#despression

Your silence was odd.

Not bad. Just odd.

To Saitama, nothing you presented was bad. Your loudness, your quietness, he loved it all. Of course he woud, why else would he be with you?

He loved you like he had loved no one before. You snuff out the utter boredom he constantly feels with the few moments you're by his side. You make him happy. As happy as he could be, at least. 

You've done so much for him, but he can't do the same.

The numbness in him still muffles the emotions-- the words and actions he wants to potray. On occasions, it frustrates him. But you never complained about his lack of reciprocation, you just smiled and gripped onto his hand tighter, leaning further into his arm.

So he lets it go. He doesn't like when things bother him too much, and if it doesn't upset you, why should he worry about it? He can still make you happy, even without grand gestures. Maybe.

Yet as his hands move mechanically to chop the vegtables, his mind drifts to his apprentacse's words from earlier that day. 

Genos, ever the observent, commented on your unfamiliar change in demeanor around Saitama, and the dejected look that befell your features more often. Saitama thought maybe genos was overreacting, and had mistook your tiredness for gloominess. He didn't notice anything strange about your expression.

But now he sees it. That distant look in your eyes whilst you pulled out the dishes from your cabinet, it was so different from your serene expression you used to hold when he's around. How could he not notice? When had it changed? Had it always been like that?

He also noticed the faint disappointement in your gaze when you opened your door to let him in, and he apologized for being late once again. Had you always looked this upset when he was late?

And when you planted a peck on his cheek then glanced at him with yearning eyes, which he returned with a soft smile like he always did. Had your gaze always held that desperate longing? Now that he had noticed it, why didn't he push himself to do more?

He coudln't figure out what was wrong with him. He wanted to do more. He wanted to initiate more, but it was so hard. He didn't understand why this constant heaviness always kept his arms rooted to his sides until you had pushed to move them. Or the weight in his throat that prevented him from telling you more than those simple words he offered.

You probably didn't know how much he thought of you. How much he appreciated you and cherished you. Who could blame you, though? When he made such feeble efforts to relay it all.

'I really do suck.'

He tried to put more effort this time. To hold your hand more. To tell you he missed you. 

Now he noticed the brightness in your features as he did. But he was barely doing anything, why were you so happy about those small gestures? Was he really depriving you from the affection you deserved to that extent?

Next time. Next time he'd do more. Next time he will treat you better. Next time he'll be early. Next time he'll make you happy. No matter how hard the shackles on his ankles tried to drag him down.

As he stood at the doorway, he didn't pull away from your embrace this time. He allowed you to hold him for as long as you liked, hoping that maybe this small gesture could covey how hard he truly was trying. 

He noticed the deep, comforting sigh you expelled as you pressed your face into him. 

This hug lasted longer than he expected.

"I..."

'I'm sorry. I'll do better.'