Three months ago, when Atsumu showed you the reservation he'd made — a five star resort, the most luxurious spa package available, private pool access, a whole suite for the two of you — you thought he was bringing you here to propose to you.

It had all checked out. You've been living together for a couple of years, he loved your family and they loved him, and — perhaps the most soul-baring of them all — you had just told him your deepest, darkest secret. I used to be cyber bullied, you told him, blushing because you didn't want him to think that something was wrong with you, like that anonymous bastard did.

I was bullied really badly.

So badly that you had stopped going to school for the rest of the year. So badly that for the rest of high school, you took online classes for a graduation certificate instead. So badly that you'd suffered so many violent panic attacks, anxiety attacks, and nightmares that you contemplated ending things.

The next day, Atsumu had surprised you with a large envelope in his hands.

So yeah, you thought he was about to propose. Not in a million years did you think Atsumu was bringing you here to confess all these years later that he had been the bully. The one who sent all things demeaning and hateful to your inbox, the one who humiliated you for the whole school to like and comment and retweet and reblog.

"I—"

"No," you spit. "You don't get to talk to me."

Your mother had cried on your behalf. Your father had gotten on his knees at the police station so they would pursue the case seriously.

"I just one thing to say," Atsumu says breathlessly. "I know I'm an absolute piece of shit. The worst. I can't even begin ta explain or make amends, ever. I know,..."

You'd prayed for revenge. And here, finally, the opportunity presented itself.

Fate took weird twists and turns, but in the end, you came out on top.

Because you knew his vulnerable spot. You knew Atsumu had a violent fear of being abandoned.

His mother had left when he was in junior high, leaving him and his brother to fend for themselves. His father was emotionally distant for most of his life. His brother had deserted their dream of pro-volleyball to become a chef, and though Atsumu spoke heartily of Miya Onigiri, you knew that deep down, the betrayal still stung.

You used to think that Atsumu's suffering was precocious, that his terror of being left behind was a sign of his humility. Now you thought it was simply a by product of being so wholly self-obsessed, of being dangerously self-entrenched.

"...just wanta let ya know. I love you. I can't undo the past—"

"That's right," you said coldly. "You can't undo the past, but I can fill in the future. I don't want to see you ever again."

Suddenly the air tore, sounding like a paper ripping in half.

Where the hell was this sound coming from? Atsumu felt like he couldn't breathe. He sunk to his knees, clutching his throat.

He looked up at you with wide eyes, clutching his throat. How could you be so composed when he was dying?

You stood still, wiping the last of your tears coolly. "Oh, you're fine," you told him. "You're only having a little panic attack. And you know what? You deserve it." You turned on your heel to leave.

"Wait!" Atsumu managed to rasp. "Wait!" He was crying, he realized. Salty tears dropped from the tip of his nose, leapt from the edge of his jawline. "Ya can be mad at me, ya can hate me, ya can want to kill me, but ya can't leave me! Ya can't not need me anymore! Ya can't go," his voice cracked.

You became a silhouette, then a speck, and then part of the horizon.

"She'll come back," he whispered to himself as a mantra. "She'll come back. She'll come back. She'll come back. She'll —" something was digging sharply into his backside. The pain managed to somewhat snap him out of his trance.