending.
akaashi keiji always notices how tired you look, it sits behind your eyes like a room with the lights turned off. mostly because it reflects something he hasn’t seen in years.
you work at the manga studio as production support, a small role, correcting text bubbles, organizing drafts, fetching reference materials, the kind of job that keeps you invisible unless something goes wrong, and most days you prefer it that way because being unseen means you can leave early for hospital appointments without anyone asking too many questions, it means you can take your medication in the bathroom with the door locked and your head bowed like a prayer, it means you can breathe without explaining why your chest feels so heavy all the time.
akaashi is a manga editor. composed and respected, and when you first saw him again across the office floor you almost didn’t believe it was him, not because he had changed too much but because some people feel unreal once they leave your past, like characters written out of the story who suddenly wander back into the panel, and the moment your eyes met you both paused, just a fraction of a second, enough to recognize each other, enough for something old and fragile to stir.
you weren’t exactly close in middle school, but you sat near each other sometimes, exchanged notebooks once, shared quiet conversations that never went anywhere but lingered longer than they should have, and he always noticed you. now that familiarity sits between you like an unspoken secret, acknowledged but never touched at work, because you both know how thin the line is between professionalism and everything else.
he notices you flinching when someone raises their voice even jokingly, or when you disappear on certain days and come back with that same empty look, your hands shake when you’re stressed and how you hide them in your sleeves, you often eat lunch with everyone else, smiling but sometimes he sees you alone by the window, staring at nothing, as if you’re waiting for something to end.
you notice him too, painfully so.
you notice how careful he is with words, he lowers his voice when he speaks to you, he never rushes you even when deadlines are tight, sometimes he lingers by your desk under the pretense of checking progress but really just stands there quietly, grounding, present, and you hate yourself a little for how much you want that presence to mean something.
you’ve been diagnosed for years now, it wraps around your ribs and squeezes, it turns every thought into a worst case scenario, and pulls you away from your own body when things get too loud, and you manage it as best you can with hospital visits and therapy rooms that smell like antiseptic and old magazines, with pill bottles lined up on your nightstand like a routine you didn’t choose but have to follow anyway. you like to pretend there's still something good left for you. maybe two arms wrapped around you when things feel wrong or when you finally sleep. maybe little fingers holding your hands tightly in crowds. maybe one day hospital visits will be just about a small fever or a small knee injury from bicycling. something normal.
you know you’re stupid for thinking so. but what's wrong with hoping a little, right?
hope is what kills you. specially when you start hoping it's with him.
it’s late, you’re still in the office, rain streaking down the windows, and you think you’re alone when the world inside your head begins to tilt, thoughts racing too fast, breath coming in uneven pulls, and you press your palms against your thighs like that might ground you, like that might keep you here. it doesn’t.
your vision blurs, sounds stretch and distort, and before you realize it you’re on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, rocking slightly, trying to remember the steps your therapist taught you.
“five things you can see,” you whisper to yourself, voice trembling. “four things you can touch…”
akaashi’s voice cuts through the static, and you squeeze your eyes shut, ashamed, exposed, but he’s already kneeling in front of you, setting his bag aside like nothing else matters.
he speaks softly, says your name like it’s something precious, grounds you with steady words, “hey,” he says softly. “you’re okay. i’m here.” your breathing stutters, and he hesitates just long enough to ask, “can i touch you?” you nod, barely, and then his arms are around you, firm but gentle, one hand warm at the back of your head, the other steady at your waist, holding you like he knows exactly how fragile you feel.
“breathe with me,” he murmurs. “slow. in… out. that’s it.” you cling to him without thinking, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and the world slowly settles back into focus, your heartbeat syncing with his, the panic ebbing into exhaustion.
It's stupid how easily he calmed you. your meds never helped you this much. and the hope starts gripping your ribs again.
he looks down at you, glasses resting on his nose. you’re sitting on the floor between his spread legs. “do you feel okay?” he asks. you nod as you slowly look up at him and you hate yourself for doing so because he looks too pretty like this. he smiles at you slightly. while his other hand fixes your hair. blue light coming from outside hits his face in the dark room. you stay like this for a while. holding the eye contact. his eyes wander between yours. it’s the same eyes that saw your scars years ago. It's the same eyes who watched you suffer even after so many years. yet he always understood you without you having to say anything.
later, he drives you home. refusing to leave you alone. now, you sit curled on the couch while he pours you water, sets your medication on the table in front of you.
“did you take it today?” he asks quietly.
you grimace. “yeah. doesn’t mean it’s working.”
he doesn’t argue. he just watches you swallow the pills, then sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “you don’t have to go through this alone,” he says, almost like he’s testing the words. you let out a bitter laugh. “kind of feels like i do.” his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you again. “you don’t.”
you fall asleep against him that night, head on his shoulder, and you wake with your cheek still pressed to his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your skin, and for a second you don’t move, afraid that if you do the moment will break apart like thin glass, but akaashi shifts slightly, breath hitching as his eyes open, dark lashes fluttering before he looks down at you. “…morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.
you lift your head too quickly. “sorry. i didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
he shakes his head at once. “it’s fine,” he says, too fast, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away if he hesitates. “you were tired.” you sit up anyway, wrapping your arms around yourself, and he watches you like he always does, attentive. you glance at him and for a brief fragile moment you let yourself believe that this, whatever this is, might be real.
that day you didn’t talk much in the editing room, only work stuff. because you felt embarrassed, thinking he might be annoyed at you. but when you enter the printing room with papers in your hands and see akaashi standing near the machine, his hands gripping a coffee cup. he glances at you. and the moment his eyes recognised you, his lips turned into a smile. a genuine smile. and that was enough to tell you he wasn’t annoyed.
days kept passing, slowly. it starts with small interactions. him greeting you every morning, standing by your desk as you talk about nothing important. sometimes you ask him to drive you home, sometimes he walks you home. sometimes he stays and holds you. other days he just hangs around. you felt like a fool for thinking that maybe he's the one you were keeping yourself alive for. he is the one you kept fighting for.
and after that, things blur into something undefined.
it’s not a relationship, not anything you could name without feeling foolish, just moments layered on top of each other, evenings that stretch too long, deep conversations, talking about middle school and what happened after. texts sent at ungodly hours, akaashi showing up at your door with steady hands whenever you spiral, whenever the world becomes too loud inside your head.
him sitting beside you on the couch, passing you a glass of water.
“you need to stay hydrated, it’s what keeps you healthy.”
“i’ll drive you to the hospital, okay?”
your breathing going uneven at two in the morning, hands shaking as you dig through drawers, panic rising when you can’t find the orange bottle, and akaashi crouched in front of you, papers forgotten in his bag, fingers gentle as he steadies your wrists.
“hey. look at me,” he says softly. “it’s here. you didn’t lose it.”
your voice breaks. “i’m sorry. i’m being difficult again.”
he frowns, brushing your hair back without thinking. “you’re not difficult.”
it keeps happening like a cycle you cant stop riding. he lets you fall asleep against him without comment, your head tucked under his chin, his arm curved around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and slowly you start to notice the way his body sags sometimes, the way his sighs linger a little longer than they used to, but you hope that you’re imagining it. hope has always been the thing that hurts you most.
the first time you realize something is wrong, it’s not even about you.
it’s morning at the office, the air sharp with tension, and you’re at your desk sorting corrections when you hear it, a senior editor’s voice cutting through the usual hum.
“akaashi, this was due yesterday.”
you look up instinctively.
akaashi stands there, posture straight, eyes lowered. “i apologize. i’ll have it ready by noon.”
“this can’t keep happening,” the editor says. “if you keep delaying your works, I'll have someone else do it. manage your time better.”
the words lodge themselves somewhere deep in your chest.
later, you see him at the vending machines, shoulders slumped just slightly, and without thinking you approach.
“are you okay?” you ask quietly.
he glances up, startled, then smiles, that familiar gentle curve of his lips that never quite reaches his eyes lately. “yeah,” you can tell he's sleepy.
your stomach twists. “you should’ve gone home.”
he shrugs. “no, i had to stay.”
you remember last night too clearly.
him kneeling on your bathroom floor at three am. rummaging through cabinets because you couldn’t remember where you put your meds, his voice hoarse from repeating the same grounding words over and over while you cried into your knees.
“akaashi,” you say hesitantly, “if i kept you up-”
he cuts you off at once. “don’t finish it.”
his tone is firm, but not angry, just tired. “it’s not like that, you know it. i want to help you.”
making you swallow the rest of your words.
but after that, you start noticing more.
the faint shadows under his eyes that don’t fade even on weekends. the way he rubs his temples during meetings. the coffee cups piling up on his desk.
then another night, when you’re not having an episode or anything, he was still there, making sure you are fine because you accidentally called him. maybe it was selfish of you to crave his presence when you don’t really need it. because now you feel guilty. you kept telling him that it was an accident and he can go home and rest but he refused. he also knows you’re feeling guilty, and he doesn’t want you to.
“im fine tonight, you should sleep,” you whisper.
he exhales softly. “in a minute.”
“you said that an hour ago.”
he smiles faintly. “you caught me.”
the next day, he’s late to a morning briefing, hair slightly disheveled, tie hastily adjusted, and you hear someone mutter, “that’s not like him.” “what’s wrong with him? he's becoming so unprofessional,”
something cold settles in your chest.
it’s never said outright.
he never complains. never pulls away. never tells you you’re too much.
but you see it in the way he started to hesitate before answering your late night calls now, just a second too long. but you notice the difference anyway. his texts are still kind but shorter, more measured. he sometimes falls asleep sitting up beside you, head tipped back against the wall, exhaustion written into every line of him.
one night, as he sits on your bed helping you sort pills into their container, his hands pause.
he shakes his head, like he’s reconsidering. “nothing. sorry.”
but you see it then, the weight he carries, the way being your constant has begun to cost him things he never talks about, and a familiar, bitter thought rises uninvited.
maybe you are not hard to love.
when he finally leaves that night, promising to text when he gets home, you sit alone in the quiet of your room, staring at the indent his body left on the mattress, waiting for his text that he never sends, maybe he was too tired to even open his phone.
and you think about how hospitals have always had rules, limits, visiting hours, boundaries that keep everyone from staying too long.
akaashi has none of that with you.
and maybe that’s the problem.
maybe the reason he’s ruining himself lately is because he keeps staying.
and maybe the kindest thing you could do, the most loving thing, would be to stop letting him.
a senior staff member, confident, bright, always laughing, always standing too close to akaashi, touching his arm when she talks, calling him by his first name with an ease that makes your chest ache, and you watch from your desk as she flirts openly, teasing him, cornering him in conversations that feel intimate even from a distance.
akaashi gets nervous around her, you notice that too, the way he adjusts his glasses, he smiles awkwardly, and he doesn’t pull away, while your mind, cruel and relentless mind, fills in the gaps with assumptions you were never meant to make.
“oh keiji, you’re working too hard again,” she says “you should let someone take care of you for once.”
he laughs nervously, adjusting his tie. “i’m fine, really.”
“you always say that,” she replies, touching his arm like it’s nothing. the way his ears turn red feels like a betrayal.
you look away quickly, your stomach twisting.
she’s healthy, bright, stable, someone who belongs in meetings and plans and futures, not in hospital waiting rooms or therapy sessions, not in a life ruled by medication schedules and bad days that come without warning.
that night, when he texts you asking if you got home safely, because you left without him, you stare at the screen for a long time before typing back.
you stop staying late, stop answering his texts as quickly, stop letting yourself lean into him when the world tilts, giving him the excuse that it stopped happening and his confusion settling into concern, but you don’t give him the chance to ask because you’re already telling yourself the story that hurts less than hoping.
you keep pushing him away more and more everyday. until one night he's there on your door again. three firm knocks, its familiar. you don’t answer at first, but he doesn’t leave.
“y/n,” akaashi says through the door, voice strained but steady. “please.”
you open it eventually, because pretending he’s not there is starting to hurt more than seeing him.
and he’s there, not just tired but worn down, eyes shadowed, coat still on like he didn’t even stop to think before coming here. you step aside reluctantly, letting him in.
the air between you is thick, heavy with everything you’ve refused to say.
“why are you avoiding me?” he asks, turning to face you fully now. “did i do something?”
you shake your head immediately. “you did nothing, what you’re talking about?”
he exhales sharply. “don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” you say.
his eyes soften, not retreating, just sad. “you know, you don’t have to do this alone.” he reaches out before you can stop him, hands gentle as ever, cupping your face, thumbs brushing under your cheeks like he’s done a hundred times before. “i have said this before and i’ll say it again,” he says quietly. “i want to help you. i want you to live happily. you deserve that.” and something in your chest cracks.
Because happiness feels like a lie someone keeps telling you, and hearing it from him hurts worse than hearing it from anyone else.
“there you go again,” you scoff,
“again?” he asks confused.
“stop it.” you whisper, pulling back.
you snap, voice rising. “stop acting like you care.”
his hands fall slowly to his sides. “…i do care.”
his eyes widen slightly. “what?”
“what? Don’t act like you are surprised, aren’t you here here because you think girls like me are easy, anyway?”
you spit out, louder than you wanted, meaner than you wanted. the words spilling out before you can stop them, poisoned and reckless. you watch akaashi freeze.
“th-that’s not true,” he says, stunned. “i would never-”
“you like feeling needed, don’t you?” you interrupt, voice shaking now but relentless. “it makes you feel important like a hero, because that’s what you want.”
his face pales. “why would you even think of that,”
because if he’s using you, then losing him will hurt less.
“just admit it,” you continue, tears burning your eyes.
“y/n,” he says, voice breaking despite himself, “that’s not how i see you.”
“then how do you see me?” you challenge, stepping back, putting space between you. “as someone worth choosing? worth staying up for until you get scolded at work? worth ruining your life over? worth being a burden?”
silence crashes down between you.
akaashi swallows hard. “i never once thought you were a burden.”
the word hits you anyway, sharp and exact.
you look away. “so you agree with the others.”
he stares at you, hurt written openly across his face now, no longer hidden behind patience or gentleness.
“…why are you-” he says quietly “why would you think of me like that?”
the words hurt more than anything else you’ve said.
“you need to realize you don’t save me just because you caught me while i was having a panic attack or something then act like you—” you continue with a crack in your voice, “i hate it when you act like i need you, you’re not a her—”
“it’s not like that, i just want to help you,” he interrupts you immediately.
“stop it! stop, i don’t want your help, just because i have some ‘issues’ doesn’t mean you need to fix me!” you shout louder this time. mocking the words as the anger melting down your cheeks, “it’s not about fixing-” before he can finish you interrupt him.
“please just leave me alone, i don’t want to see you!”
he stands there for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether to fight or retreat, you bring both of your hands to wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks while he watches you for a while.
and when he finally turns toward the door, something inside you caves in.
“im sorry, akaashi” you want to say, but it never comes out from your mouth, like It's stuck in your throat.
he pauses, hand on the knob, but doesn’t look back.
“i meant what i said earlier,” he says softly. “i want you to live. even if that means without me.”
the door closes with a sound that echoes through your chest, and you slide down against it, knees giving out, the apartment suddenly too quiet, too empty. you look around it, slowly realising what you have done.
you didn’t just push him away.
and the worst part is knowing that tomorrow, when the guilt settles in and the fog clears just enough to hurt properly, he still won’t be the villain.
you were never meant to be in his arms.
you always belonged in alone rooms and white walls, wrapped around in grief.
not to someone like him, someone whole.
so the day you see him laughing with her, really laughing, your heart breaks in a way that feels familiar, like the same grief you’ve rehearsed your whole life.
sometimes you sit on the cold tile floor, staring at the door handle, think about how love has always felt like something you observe from a distance, never something meant for you.
and you hated that akaashi didn’t notice you this time. he didn’t see through you this time.
despite being the one who pushed him away, it was surely very selfish of you to still crave him. all he actually wanted was to help you even if it meant ruining his own life.
but you still believe you’re not worth ruining a life for.
now, all you know is the quiet, the ache, and the familiar belief that some people are made for warmth and some are made for endurance, and you’ve always been very, very good at enduring.
idk what i wrote this has been sitting in my drafts for a long time so had to post it :p
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