He takes a long sip of his tea before leaning back against the rundown headboard, blonde hair falling over his shoulders, longer than it used to be. His earring dangles, clinking lightly against the wood behind him. He stares up at where the wall meets the ceiling, tracing each ridge with his grey eyes. He looks over each sign of small painted over dents and imperfections. His eyes stop on one particular crater in the wall. Itād be insignificant to anyone but him. It resembles a small scratch you got on a mission with him. It had been a year since he last saw you, since he left you to go chase the Phantom Troupe which he could begrudgingly admit he hadnāt had too much luck with. Which somewhere inside makes him feel stupid and small for ditching you, the best thing that ever happened to him, for what? A life from motel to motel, searching for a few people who seem to be even better at pushing everything away than he is.
He remembers when you got that scratch, how you hadnāt even noticed it was there because it really was negligible compared to what your peers had felt, or even by normal standards. After you cared for everyone else, he made sure to go to you. To take just as much care of something as small as a paper cut as you had for deep wounds. He knew then that he had to leave, but hadnāt told you until a few months later, on the day of. He sighs deeply.
āI miss you so muchā¦ā Kurapika whispers to the picture he grips in his right hand.












