#lveisagi

you started memorizing his schedule just to feel close to him.

you stopped asking when you could see him — because you hated hearing, “i’ll let you know.”

you live together.

but it doesn’t feel like it.

he leaves early, comes home late, and when he’s here, he’s not really here.

you pass each other in the hallway. sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

sometimes he says goodnight. most nights, he doesn’t.

you stopped keeping track of the missed dates after the fifth one.

first it was the café you used to love.

then the ramen shop across town.

then your apartment— just a text that came in after midnight. “sorry. practice ran long.”

you told yourself he was trying.

that he was just tired. focused. under pressure.

but deep down, you knew better.

because trying looks like effort.

like calling when he’s late.

like remembering what day it is.

like showing up.

the phone calls were the next thing to go.

he used to call you between drills. send quick updates, blurry pictures, tired voice notes. now it’s just silence.

you text him “are you okay?”

he replies four hours later with “fine.”

he doesn’t ask about your day. doesn’t notice when you start staying later at work. 

doesn’t ask why you’ve stopped sitting beside him on the couch.

he’s always staring at the screen — game replays, strategy breakdowns, footage of sae. never at you.

and the thing is — you don’t want everything. you never did.

you just wanted to feel like he still chose you. like you still mattered. like love didn’t have to come second to ambition.

but every missed call, every cold dinner, every barely-there glance feels like a quiet reminder:

you’re not his priority anymore.

you live together.

but it doesn’t feel like home.

just two people breathing the same air in a space that used to feel warm and now just feels like waiting.

you try to be patient. you always have.

you know who he is. what he wants.

you knew even before the late nights and the missed calls, that rin itoshi wasn’t the type to love loudly.

he’s focused, intense. private.

you never asked him to be anything else. so you try.

you try to understand the pressure he’s under.

you try not to take it personally when he forgets to text back.

you try to be enough — quiet support, steady presence, a home he doesn’t have to think about too hard.

because you love him.

and love, you tell yourself, means compromise.

but lately, it feels like you’re the only one bending.

you wait through the silence.

you cook for two and eat alone.

you fall asleep to the sound of the front door opening, not knowing whether to feel relief or resentment.

and every time you think about saying something — really saying something — a voice in your head whispers:

he’s tired.

he’s trying.

don’t make it harder for him.

so you shrink.

you soften your tone.

you smile when he walks in, even when your chest aches.

you try to be patient.

but patience shouldn’t feel like abandonment and love shouldn’t feel like waiting in an empty room for someone who forgets you’re there.

you’ve made dinner. again.

the apartment smells like garlic and rosemary, the scent drifting softly into every corner. the same way it used to when he was here on time, the way it used to mean something. you set the table carefully for two, placing the plates side by side, the silverware aligned just right. there’s a glass of water for each of you and a bottle of wine you’d bought last weekend because you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d get to open it together.

the clock ticks past seven.

you tell yourself to wait.

rin is probably running late. it’s normal — games, training, unexpected calls. you tell yourself he’s tired, stressed, working harder than ever to reach those impossible goals that seem to swallow him whole. you’ve learned to be patient. to understand. to remind yourself that he’s not doing this to hurt you.

but the silence is heavy.

your phone vibrates on the counter. you glance at the screen, hope catching in your throat.

rin.

you pick it up slowly, heart hammering in your chest.

you open the message.

“something came up. sorry.”

forty minutes late.

no explanation. no promise to make it up. no “i miss you,” no “i’m sorry i keep letting you down.”

just those four words.

you set your phone down, the warmth fading from your hands.

you stare at the plate you made for him, the food still steaming, untouched. it looks perfect. but it tastes like disappointment.

you want to hate him. to scream. to tell him how much it hurts.

but the tears sting behind your eyes, and all you feel is tired.

you remember the early days, the way he would always be on time, how his smile would light up the room when he saw you waiting. how he used to brush a stray hair behind your ear and say, “i’ve got you.”

you look at your phone again.

no new messages.

you wonder if he remembers you’re here. if he remembers the small rituals you held onto — the dinners you cooked just for him, the soft music you played in the background, the way you tried to make this place a home.

because it feels less like a home now and more like a waiting room.

waiting for someone who might never come back.

you push the plate away and stand, moving to the window. the city lights stretch before you like stars on earth—bright, distant, unreachable.

you think about calling him. about telling him how lonely you feel. about saying the words you’ve bottled up for weeks.

“i miss you.”“please don’t forget me.”“i’m scared you don’t want this anymore.”

but the words catch in your throat.

because you don’t want to sound desperate.

you don’t want to be the one who begs for attention.

you don’t want to be the one who’s always waiting. so you stay silent.

and the silence feels like a wound that won’t heal.

you think about the nights spent curled on the couch, the glow of the TV screen a poor substitute for his presence. the mornings waking up on the cold side of the bed, the sheets empty where he should be.

you think about the way you’ve started sleeping with the lights on, afraid of the dark and the loneliness it brings.

you think about how you used to be enough — how his eyes used to light up when he saw you. how his hands would find yours like they belonged there.

and now, you don’t recognize the space between you.

you wipe a tear from your cheek and sit back down at the table.

the food has gone cold.

you don’t eat.

you don’t even want to.

because tonight, you’re not just hungry for food.

you’re hungry for him.

for the man who used to say your name like it was a promise.

for the warmth of his touch.

for the sound of his voice saying, “i’m sorry.”

for his love. 

the front door clicks open softly then shuts behind him.

rin’s footsteps echo down the hallway—slow, deliberate, unfamiliar.

you don’t move from the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells like you. the dim light from the living room lamp casts long shadows, and you can see the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slump just a little more than usual.

he stops in the doorway, watching you.

you don’t look up.

“you’re still awake,” he says quietly.

your voice is barely more than a whisper.

“couldn’t sleep.”

there’s a pause, heavy with things unsaid.

he steps closer, but not close enough to touch.

you don’t yell.

you don’t scream.

but after all the quiet waiting, the missed calls, the empty chairs, the cold dinners, the silence stretching between you like an ocean, you finally say it.

you look at rin, eyes steady but heavy.

“i feel like i’m dating a ghost,” you say softly. “you’re here, but never really here.”

the words hang in the air like a fragile glass ornament teetering on the edge.

rin blinks, taken aback for a moment.

then something shifts in him. his jaw tightens, and defensiveness flickers in his eyes.

“a ghost?” he repeats, voice low but sharp. “is that what you think of me?”

you nod, the hurt spilling through your quiet tone.

“you’re so caught up in everything else—training, matches, your goals—that i barely get a glimpse of who you really are anymore.”

“i’m busy, you know that.”

you swallow hard, steadying yourself.

“being busy doesn’t mean forgetting about me.”

he shakes his head, frustration bubbling under his skin.

“not everything is about you.”

the words hit you harder than any yell could.

you blink, pain flickering in your chest.

“it’s not about me,” you say, voice shaking but firm. “it’s about us. this distance between us is killing me.”

rin crosses his arms, looking away.

“i’m doing everything i can. training, matches... it’s not like i’m ignoring you on purpose.”

“then why does it feel like you’re gone?” you ask, taking a step closer.

he sighs sharply.

“because sometimes, there’s more important things than sitting at a table waiting for dinner.”

your throat tightens.

“i’m not asking for much. just for you to show up. to be present.”

rin’s jaw clenches.

“i can’t drop everything every time you want my attention. i have goals, responsibilities.”

“and what about this?” you gesture between you.

“this isn’t a responsibility, rin. it’s supposed to be something we share.”

he’s quiet for a moment, eyes flickering with conflict.

“i’m tired, rin,” you say, your voice low but shaking. “tired of feeling like i’m invisible. like i’m waiting for someone who’s already gone.”

rin’s eyes snap to you, his jaw tightening. “so what? you want me to drop everything? just forget my goals, my future?” his voice is sharp, cutting through the stillness.

you flare, the frustration that’s been building for weeks exploding out. “maybe i do! maybe i’m sick of being second place to your dreams, of pretending that your ‘busy’ is enough!”

“busy?” rin scoffs, stepping toward you, anger flickering behind his eyes. “i’m fighting every day just to get to where i want to be. you think i want to hurt you? i’m doing this for us!”

“for us?” you laugh bitterly, tears stinging. “it doesn’t feel like ‘us’ anymore. it feels like me alone—waiting, hoping, getting nothing.”

“that’s not fair!” he yells, voice rising. “you don’t know what it’s like to carry all this pressure. to have everyone depending on me!”

you shake your head, your voice breaking. “maybe not. but i’m carrying something too—loneliness, doubt, the fear that i’m just a placeholder until you’ve ‘made it.’”

his eyes flash, hurt and frustration mingling. “i’m trying! you think i dont miss you? you think i want to disappoint you? i can’t just stop everything because you’re lonely.”

“and what about me?” you snap, stepping closer so your voices are the only thing filling the room. “what about how lonely i feel every time you choose your goals over me? how invisible i am when you’re here but not really here?”

the air between you crackles. his fists clench, and his voice drops, a harsh whisper. “you don’t get it. if i lose focus, everything falls apart. this isn’t just about me—it’s about the future i’m fighting for. our future.”

your throat tightens, tears spilling over. “and if you lose me, what good is all that?”

rin’s eyes harden, the softness gone like it never existed. “maybe you’re just not strong enough to be part of it,” he spits, voice cold. “maybe you don’t deserve this life i’m fighting for.”

his words cut deeper than you expected. shock and hurt crash into you all at once.

“what are you saying?” you whisper, voice breaking.

“i’m saying this isn’t a game for people who can’t keep up,” rin snaps, stepping closer, his gaze piercing. “if you can’t handle me being busy, being focused, then maybe you’re the one who’s the problem.”

you want to scream, to tell him he’s wrong, but the pain in his eyes—mixed with that cruel distance—leaves you breathless.

“i thought you cared,” you choke out. “i thought i mattered.”

rin scoffs, voice dripping with bitterness. “caring won’t get you anywhere if you slow me down. this is bigger than you, than us.”

your world feels like it’s crumbling. the man you love—the one you believed in—is gone, replaced by someone you barely recognize.

you shake your head, voice barely audible. “i’m not slowing you down. i’m asking you to see me.”

rin’s expression hardens further. “maybe you should stop asking, and start accepting.”

the silence after is suffocating, the distance between you wider than ever.

you swallow the lump in your throat, voice trembling but steady as you say, “you don’t treat me like someone you love anymore.”

rin’s eyes flash with anger and something unreadable. without another word, he storms past you toward the door.

the slam echoes through the apartment like a thunderclap, leaving you standing alone in the cold silence, heart pounding in the emptiness he left behind.

you stare at the door for a long time. the air still trembles from how hard he slammed it, but the apartment is quiet now—so quiet it almost hurts.

your eyes burn, chest hollow. you wait—maybe for footsteps, for the sound of him coming back, for anything. but nothing comes.

you exhale, soft and broken. then you whisper, “i’m done.”

not in anger. not even in pain. just the quiet truth of someone who’s finally had enough. 

you pack your things. not everything. just enough.

a duffel bag. your charger. a few changes of clothes. your toothbrush.

you move slowly, methodically, like if you think too hard you might fall apart.

you leave the sweater he gave you hanging in the closet.

you don’t take the photo on the nightstand.

you glance at the bed—the one you shared, the one that’s felt cold for weeks.

you leave the spare key on the counter, the metal cold and final beneath your fingertips.

next to it, a folded piece of paper—your handwriting small but certain.

“you don't have to choose between me and soccer. i already made the choice for both of us.”

no anger. no pleading. just quiet closure.

you glance around the apartment one last time—your shoes by the door, the empty dinner plates in the sink, the framed photo still turned face down on the shelf.

then you walk out, closing the door gently behind you.

this time, it doesn’t slam.

you go back to your apartment— the one you barely visit anymore, the one you never unpacked from when you moved in with rin.

you unlock the door with a key that still fits. the air is stale, the lights dim. everything’s just as you left it months ago, like the version of you that used to live here never really left.

you set your bag down by the door and kick off your shoes slowly, quietly, like you’re afraid to wake the silence. it’s too quiet.

you walk through the small space, brushing dust off the counter, your fingertips ghosting over the couch, the sink, the light switch—things that once felt normal, now strange.

then it hits you.

everything.

you sit on the edge of your old bed, your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

and you cry.

not because of rin slamming the door.

not because of the cold dinners or the missed calls or the things he didn’t say.

you cry because you loved him. deeply. quietly. fully.

and it still wasn’t enough.

and now you’re here alone again, starting over and wishing you didn’t still want to go back.

pause

it’s late when rin returns.

the apartment is dim, silent, like it’s holding its breath. he pushes open the door, expecting the same tension that always follows a fight—strained silence, maybe the flicker of the tv in the background, the faint clinking of dishes as you clean even when you’re upset.

he expects you to be curled up on the couch with your back to him. or maybe locked in the bedroom, door closed, waiting for him to say something that resembles sorry—waiting to make up, like always.

because that’s the pattern, isn’t it?

rin screws up. you get quiet. he leaves to cool off. then comes home and finds you still here. always still here.

he kicks off his shoes, glancing toward the living room. empty.

no blanket tossed on the couch, no quiet sniffles he pretends not to hear.

his brow furrows.

he walks toward the hallway, slower now. maybe you're already in bed. maybe the fight wore you out. maybe you're pretending to sleep, letting him stew in the guilt you’re sure he won’t admit to.

he pushes open the bedroom door.

the light is off.

the bed is made.

and untouched.

his hand hovers over the light switch, hesitating before flicking it on. the room is still. the air hangs heavy. something feels… off.

he crosses to the closet.

opens it.

some of your things are still there—but not all.

the hanger that always held your favorite jacket is empty.

the little travel bag you used to keep under the bed is gone.

he blinks, confused, stomach starting to knot in a way he doesn’t like.

he walks back to the kitchen. looks at the counter.

the mug you always left out is gone. the vase you kept flowers in—empty. no signs of you cooking or cleaning or eating after he left.

something’s wrong.

really wrong.

he moves faster now, checking the bathroom. the sink is dry. your toothbrush is missing.

he checks the entryway—your shoes, the ones you always kick off without untying, the coat you wore today—gone.

his pulse stutters.

“y/n?”

he calls out, louder this time.

the apartment doesn’t answer.

his voice fades into the heavy silence, swallowed up by the empty rooms. his chest tightens, breath catching in a way that’s unfamiliar—like the air itself has turned heavy.

he moves to the bathroom, every step slower, heavier.

his eyes scan the sink, looking for something, anything— but your toothbrush isn’t there.

not misplaced, not hidden, just… gone.

his throat tightens as a cold knot forms in his stomach.

he stares at the empty spot where it used to rest, memories flashing—your tired smile in the morning, the soft hum you made while brushing your teeth, the way you’d always lean into him when you thought no one was watching.

he blinks away the sting in his eyes and turns away.

in the kitchen, the dim light casts long shadows. there, on the counter, something glints—a small silver shape catching the light.

his heart lurches when he sees it. your spare key.

and beneath it, a folded note.

his hands tremble as he picks it up, unfolding the paper slowly, as if the words might shatter if he’s too rough.

his eyes skim the familiar handwriting.

“you don’t have to choose between me and soccer. i already made the choice for both of us.”

the words hit him harder than he expected. a quiet ache blooms in his chest, spreading like wildfire.

he drops the note onto the counter, but it doesn’t fall—his fingers clutch it as if it’s the last thing holding him together.

he sinks onto the kitchen floor, the weight of everything crashing down— the missed calls, the forgotten dinners, the silences that filled the spaces between them.

and now this.

this final goodbye.

his throat tightens.

tears sting the corners of his eyes, hot and sudden.

he wishes he could rewind time.

wishes he’d held you tighter, said the words you needed to hear, been the person you deserved.

but wishes don’t fix broken things.

he closes his eyes, the apartment feeling emptier than ever.

he’s alone.

and so are you.

and that’s the hardest part.

he calls your phone. straight to voicemail.

his thumb hovers over the screen, heart sinking deeper with every silent ring. no buzz, no vibration, no sign that you even heard it.

he tries again. and again. each unanswered call like another crack in his chest.

the cold silence of the apartment presses in on him, louder than any words he could say.

he lets the phone fall to the floor, staring at the cracked screen as tears blur his vision. the weight of your absence is crushing, and for the first time, he feels the full force of what he’s lost.

you stare at your phone, the screen lighting up with rin’s name flashing over and over. dozens of missed calls.

your heart twists—part of you wants to pick up, hear his voice, maybe fix things.

but the heavier part, the one that’s been growing for weeks, keeps you frozen.

you press your lips together, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

a part of you aches, but another part feels numb, like you’re already halfway out the door. you hesitate.

a flurry of messages flood your screen, one after another, relentless.

rinnie<3: y/n. please. rinnie<3: i’m not giving up on you. rinnie<3: tell me what to do. rinnie<3: i can fix this. rinnie<3: please just say something. rinnie<3: don’t shut me out. rinnie<3: i messed up but i need you. rinnie<3: answer me. rinnie<3: please. rinnie<3: i love you.

your fingers hover over the screen, heart pounding, tears threatening to spill.

the noise from his texts feels overwhelming—like drowning in a storm of words you’re not sure you’re ready to respond to.

you close your eyes, needing the quiet, needing space.

for now, you stay silent.

rinnie<3: i’m here. rinnie<3: just say the word and i’ll come over. rinnie<3: don’t make me wait. rinnie<3: you’re the only thing that matters. rinnie<3: i’m sorry for everything. rinnie<3: please don’t let this be the end. rinnie<3: i’ll prove it to you. rinnie<3: whatever it takes. rinnie<3: i love you more than anything. rinnie<3: please come back to me.

a fresh wave of messages floods your screen, relentless and urgent. 

rinnie<3: y/n. answer. rinnie<3: i screwed up. yeah, i know. rinnie<3: i don’t care about excuses. i care about fixing this. rinnie<3: don’t just disappear on me. rinnie<3: tell me what you want, and i’ll do it. rinnie<3: i’m not good at this crap, but i’m trying. rinnie<3: don’t make me regret letting you go. rinnie<3: i’m serious. don’t give up on us. rinnie<3: just say something. anything. rinnie<3: please.

you stare at your phone, the screen lighting up again and again with rin’s name.

each message cuts through the silence like a small stab, desperate, urgent, raw. your fingers tremble as you read and reread his words, feeling torn between the ache of missing him and the weight of all the hurt that led to this moment.

tears blur your vision, but you can’t bring yourself to reply. the flood of texts feels overwhelming, like drowning in a storm you don’t know how to escape. your heart pounds painfully as you press the phone to your chest, whispering to yourself that maybe someday, when things are different, you’ll find your way back.

you knew it from the start.

sae itoshi was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. he was calm, quiet, collected. everything about him felt composed — from the way he played to the way he spoke to the way he barely blinked when you told him you loved him for the first time.

he just nodded, kissed the top of your head, and said, "mm."

and you let it go.

you told yourself he was just reserved. that he wasn't the type for grand displays. that it didn't mean he didn't care — he just showed it differently.

but over time, the "differently" started to feel like not at all.

you'd come home from a long day, exhausted and aching, hoping for even a fraction of his attention, and all he'd do was glance up from his phone with a quiet, "hey."

you told him about your promotion — he said, "cool."

you cried over a rough week — he patted your shoulder.

you kissed him goodbye before a trip, whispered "i'll miss you," and he just nodded, pulling his hoodie over his head.

no "i miss you too." no "be safe." no "call me when you land."

just silence.

and you started to wonder if maybe you were the only one who ever really showed up for this relationship at all.

does he even like you?

the question hits you late one night, uninvited but relentless — the kind that doesn't whisper, doesn't knock, just barges in and makes itself at home.

you're lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of clarity. the room is still, but your thoughts are anything but. they spiral and loop and twist until you're left with nothing but that single, sharp doubt.

does he even like you?

not love. you're not reaching for something that far anymore. you stopped hoping for that a while ago.

but like? does he even like who you are — your voice, your laugh, your dumb little stories about your day? did he ever look at you and feel warmth? did his heart ever speed up when you texted?

you're not sure.

when you go back in your mind, sift through all the moments, it's hard to find proof.

you remember speaking and getting a shrug in response. you remember telling him how tired you were, and him not even looking up from his phone. you remember trying to make him laugh and feeling like you were talking into an empty room.

he didn't fight. he didn't try. he just... let things pass.

like he was always a step outside the relationship — watching, waiting, but never stepping in. like he was barely there at all.

you think about how it always felt like you were the one showing up. you were the one asking how his day went. you were the one remembering his schedules, planning the dates, reaching for his hand first.

always you.

did he ever get excited to see you? did he ever miss you when you were gone? did he ever talk about you when you weren't around?

God, does he even like you?

because loving someone — real love — that takes presence. intention. warmth. and he was so cold.

so detached. so distant, even when he was sitting right beside you.

and maybe what hurts the most is that you let yourself settle for it. you convinced yourself that he was just tired. or busy. or bad at expressing himself. you gave him excuses when he wouldn't give you effort. you kept trying, kept pouring, even when the well on his side was bone-dry.

you thought it was worth it.

but now, lying here in the dark with your heart knotted up in your chest, you realize you don't know the answer to the most basic question of all.

does he even like you?

you weren't expecting to hear from rin.

not after everything. not after the silence that followed your quiet unraveling with sae.

but he texts you one night, short and to the point:

rin (9:03 pm): you should know what happened between me and sae.

a beat. then another message:

rin (9:04 pm): he won. our dream's over. he made sure of it.

you stare at the screen, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

you: what do you mean?

he calls you. you answer.

there's silence for a second, then rin's voice—tired, tight.

"we played. one on one. i told him i still wanted to be the best with him. that we could still chase what we promised when we were kids."

you don't say anything. you know what that promise meant. sae had told you once, half-asleep with his head in your lap, how much that dream used to matter.

"he said he doesn't believe in it anymore," rin continues, bitter. "that being the top striker's not worth it. that it's not his path."

you close your eyes.

"i told him i still believe in it. in him. but he wouldn't bend."

rin's voice lowers. "he said... he said he can't be what everyone needs him to be. not to japan. not to football. not to you."

your breath hitches.

"he said it like it didn't matter. like you didn't matter."

you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

"i don't think he meant it," rin adds. "but he still said it. and i thought... you should know."

you whisper, "thanks for telling me."

rin sighs through the phone. "i told him he was a coward. for giving up on us. on you. i don't think it even got through."

you nod, even though he can't see it. "it did. even if he pretends it didn't."

rin is quiet for a while, then: "he's lost, you know. even if he's pretending to be focused. i think he let go of everything that ever made him feel anything. even you."

the words slice deeper than you expect.

but somehow, hearing them from rin—someone who loved sae in his own fractured way—makes it more real. and a little easier to grieve.

you say a soft goodbye and hang up. 

what the fuck. 

you find him after evening practice, alone in the hallway near the locker rooms, towel slung over his neck and hair still damp from the shower. he's looking down at his phone, texting someone — maybe his agent, maybe no one — but he looks up when he hears your footsteps.

his expression flickers for a second — annoyance, surprise, something colder — then flattens. "what."

not hey. not what's wrong? just what.

you stop a few feet away from him, jaw tight. "i talked to rin."

he blinks, slow. "okay?"

"he told me what happened between you two."

there's a pause. then he scoffs.

"seriously?" sae mutters, rolling his eyes. "of course he did."

"you're not even surprised," you say, folding your arms. "you just assumed he'd tell me."

"because he always does. can't keep anything to himself, apparently."

your eyes narrow. "he told me because you wouldn't."

"because it's none of your business."

your breath catches. "excuse me?"

"i said," he repeats, stepping around you toward the exit, "it wasn't your business. it was between me and rin. i don't know why he felt the need to drag you into it."

you follow after him, sharp on his heels. "maybe because i'm part of your life? or did you forget that too, while you were busy burning every bridge that ever meant something to you?"

he stops walking.

the hallway goes still.

he turns back to you slowly. "watch it."

"no," you snap, heat rising to your face. "you watch it. i can't believe you said the things you said to him. that you—"

"what, ended it?" sae cuts in, eyes narrowed. "finally told the truth? yeah. i did."

"you told him the dream didn't matter anymore. that you don't believe in being the top striker. that it's not your path," you spit. "fine. maybe that's true. maybe people change. but you didn't have to tear him down with it."

"i didn't tear him down."

"you abandoned him, sae!"

his mouth tightens, jaw clenched. "i gave him the truth. we're not kids anymore. it's not my fault he can't let go of a fantasy."

"it wasn't a fantasy to him," you say. "it was his entire reason for chasing football. you were."

sae scoffs again, looking away like he's bored. "great. so i'm the villain for not letting him live in my shadow anymore."

"you're the villain," you say, voice sharp with disbelief, "because you knew exactly what that dream meant to rin, and you still used it against him. you knew he looked up to you, and you crushed it. and now you act like you're above it all."

"i am above it."

the words land like a slap.

you take a step back, stunned. "do you even hear yourself?"

he shrugs, cold. "yeah. do you?"

your mouth parts in shock. "you're unbelievable."

"you're overreacting."

"and you're heartless," you say, voice shaking. "you treated him like nothing. like he never mattered. and you treat me the same way."

he glares at you. "you're pissed because i didn't coddle him?"

"no," you bite. "i'm pissed because you hurt him. because you stood there and told him—told me—that you can't be what we need, and you said it like it didn't matter."

"because it doesn't," he snaps. "what difference would it make? i've never been who people want me to be. i'm not your warm boyfriend, and i'm not rin's older brother anymore. i'm just trying to be the best at what i do, and if you and him can't handle that, then—"

"then what?" you interrupt, voice loud and furious now. "we get left behind? we get discarded?"

his eyes flash. "don't twist this."

"i'm not twisting anything! you said it yourself. you gave up on him. on the dream. on me. and you don't even care that you did it."

he's breathing heavier now, fists clenched. "you don't know what i care about."

"then tell me," you challenge. "tell me what you care about. because from here, it looks like all you care about is yourself."

a beat of silence. he doesn't answer.

you stare at him — this boy who once made you feel seen just by standing beside you. this boy who could've had everything, and chose isolation instead.

"i used to think you were cold because you were focused," you say quietly. "now i think you're just afraid."

"of what?"

"of needing people."

his jaw ticks, but he doesn't deny it.

you take a breath. "you don't want to need rin. you don't want to need me. and that's why you pushed us both away."

he doesn't respond. just stares — angry, tight-lipped, eyes stormy with something unspoken.

"rin didn't tell me to hurt you," you finish. "he told me because he still gives a shit. because he still sees the version of you that cared."

sae turns his head away, jaw clenched.

"but if you really don't care anymore," you say, stepping back, "then maybe i don't want to know you, either."

his once stoic face darkens. 

"go be with rin, then," he spits, eyes narrowed. "sounds like he means more to you anyway."

you blink, stunned. "what?"

he laughs — low, bitter. "don't play dumb. you've been talking about him all night. what he said, how he feels, what he believes in—like he's some perfect little saint and i'm just the heartless asshole who ruined everything."

your eyes widen. "that's not what i said."

"you didn't have to." he runs a hand through his hair, sharp and angry. "you made it pretty fucking clear where your loyalty is."

"loyalty?" you echo, voice climbing. "i was loyal, sae. i've always been. even when you were distant. even when you shut me out."

"but the second rin tells you something—"

"no. don't twist this into jealousy."

"i'm not jealous," he snarls, stepping closer. "i just think it's funny. i open up to you, and it's never enough. i tell you i can't do this—can't be everything for everyone—and you run off and call my little brother for answers."

"i didn't call him. he called me."

"sure," sae scoffs. "right. and i bet he was so fucking gentle about it, wasn't he? so understanding. because that's what you want, right? someone who'll bleed for you."

"no," you snap, throat tight. "i want someone who doesn't push me away the moment things get hard. i want someone who doesn't act like love is a burden."

he flinches, barely. but his face hardens in the next breath.

"love is a distraction," he mutters.

you feel like he's punched the air out of your lungs.

"then what the hell are we doing?" you whisper.

silence.

just the sound of both your breaths, ragged and uneven.

sae looks away, jaw tight.

you're shaking — from cold, from fury, from something deeper that won't stop aching.

"you think rin matters more to me?" you say, voice trembling. "he told me the truth because he still believes in you. because he loves you. even after everything."

sae's eyes flick to yours, and for a split second, something cracks behind them.

"you both still believe in someone i'm not," he says, softer now. "someone who doesn't exist anymore."

"no," you whisper. "we believe in the person you could be. the one who used to care."

he doesn't answer.

doesn't deny it.

just stands there, fists clenched, like he wants to scream but won't let himself.

you stare at him, heart broken open, and say quietly:

"and maybe that's the saddest part of all." 

the silence stretches between you like an endless gulf.

finally, you take a breath—the kind that feels like dragging yourself out of quicksand.

"sae, i can't do this anymore. not like this. not when it feels like i'm the only one holding on."

he swallows, jaw tightening. "you think it's that easy? just walk away?"

"no," you admit. "it's not easy. not for me either."

you stand up, pacing the room slowly, voice trembling but steady. "i stayed because i loved you. because i wanted to believe you'd come back. but you keep pushing me away, ignoring everything i am."

"i'm still here," he says, voice cracking.

"are you?" you stop and look at him, searching his face. "because it doesn't feel like it. not when you're distant, when you don't fight for us. when you treat my job like it doesn't matter, like i don't matter."

he flinches at that. "i never meant to hurt you."

"but you did. over and over." you bite your lip. "i'm tired of being the one who cares more, who tries harder. it's exhausting, sae."

his shoulders slump. "so what, this is it? you're giving up?"

"i'm choosing myself," you say, voice breaking. "because if this is all i get—the silence, the coldness, the feeling of being invisible—then i'm done."

he closes his eyes, as if trying to will away the words.

just as you reach for the doorknob, sae's voice cuts through the thick silence—harsh, sharp, and laced with something like anger.

"i don't need you," he says, voice low but fierce. "you're a distraction. something that's holding me back."

you freeze, hand on the door. it's not what you expected—not the apology or begging you'd secretly hoped for. instead, it's cold dismissal.

"a distraction?" you repeat, voice trembling but steady. "after everything, that's what i am to you?"

"yeah," he spits out, eyes flashing. "i'm trying to be the best. focus on my goals. and you... you just get in the way."

you feel tears prick at your eyes—frustration, sadness, and something like anger rising all at once.

"if that's how you really feel, then maybe this is for the best," you say softly. "because i'm not going to be your distraction. i deserve to be someone's priority, sae."

he says nothing, just stares, jaw clenched.

you open the door, stepping out into the night air, heart breaking but clear.

sometimes, love isn't enough when the other person doesn't want you—not as you are, not as you deserve.

and that's when you know it's time to finally walk away.

sae sat alone on the edge of the worn couch, the weight of the room pressing down on him like a suffocating fog. the silence around him wasn't peaceful — it was loud, heavy, and unforgiving. every sound seemed to echo off the walls: the faint hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock, the distant muffled noises of the city outside. yet none of it filled the hollow ache gnawing at his chest.

he clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms as his mind replayed the conversation from earlier, every harsh word sharp and cutting.

"i don't need you. you're a distraction."

he hadn't meant for those words to come out so cold, so cruel. but in that moment, they felt like the only way to push the tangled mess of frustration and fear inside him out into the open. he thought pushing her away might make things easier — simpler. maybe even protect her from the version of himself that he was struggling to face.

but now, as the minutes stretched into what felt like an endless ache, sae realized just how wrong he had been.

he looked down at his hands, shaking slightly, and swallowed hard. his chest tightened with a pressure he couldn't shake. the truth was that he needed her more than he wanted to admit. more than he ever had before. but admitting that felt like losing control. it felt like exposing the parts of himself he wished he could hide.

the space beside him felt unbearably empty. she was gone — not just physically, but in that moment, it felt like she was slipping out of his life entirely. her absence carved a jagged wound in the quiet room, one he wasn't sure how to heal.

his eyes burned with the sting of regret as he recalled the look on her face: the sadness, the hurt, the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be different. and yet, his own walls had kept her at arm's length, keeping the distance she didn't deserve.

sae wanted to call her back, to tell her everything — to confess how lost and scared he was, how much he hated the idea of losing her. but the words tangled in his throat, heavy and impossible to say. fear rooted him to the spot. fear that she wouldn't come back. fear that maybe he didn't deserve her.

the quiet swallowed him whole, and for the first time in a long while, sae felt utterly, painfully alone. all that remained was the bitter taste of what could have been — and the painful weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him like a storm with no end in sight.

two months later.

the sun filters in through the lace-curtained windows of the small café, bathing the room in warm, hazy light. the smell of coffee beans and sugar hangs in the air — familiar, comforting. it's quieter than usual for a saturday. couples talk in hushed voices, spoons clink against ceramic mugs. everything feels slow, easy.

you sit across from someone new. he's... nice. sweet, in a slightly offbeat way. maybe a little too eager, a little too loud, and you've caught him checking his reflection in the spoon more than once. but still — you're trying.

he's talking about his job. or maybe his dog. it's hard to focus. you nod politely, stir your drink even though you're not thirsty, and glance out the window, letting your mind wander.

and then the door opens.

a soft chime.

you hear it, but you don't look up at first. it's muscle memory. a habit from another life.

but your date stops mid-sentence. "whoa, that guy looks like—"

you look up.

your stomach drops.

sae.

he walks in like he doesn't know — or maybe doesn't care — that this was your café. the one you claimed together months ago, when everything was warm and easy. he's wearing that same navy jacket you used to steal, his headphones slung around his neck. his hair's a bit longer. his expression, unreadable.

he sees you almost instantly.

you freeze.

his steps falter, just for a second — like he's been punched in the chest — but then he looks away, pretends like it doesn't sting. pretends like it's not you, sitting where he used to sit, with someone else in his seat.

your heart thuds painfully.

he moves to the counter, orders without looking back. but his shoulders are tense. too still. and you know him well enough to see it — the flicker in his jaw, the way he doesn't take his hands out of his pockets.

your date leans in. "you okay?"

you blink, look down at your half-empty cup. "yeah. just... spaced out."

"you know that guy?"

you pause. "yeah. i used to."

across the room, sae turns just enough to glance at you.

and your eyes meet.

for the first time in two months.

everything stills.

memories come rushing back like a wave — laughter over shared desserts, cold hands tucked into warm ones, that look he used to give you when he thought you weren't watching.

you tear your gaze away first.

your date is still talking, something about how the coffee's too bitter. you nod again, but you can't hear any of it. not really.

because sae is behind you now. you feel it — that pull, like gravity.

a presence that tugs at you even before he speaks.

"we need to talk," comes his voice — low, sharp, just over your shoulder.

you freeze.

your date blinks up at him, confused. "uh, sorry—do you need something, man?"

sae doesn't even look at him. his eyes are on you. hard. unreadable. "now."

and before you can even process what's happening, his hand is at your elbow — not rough, but firm enough to mean no arguments. he pulls you up, ignoring the confused sputter from your date as he leads you out the front door of your café, past the windows and the tables and the ghosts of a hundred memories.

outside, the air is colder than you expected. or maybe it's just him.

you yank your arm away once you're on the sidewalk. "what the hell, sae?"

he turns on you. "you're on a date."

"and you dragged me outside in the middle of it," you snap, voice rising. "what do you want?"

"why here?" he bites. "why our café?"

you stare at him, stunned. "you're seriously upset about that?"

his jaw clenches. "it's not about the café."

"then what is it, sae?" you ask, arms crossed tight over your chest. "what are you mad about? because you're the one who said you didn't need me. you called me a distraction."

he flinches, just barely. "that's not—"

"not what you meant?" you cut in. "because it sure sounded like it at the time."

he exhales, sharp and shaky. Runs a hand through his hair like he's trying to calm the storm inside him. But his voice stays bitter, raw. "you really replaced me that fast?"

you blink, stunned. "is that what this is about? you're jealous?"

he doesn't answer.

just looks away, fists clenched in his coat pockets.

"it's been two months, sae. you made it very clear you didn't want this—didn't want me."

"i never said i didn't want you," he mutters.

you laugh, bitter. "you didn't have to. you said i was a distraction. said you didn't need me. what was i supposed to do? wait around forever while you pushed me away and buried everything that mattered?"

he doesn't meet your eyes. doesn't move.

"that guy inside?" you add, voice quieter now. "he's not you. he never will be. and you know what? i haven't even kissed him. i don't want to. but at least he wants me there. he shows up."

finally, sae looks at you. really looks — and the emotion in his eyes is a mess of guilt, regret, and something that hurts worse than anger: want.

he swallows hard. "i was scared," he admits, barely audible. "of losing focus. of not being enough. for the game. for you."

"and so you pushed me away," you whisper.

he nods once, like it costs him.

"then why are you here?" you ask. "why now?"

his voice cracks when he answers. "because seeing you with someone else hurt like hell. and i know i don't deserve to say this, but... i still want you."

your chest aches. god, you hate how much those words still sting, still reach you.

but you shake your head, biting your lip. "wanting me when you see me with someone else isn't love, sae. it's ego."

his breath catches.

you take a step back.

"if you want me," you say, voice trembling, "you have to show it. not just when you're jealous. not just when it's too late."

you glance at the café behind you. at the window where your date still sits, staring in confusion.

"and i don't know if i can trust you to do that anymore."

you turn—half expecting him to let you walk away, again. but he doesn't.

"you're just going to give up on me?" sae's voice cuts through the cold air. "after everything?"

you whip back around. "you gave up first."

his jaw tightens. "i had reasons."

"no, you had excuses." you spit. "you didn't even try to explain yourself until you saw me with someone else."

he steps forward. "i didn't know how."

you laugh bitterly. "and you still don't. do you even realize how much it hurt? watching you shut down, close off, like i didn't matter—like we didn't matter?"

he doesn't say anything. just stands there, silent in the face of your anger, like he thinks if he stays still long enough, it'll pass.

you don't let it.

"i waited for you to reach out," you go on. "i kept hoping maybe—maybe—you'd come to your senses, but you just disappeared. like i was nothing."

his eyes flicker. "you weren't nothing."

"then why did you treat me like it?" your voice cracks. "why did you throw everything away without even talking to me?"

he looks down at the ground, fists clenched in his pockets.

"say something," you demand.

"because i didn't think you'd understand," he snaps, finally looking up. "you think it's easy, being me? being expected to carry the weight of everything—japan, madrid, football, my brother, you?"

you flinch. "so i'm a burden now?"

"that's not what i meant."

"then what did you mean?" you fire back. "that loving me made things harder for you? that caring about someone makes you weak?"

he exhales, sharp. "it made me feel. and i can't afford that. not right now."

"but you can afford to walk in here and act like i belong to you the moment someone else is sitting across from me?"

he glares at you, wounded pride flashing in his eyes. "that's not what this is about."

"really? because it looks like it's exactly what this is about," you say, voice rising. "you didn't care until you saw someone else where you used to be."

his lips part like he wants to argue, but no sound comes out.

you step closer. "you think you're the only one who's scared? who's under pressure? you chose to shut me out. you told me you didn't need me. and now you expect me to just forget all of it because you're hurting?"

he breathes out, slow and shaky. "i didn't mean to hurt you."

"but you did."

you both fall silent. the wind picks up. a few brown leaves tumble across the pavement, caught between your feet.

"you want me to fight for you," he says quietly. "but you're already halfway out the door."

your eyes narrow. "i was halfway out the door. months ago. and you just stood there. now you want to act like i owe you another chance?"

"you don't owe me anything," he mutters, voice tight. "but i still want one."

you stare at him. at the familiar curve of his brow, the slope of his shoulders, the storm in his eyes. he looks different than he did two months ago. thinner. tired. but the ache in your chest tells you it's still him. still the person who held your hand under café tables and kissed your forehead like a promise. still the person who walked away.

"you can't just show up and ask for me back like i'm something you left at home," you whisper. "i'm not a possession, sae."

"i know." he breathes out. "i know."

you blink, and your voice softens—just barely. "so what do you want from me?"

he shakes his head. "i don't know. i just... i saw you. and everything i've been holding down since you left hit me all at once. and i hated that you looked okay. like you'd moved on."

your throat tightens. "i'm trying to move on. because i had to. because you didn't give me a choice."

his voice is lower now. hoarse. "i miss you."

you close your eyes. for a second, the wind is the only sound between you.

"then maybe you should've missed me sooner." 

you don't mean for your voice to shake. you don't mean for your heart to splinter open again, like it hasn't already been broken and rearranged by him a hundred times.

but the words leave your lips like a final blow, and as soon as they do, something inside you cracks.

you take a shaky breath, then another—and then you crumble.

it starts with a small, helpless sob. one that catches in your throat and spills past your lips before you can stop it. then another. and then you're crying—ugly, gasping, heartbreaking sobs that curl you forward like you're trying to fold in on yourself. like if you make yourself small enough, the pain might go away.

sae's eyes widen. "hey—hey," he says, stepping forward instinctively. "don't—come here—"

but you shake your head, shoulders trembling. "no—don't—i can't—"

"you don't have to say anything," he says quickly, arms wrapping around you without waiting for permission. "just... let me hold you."

and you do.

because even now, even after everything, your body still remembers what it's like to be safe in his arms. still leans into the shape of him like it's something you've missed more than you'll ever admit.

you bury your face in his chest, sobs muffled by the fabric of his coat. your hands fist into it like you want to push him away—but you don't. you can't.

"i hate this," you cry, voice raw and muffled. "i hate that you still feel like home."

he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other steady at your waist. "i know," he murmurs. "i know. i'm sorry."

"you left me," you whisper. "you hurt me."

his voice is choked. "i know."

you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and glassy. "i hate that i still love you."

he flinches—like the words wound him. like hearing them aloud is worse than silence.

"i don't want to," you add. "but i do."

he swallows hard. "then let me be better. let me fix what i broke."

your lip trembles. "i don't know if you can."

he nods, once. "then i'll try. for as long as it takes."

you search his face for a lie, for a crack in the words—but it's just him. sae. stripped down and vulnerable and maybe, just maybe, starting to feel again.

you don't say yes. you don't say no.

you just stay there—pressed against him in the cold, the wind still howling through the streets—while he holds you like he's afraid to let go again.

and for now, that's enough.

and so, thorfinn sat now outside your tent, knife glinting faintly in the moonlight, his profile sharp and cold. he didn’t move. he didn’t speak.

thorfinn’s presence was impossible to ignore, even in the quiet of the night. the pale light of the moon traced the hard angles of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jawline and the tense set of his lips. his skin, slightly weathered from years of battles and harsh winds, held a faint sheen of sweat, a reminder of the relentless intensity that defined him. dark locks of hair, unruly and thick, hung in front of his eyes, occasionally brushing against the curve of his cheek like restless shadows. despite the stillness, you could almost see the storm inside him—an ocean of rage, grief, and something far more fragile that he refused to reveal.

his hands, calloused and strong, rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger—a weapon as familiar to him as his own breath. the blade caught the moonlight now and then, a quiet shimmer that betrayed the cold precision with which he wielded it. fingers twitching subtly, he never fully relaxed; every muscle seemed ready to spring into motion at a moment’s notice. the way he held himself spoke of a warrior born for battle, yet there was an unmistakable tension

he just watched.

and waited.

you lay awake, voice low but mischievous as you finally broke the silence.

“you hate this, don’t you?”

no answer.

you smirked to yourself, shifting beneath the blanket.

“don’t worry, i’m not that scary. though, you do look like you’re about to kill someone.”

still nothing.

“hey, do you even know what a smile is? or is that forbidden on guard duty?”

you heard a quiet sigh, but no words.

“you know, you could at least say ‘goodnight’ or something. it’s polite.”

no response.

“fine, be that way. i’ll just assume you’re practicing your brooding face. very intimidating.”

after a pause, his voice came, dry and low:

“i don’t have time for jokes.”

you laughed softly.

“sure you don’t. but hey, you’re stuck here with me all night, so you might as well try.”

silence.

another pause.

“are you always this moody, or am i just special?”

you heard a faint shuffle as he shifted, but he said nothing.

“maybe if you talked more, you’d scare off the bad guys better. silent types are overrated.”

no reply.

“or are you waiting for me to fall asleep so you can sneak away?” you teased.

a deep breath, then his voice, rough but low:

“not a chance.”

you laughed softly

“see? you care a little.”

“don’t get used to it.”

“too late,” you said with a grin. “i’m already planning our next adventure — or at least figuring out how to annoy you more.”

he didn’t answer, but you thought you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“you know,” you said, “guarding me can’t be that bad. you get to stare at me all night.”

“i’d rather stare at the moon.”

“sure you would,” you teased. “but i’m more interesting, right?”

his voice, almost a growl this time:

“don’t push it.”

you smiled, warmth spreading despite the cold night.

silence again, but something unspoken hung in the air between you.

“so, still planning to run off in the middle of the night, or have you finally decided i’m not worth the trouble?”

he didn’t answer, but the slight twitch of his mouth told you he heard you.

“you know, for a guy who looks like he’s about to stab someone at any moment, you’re surprisingly good company.”

a low grunt was his only response.

“that’s it? no clever comeback?” you teased. “i thought you were supposed to be the quick one.”

he shifted, boots scraping the dirt. “words are wasted on you.”

“ouch,” you said with mock offense. “you’re cruel.”

“i’m honest,” he muttered.

you laughed softly. “same thing, really.”

another pause, then you ventured, “you ever get tired of being so serious all the time?”

“never,” he said flatly.

“hm, sure,” you said, smirking. “that’s what i thought.”

he gave a soft snort, almost a laugh, but caught himself. “don’t make me regret this.”

“too late,” you whispered, but it wasn’t harsh. more like a challenge.

the night wrapped around you like a secret, filled with quiet words and stolen smiles. for all the darkness, it was the first time you felt the cold guard soften, if only just.

“so,” you said, nudging the tent flap open a crack, “what’s your next brilliant plan? stare at me all night until i fall asleep?”

“maybe,” he said, voice low but not unkind.

“well, you’re doing a terrible job,” you teased.

the night was deep and still, the only sounds the faint rustle of leaves and thorfinn’s steady breathing. 

“hey,” you whispered, poking your head out of the tent flap. “you know, this guard duty doesn’t have to be so boring.”

he glanced at you, eyes narrowed but curious.

“what if we went and got some food? together,” you suggested, voice low and teasing.

thorfinn’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “you want me to break orders?”

“maybe,” you grinned. “but think about it. it’s late, everyone’s asleep. no one would even notice.”

he shook his head, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “you’re reckless.”

“and you’re a little boring. perfect balance,” you said.

he sighed but took a step closer. “fine. but if we get caught, you’re explaining it.”

“deal.”

you didn’t move right away. you watched him, how the moonlight hit his face sharp and cold, like stone that didn’t know how to soften. and yet… here he was. agreeing to sneak off with you for something as simple as food.

“you know…” you let the words hang there as you walked beside him, voice low but teasing. “you agreed to getting food pretty quick. i think you like spending time with me. you just don’t know how to say it.”

his shoulders stiffened. for a second, he didn’t even glance your way.

“no,” he said finally, flat and blunt as always. “i just don’t want to listen to you complain all night.”

you smiled anyway, leaning forward slightly as if your grin alone could chip away at his walls. “sure, thorfinn. whatever helps you sleep at night.”

he said nothing, but you saw the twitch of his jaw, the barest flicker of something behind his eyes.

you fell into step beside him as he led the way through the quiet camp. the fires had burned down to low embers now, the silhouettes of sleeping men scattered in the dark. only your footsteps and the faint rustle of grass marked your path.

“you’re not denying it though,” you said softly after a moment.

this time, he did look at you. just once. his gaze was steady but unreadable. “i don’t need to.”

that stopped you.

the air between you shifted. heavier. warmer. like silence suddenly meant something.

for a heartbeat, you forgot what teasing even felt like.

then, as if remembering himself, he turned away again, cold and unreadable. “you talk too much.”

you blinked, trying to steady your voice as you caught up beside him again. “and you listen too much.”

his jaw tightened.

you smiled wider, choosing playfulness over nerves. “see? we make a good pair.”

he didn’t argue.

which, in thorfinn’s world, felt dangerously close to agreement.

you followed him down the small hill where askeladd’s men kept spare supplies. your footsteps were quiet, but your thoughts were loud—too loud. you shouldn’t have said half of what you’d said. shouldn’t have felt half of what you were feeling. he was only here because your father forced him to be.

yet… he stayed.

you let the silence linger, choosing to let him think you’d let the conversation die. but inside, you couldn’t stop watching him.

he moved like a blade—silent, sharp, efficient. every step was controlled, every glance a calculation. he didn’t waste words. didn’t waste anything.

except, apparently, time on you.

“where’s the food?” you whispered, scanning the small storage crates.

“there,” he answered simply, crouching near one of the crates and pulling out a wrapped bundle of dried meat and flatbread.

you knelt beside him, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off his skin. he smelled faintly like smoke and earth.

“you’re good at this,” you murmured.

he frowned slightly. “good at what?”

“taking care of things you don’t want to.”

his fingers stilled on the bread. you wondered if that was too much. too close to the truth he didn’t want to hear.

before he could answer, you leaned back, trying to soften the moment. “well, lucky for me, i’m charming enough to make it tolerable.”

“hm.”

“that was almost a laugh.”

“no, it wasn’t.”

“i think it was.”

“stop talking.”

you laughed softly, but your voice lowered, almost fond now. “make me.”

his hands froze on the food.

the silence came back—different this time. thicker.

you swallowed, glancing down. “sorry.”

he shifted, not meeting your gaze. “you’re… not like them.”

you frowned slightly. “who?”

“your father’s men.”

you watched him carefully. “is that a good thing?”

he hesitated. then said, quieter, “maybe.”

you didn’t realize how long you stared at him until he stood abruptly, bundle of food in hand.

“come on,” he said, voice low. “before someone wakes up.”

you followed, heart racing for reasons you couldn’t name.

back up the hill, you found a quiet spot behind a low tree where the camp couldn’t see you. you sat together, not quite close, not quite distant, sharing stolen bread under the stars.

you chewed in silence for a while, glancing at him now and then. thorfinn ate like he fought—quiet, focused, quick.

but something about the night, about sitting beside him with no one else around, made everything feel… different. like neither of you had to pretend.

“this feels like trouble,” you whispered softly.

he glanced at you. “it is.”

you smiled faintly. “good.”

he shook his head like you were impossible but didn’t move away.

the night stretched on, and for once, you didn’t mind the silence.

because even without words, you knew he was listening.

and for now, that was enough.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — pretends he doesn't care if you talk to other people, but the way his pencil snaps in half when you laugh at someone else’s joke says otherwise.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he practices what he'll say to you in the mirror. Out loud. With hand gestures. Then immediately regrets existing.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — once almost texted you "I like you". he threw his phone across the room and spent an hour on the floor recovering.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — rin spends weeks psyching himself up, but every time he tries, it comes out wrong—like, "do you… uh… wanna… study…?" and then he panics.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — practices in front of the mirror at night. he tries different tones: serious, casual, mysterious. ends up mumbling so fast it sounds like one word.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — writes a whole "script" of how it should go in his notebook. accidentally leaves it out once and nearly dies when you almost see it.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — tries to make it sound casual but overthinks every word. he'll be like, “so, uh… there’s this… event. a thing. not important. unless… you wanna… go. with me. or not. whatever.”

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he's shocked when you raise an eyebrow and go: "you're lucky I like you, because that delivery was tragic. i'd love to go with you, rin."

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he freezes. literally stops functioning for a good five seconds before stammering, "w-wait, seriously? don't—don't mess with me."

LOSER ! rin itoshi — "yes, rin. i really mean it," you say, trying not to grin too hard at how adorably awkward he is.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he spends the entire morning double- and triple-checking his outfit, brushing his hair, adjusting his glasses… then re-adjusting them again five minutes before you arrive.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he fidgets with his napkin, adjusts his glasses, knocks over his spoon once, and mutters curses under his breath when he notices you watching. you can't resist teasing him: "careful, rin. you're gonna break the cuteness scale before dessert even arrives."

LOSER ! rin itoshi — he opens doors, offers his jacket if you’re cold, and insists on carrying the check (even though it’s tiny). he's trying to act nonchalant but ends up stumbling slightly, cheeks burning, and whispers, "i'm not… not cool… i can do this."

LOSER ! rin itoshi — after months of awkward, adorable dates, teasing, and overthinking, rin finally relaxes around you. he still trips over words sometimes, but now he does it with a little more confidence, knowing you'll laugh with him, not at him.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — even though he's still socially awkward and nerdy as ever, you've become his safe space. he doesn't have to overthink every gesture, because he knows you like him just the way he is.

LOSER ! rin itoshi — and as he fumbled with his glasses, muttered a dozen awkward compliments, and hid his face in his hands, you realized—this messy, nervous, hopelessly adorable nerd was yours, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

a/n : so ooc its crazy...

at first, it was the little things. the way he throws himself into training like it's the only thing that matters, leaving you waiting, your messages unread. you tried to tell yourself it was just part of who he is—a man chasing a dream no one else can understand. you told yourself patience was a virtue.

but patience, you realize now, is wearing thin.

you watch from the sidelines as he grows colder, more distant. his sharp focus becomes a wall, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to break through. the smiles he gives you feel practiced, the moments you share tinged with a quiet frustration you don't know how to voice.

and maybe, somewhere between the silence and the space growing between you, you start to understand: loving rin means accepting that sometimes, you're not enough. that his dreams, his ambitions, demand more than you can give. not because you're lacking, but because he's already given everything he has to something else.

you close your eyes and breathe in the ache. the ache of loving someone who can't stay—not because they don't want to, but because their path leaves no room to stay.

that's when the reason becomes clear.

you don't want to be the person he leaves behind.

you don't want to be the weight that holds him down.

you want him to soar—even if it means letting go.

the front door slammed shut behind him with a sharpness that made your heart jump. rin stood in the entryway, sweat still clinging to his forehead, his breath heavy from training. his eyes, usually so fiery with focus, seemed distant, clouded, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

"hey," you said softly, stepping into the living room, trying to catch his gaze.

he didn't respond right away. instead, he dropped his bag with a loud thud, the sound echoing through the quiet room.

"i'm tired," he said, voice flat, almost brittle.

"okay," you answered, trying to keep your tone light, "do you want something to eat? or maybe just rest?"

rin's jaw clenched, and he shot you a glance that was sharp, almost cold. "i said i'm tired. i don't want to talk."

the words stung more than you expected. the rin you loved—the one who used to share everything with you, who'd come home and laugh about small things, who'd ask how your day went—felt like a stranger right now.

"okay," you said again, trying to swallow the hurt, "i'll leave you alone then."

he nodded curtly and turned away, heading for his room.

you stood there, frozen for a moment. the door to his room closed with a soft click, but the distance between you felt like miles.

later, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. his shoulders were tense, like he was carrying something too heavy to put down.

"rin," you said quietly, sitting beside him, "what's going on?"

he didn't look at you. after a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice rough. "you don't understand. you never do."

"try me," you whispered, your heart aching.

he laughed bitterly, a sound you hadn't heard before. "try you? how many times have i told you i need to focus? how many times have you complained about me spending all my time training, chasing some impossible dream?"

"i don't complain," you said, though your voice trembled. "i just want to feel like i'm part of your life."

rin's eyes snapped to yours, burning with frustration. "part of my life? or just an excuse for you to get attention? sometimes, it feels like you want me to fail so you can have me all to yourself."

the words hit you like a punch. "that's not true. i love you."

"love?" he spat, shaking his head. "love doesn't mean holding me back. love means understanding when i need space. but you never give me that. you're always there, questioning, doubting."

"i'm scared," you admitted, voice breaking. "scared that if i don't say something, i'll lose you. scared that this—us—will disappear."

rin stood abruptly, pacing the room. "maybe it should disappear."

"what?" your breath caught.

he turned to face you, eyes cold but filled with pain. "maybe this isn't working. maybe we're just holding each other down."

the weight of his words pressed down on you. tears blurred your vision, but your voice was steady, even if your heart shattered inside.

"okay, fine."

"wha-"

"let's break up."

the words slip out before you can stop them, cold and sharp against the quiet of the room.

the silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. rin's expression flickered—surprise, disbelief, then something like grief.

rin freezes. his eyes, usually so fierce and unreadable, fill with shock. for a moment, he just stares at you—like he can't believe what he just heard.

"what?" he finally whispers, voice cracking with disbelief.

you can't meet his eyes. you stare at the floor, feeling your heart splintering into a thousand sharp pieces. "i—i can't do this anymore," you say, voice trembling. "it's too much. the distance. the silence. the way you shut me out when i need you most."

his voice is flat. emotionless. like he's already removed himself from the moment.

"fine. if that's what you want."

your chest tightens. "that's all you're going to say?"

rin shrugs, jaw clenched, eyes dropping to the floor. "you made your decision."

he says it like it doesn't hurt.

like it doesn't matter.

like you didn't just tear the floor out from under both of you.

but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles pale. his jaw is tight, and his shoulders—always so strong, so sure—are trembling just enough to notice.

"you don't even want to talk about it?" you ask, voice cracking.

"what's the point?" he mutters. "you've already decided. you're done."

"you're not even going to fight for me?"

his eyes snap up then—cold, sharp, furious. "fight for you? i've been fighting. every day. i'm killing myself trying to be enough. for the game. for you. for everything."

you step back, stunned by the heat in his voice.

he laughs—bitter and humorless. "but it's never enough, right? i'm too distant. too cold. too focused. you think i don't know that?"

tears prick your eyes. "that's not what i meant..."

"no?" he snaps. "then what did you mean? because from where i'm standing, it sounds a lot like you're giving up."

his words slice through you. because maybe he's right. maybe you are giving up. but you're tired—tired of feeling like you come second to everything.

"i never asked you to choose," you whisper.

"you didn't have to," he shoots back, quieter this time. "you just decided i wasn't good enough."

you open your mouth, but no words come.

the pain in his eyes is the worst part—not the anger. not the bitterness. but the way he looks at you like he's breaking. like he's trying to hate you and can't.

he swallows hard, turning away. his voice barely carries now. "just go."

you can tell he's trying not to cry.

but you also know he won't stop you.

and that's what hurts the most.

you linger for a moment, hoping—begging—for everything to be different.

but it's not.

he just stands there, silent and still, pretending you walking away doesn't tear him apart.

and maybe you pretend too.

until the door clicks shut behind you.

he misses passes. fumbles shots. he's off, and everyone knows it.

bachira throws him a look during scrimmage, brows furrowed in quiet concern, but rin just shakes his head like it means don't ask. he doesn't want to talk. doesn't want to think. thinking leads back to you.

to the way your voice broke when you said "let's breakup."

he hears it in every second of silence. feels it in the weight of his limbs.

reo says something about his footwork being sloppy. nagi asks if he's sick. isagi tries to help, like he always does, offering some watered-down encouragement, but rin brushes them all off with a sharp, "shut up."

he gets sent off the field early.

cool off, itoshi, the coach says. he doesn't argue.

just grabs his bag, throws on his hoodie, and disappears.

at home, the quiet is worse. it echoes.

everything feels bigger now. emptier. your things are gone. the hoodie you always borrowed is still draped on the couch, and he hates that it still smells like you.

he sits in the same spot where you told him it was over. plays the moment again and again like a punishment. he tries to remember what your eyes looked like when you said it, if you hesitated at all—if there was even a chance you didn't mean it.

he wonders if he could've stopped you if he'd said the right thing. if he hadn't shut down. if he'd begged harder.

but he didn't.

he said fine. he said it like a coward. like he didn't care.

like he wasn't shattered.

nights are the worst.

sleep doesn't come. he just stares at the ceiling, phone clutched in his hand, thumb hovering over your name.

he doesn't text. doesn't call.

just stares.

he wonders if you're okay. if you're crying. if you're sleeping soundly, relieved to be free of him. he doesn't know what's worse—imagining you broken like him, or imagining you perfectly fine.

sometimes, he plays the voice memo you sent months ago. the one where you laughed and told him you loved him. he listens to it on repeat until the battery dies.

he hasn't cried.

he's not sure if he can.

but he hasn't eaten in two days, aside from protein bars, and he hasn't spoken to anyone outside practice. his room is a disaster, training gear everywhere, the covers of the bed still messy from the last night you stayed over.

he hasn't touched them.

he can't.

he's meaner now.

snappier.

every word out of his mouth is laced with bitterness, like if he spits hard enough, maybe it'll clear out the lingering taste of you. his teammates avoid him. sae texts to ask what's going on. rin leaves him on read.

everything pisses him off. the sound of someone laughing too loud. the sight of couples holding hands. love songs on the radio. commercials that remind him of that trip you took together. the chipped mug you used to drink from every morning.

it all feels like a joke now.

one he doesn't want to laugh at.

he sees you once—accidentally.

just across the street, walking with a friend. you're smiling. it kills him. not because you don't deserve to be happy. but because that smile used to be his.

he doesn't say anything. just stares until the light changes and the crowd swallows you up again. he walks the other way.

later that night, he punches the wall until his knuckles bleed.

weeks pass.

nothing gets easier.

he pretends it does. goes through the motions. trains. eats. showers. but it's all mechanical. he exists like someone pressed pause on the part of him that used to feel.

because the truth is, he doesn't know who he is without you.

you were the only person he could be soft with. the only one who understood the way his silence wasn't anger, just fear. the only one who held him when his walls cracked, when the weight of his ambition got too heavy.

you were home. and now he's lost. he almost texts you on your birthday.

he types out a dozen messages. i miss you. i'm sorry. are you okay? happy birthday. deletes every single one.

what's the point?

you made your choice.

and he let you walk away.

he said fine.

he gave up when he should've fought.

so he throws his phone across the room and buries himself in training. again. and again. and again.

like maybe if he runs hard enough, fast enough, he'll outrun the pain.

but he doesn't.

because every goal he scores, every praise he hears, is empty without someone to share it with.

he doesn't tell anyone this.

but at night, he still sleeps on your side of the bed.

just so he can pretend, for a moment, that you're still there.

because the truth is—

you were the only thing in his life that ever made him feel like he wasn't just a machine.

and now that you're gone?

he doesn't know how to be human anymore.

you aren't coping any better than him. 

you don't sleep much anymore.

it's not because you're crying—not really. you're just tired. tired in the kind of way that clings to your bones, dragging behind you like a shadow you can't shake. the apartment's quieter now. still. your phone is quieter too.

you check it more than you care to admit.

not because you're hoping for anything specific. but because a part of you—some small, aching part—keeps whispering that maybe he'll say something. maybe rin will fight for you. maybe he'll show up and say he was wrong. say he misses you.

he doesn't.

and that hurts more than anything else.

you keep reliving the moment you said it.

"let's break up."

you hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. you wanted to explain it gently, piece by piece. wanted him to understand. but the words came fast, raw, like a wound splitting open all at once.

and when he said "fine, if that's what you want", it felt like the ground gave out underneath you.

because it wasn't what you wanted.

not really.

you wanted him to tell you no. to reach for you. to care.

but he didn't.

and you weren't going to beg for a love that felt like a second priority anymore.

days pass in strange, uneven ways.

some mornings, you wake up and the grief is sharp. unbearable. it crushes you before you even sit up. other days, it's numb. a low ache you carry while you wash dishes or try to read a book. it bleeds into everything.

you think about texting him. more than once.

but every time, you stop yourself. because you remember the distance in his eyes. the way his voice had turned flat. like it didn't matter. like you didn't matter.

maybe you never did.

no—that's not fair. you know he loved you, in his own way.

but his love came wrapped in silence and absence. in missed calls and empty reassurances. in the way his dreams always came first, and you were always the one making room.

until you ran out of space to give.

you wonder if he's okay.

you wonder if he's still training until his body aches. if he's eating. if his teammates have noticed the way he shuts down when things get hard. if he stares at his phone, too.

you don't ask.

instead, you scroll through old photos. of him, smiling in those rare soft moments. of the two of you, tangled up in laughter and lazy weekends. your favorite one is blurry—he's mid-laugh, hair messy, a bowl of instant ramen in front of him.

he had looked so happy.

you wonder if he still is.

your friends ask how you're holding up.

you lie, of course. say things like "i'm fine" and "it was the right decision." they nod, supportive, but you can tell they don't quite believe you. they see the way you hesitate before answering. how you flinch when someone brings up soccer.

they don't push.

but when you get home, you fall apart again. in quiet ways. in empty rooms. in the space where he used to sleep.

you haven't moved his sweatshirt off the couch.

you don't know if you ever will.

you see him once.

he doesn't see you.

he's crossing the street, earbuds in, jaw tight. his hair is a little longer, the shadows under his eyes a little deeper. he looks tired. not physically, but soul-deep. like he's carrying something too heavy.

you almost call out to him. almost.

but you don't.

you just stand there, frozen, heart pounding in your chest like it might break free and run to him. you think about how much you miss him. how much you still love him, even now.

and how none of that changes the fact that being with him had started to hurt more than it healed.

so you turn around and walk away.

you cry about him less now.

you talk about him less now.

not because you've forgotten. but because saying his name still feels like pressing on a bruise that hasn't fully healed. your friends think you're getting better.

you're not sure if you are.

he still lingers in everything—your playlists, the takeout place he loved, the way you sleep with your back to the empty side of the bed. there are pieces of him tucked into your life like forgotten bookmarks, quietly waiting to be noticed.

you don't know how to stop loving him.

you're not sure you ever will.

but you also know this:

you're allowed to want more.

you're allowed to want a love that reaches back.

you're allowed to miss him and still know you made the right choice.

maybe one day, you'll see each other again.

maybe you'll talk.

maybe you'll finally say all the things that never made it out.

but for now—

you sit with the silence.

you let it hurt.

you let it heal.

because loving rin itoshi wasn't a mistake.

but losing yourself in him would've been.

.

it happens when you least expect it.

you're not dressed for this. not emotionally. not mentally. you're just running errands—messy hoodie, hair half-tied, earbuds in, grocery list half-forgotten in your hand. your mind's elsewhere, floating in the quiet calm of a normal day.

and then you see him.

rin.

he's standing in the far aisle of the convenience store, reaching for a bottle of water. same dark hair, same sharp profile, same shoulders you used to cry into when the world felt too heavy. he hasn't seen you yet. not really. not until he turns—and then everything stops.

his eyes meet yours.

your breath catches.

just like that, you're yanked back into something you've been trying to bury for weeks.

memories hit like waves: his hand in yours. his hoodie draped over your shoulders. his voice low and quiet against your skin when he whispered "stay."

you wonder if he remembers, too.

you think he does.

his eyes widen just a little. not surprised. just... struck. like he didn't expect this moment to come either. for a second, neither of you move. the world keeps going—music overhead, quiet footsteps around you—but you feel like you're suspended in time.

you swallow hard and look away first.

your fingers tighten around your phone like it'll anchor you. you should walk away. you should say nothing, pretend it didn't happen, pretend he didn't happen.

but then you hear him.

"wait."

his voice is quiet, but it cuts through the noise like glass.

you turn slowly.

he looks like he hasn't slept. his expression unreadable, but his eyes? they're full of something you don't have a name for. regret, maybe. guilt. longing.

god, you hate that it still makes your heart ache.

"hey," he says.

just that. hey.

like you're not standing in the ruins of everything you used to be.

"hey," you reply, voice soft.

there's a long pause. the kind that stretches too wide, filled with things neither of you know how to say.

"you look..." he trails off. swallows. "you look good."

you blink. force a smile. "you look tired."

he lets out a soft breath. maybe it was meant to be a laugh, but it sounds more like surrender.

"i've been meaning to text you," he says. "i just... didn't know if i should."

"you didn't."

he flinches.

another silence. heavier this time.

you glance toward the exit. "i should—"

"wait," he interrupts again, stepping closer. "please. just for a second."

you hate how your body still responds to his voice. how your heart still wants to believe that maybe he's here to fix it. maybe he's changed. maybe he still loves you.

"i miss you," he says suddenly, voice cracking just a little.

your eyes snap to his.

he looks broken. not dramatically, not in a way most people would notice. but you've known him. known the way he shuts down when he's hurting, the way his fingers curl into fists when he's trying not to fall apart.

and right now—he's unraveling.

"i know i hurt you," he whispers. "i know i didn't choose you the way i should have. but... being without you—i can't breathe. i don't feel like myself anymore. i don't even want to play. everything just feels—empty."

your throat tightens.

you want to tell him that you felt empty too. that you still do, sometimes. that walking away nearly killed you.

but you don't say any of that.

instead, you whisper, "you let me go."

he winces like the words hit harder than you intended.

"i didn't want to," he says. "but i thought... if i couldn't be what you needed, maybe it was better to let you walk away than to keep hurting you."

you blink back the sting in your eyes. "you could've fought  for me, rin."

"i know."

his voice is barely audible now.

"i just—" he swallows hard, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears. "i didn't know how. i've never been good at this. not with feelings. not with you. but i'm trying. i want to try. i want—" his voice breaks. "i want you back."

you stare at him.

and for a moment, all you can think about is how much you missed him.

but love isn't enough. not always.

"i don't know if i can do that," you whisper. "i'm still hurt. i'm still tired. i don't know if you can give me what i need."

he nods slowly, shoulders sagging.

"then i'll wait," he says. "as long as it takes. even if you don't come back. i'll wait."

and it's pathetic, in that way only real love can be. in the way that makes your chest hurt. in the way that makes you want to cry.

but you don't.

you just stand there, watching the boy who once held your heart finally learn what it means to lose it.

it doesn't happen that day.

you leave the store with his voice echoing in your ears—"then i'll wait." you don't look back, but the ache in your chest lingers, heavier than before.

and yet, days pass.

then a week.

then two.

no calls. no messages. just silence. the kind that's filled with too many unsaid things.

and somehow, it's worse than before—because now you know how he feels. now you know he misses you. now you know he's waiting.

and god, you miss him too.

you miss the little things. his quiet voice in the morning. the way his hand always found yours under the table. the rare, precious smiles that made everything else fade away.

you miss him.

but love isn't something you fall into and out of like it's easy. it's a choice. it's showing up. it's trying. 

and maybe, just maybe... you're both ready now.

the next time you see him, it's raining.

the sky is a soft gray, the kind that blurs the world into watercolors. you didn't plan to see him. didn't plan anything, really. you were just walking—thinking, always thinking—when you found yourself near the pitch.

and there he is.

rin.

alone. drenched. practicing in the rain like it's the only thing that can keep him grounded.

you watch from the sidelines for a moment, heart twisting at how familiar this feels. how many times did you stand like this before? loving someone who gave his all to the game.

he hasn't noticed you yet.

so you call his name.

he stops instantly, head turning, breath visible in the cold air. his eyes find yours—and just like that, you see it. every unspoken word. every apology. every i miss you  that's been sitting between you since the day everything fell apart.

you step closer, rain soaking through your sleeves, your shoes, your skin. but none of it matters.

he doesn't move. just stares like he's afraid to blink and lose you again.

you stop in front of him, heart pounding.

"hey," you say softly.

he doesn't answer. not at first. just studies your face like he's memorizing it again.

finally, he speaks.

"i didn't text you," he says, voice hoarse. "i wanted to. every day. but i thought maybe you needed space. maybe you hated me."

you shake your head. "i didn't hate you."

he swallows hard. "do you... still?"

"no." you pause. "i never did."

his shoulders drop. not in defeat—just relief. like he's been holding his breath for weeks.

you look at him—really look—and say, "i've been thinking a lot."

he nods slowly. waits.

"you were right," you admit. "you weren't ready. and maybe i wasn't either. maybe we needed to break before we could figure out how to fix it."

he says nothing, but you can see it—hope blooming in the corners of his eyes.

"i don't want perfect," you whisper. "i just want you. even if it's messy. even if it's hard. i just... want to try again."

his breath stutters.

"do you mean that?" he asks, like he's afraid to believe it.

you nod. "but i need you to meet me halfway, rin. i need to be more than a second thought. i need to feel like i matter."

he steps closer, rain dripping down his face, his jaw trembling like he's trying to hold himself together.

"you do," he says fiercely. "you matter more than anything. i didn't know how to show it before. but i swear—i'll learn. i'll do better. i'll never make you feel like you're not enough again."

you reach for his hand, cold and wet but steady in yours.

"okay," you whisper. "then let's try."

he exhales a shaky breath, and for the first time in what feels like forever—you see him smile.

not the small, polite one.

a real one.

soft. hopeful. full of love.

his arms wrap around you like muscle memory.

not rushed. not desperate. just... full.

like he's memorizing the feel of you again.

you breathe him in—rainwater and grass and something so rin it makes your chest ache.

he's trembling a little. or maybe it's you.

maybe it's both of you, standing in the middle of the world you almost lost, too scared to hope, too full of it anyway.

his hands settle gently at your waist, thumbs brushing the soaked fabric of your shirt.

his forehead rests against yours, water dripping off his lashes.

his voice is soft. raw.

"you still love me?"

you don't say anything.

you lean in.

and kiss him.

slow.

like the first page of a book you want to read forever.

like you've waited too long and somehow not long enough.

he stills against you—just for a second.

then his mouth moves with yours, sure and reverent.

not perfect. not practiced.

honest.

the rain falls harder. it soaks through your clothes, your hair, the space between you.

but you don't care.

you don't even feel the cold anymore.

you just feel him.

his fingers slide up to cradle your jaw, careful but certain.

like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go, but he doesn't want to hold you too tight either.

and when you finally pull back, both of you breathless, the world is still spinning. but slower now.

his eyes search yours.

he's never been good at words.

but this—this look—

it says everything.

i missed you.

i still want you.

please don't leave again.

you press your forehead to his.

"i'm here," you whisper. "we're okay."

and he nods.

just once.

you kiss him again, soft and certain.

and this time, it feels like a promise.

"i love you."

and for the first time in a long time—you let yourself believe in something again.

not because it's easy.

but because it's real.

it fills the space between your breaths, weighs down your limbs, coils in your stomach like a secret waiting to explode. the silence of your parents' house, too pristine, too cold. the silence of your phone screen, untouched, unread. the silence of the words you want to say—but can't.

reo's name flashes at the top of your messages. you haven't replied in hours.

he sent a picture earlier. sweaty hair, flushed cheeks, a crooked grin and a victory sign. "won the scrim," he wrote. "thinking of you helped."

you almost cried when you saw it.

almost, because there's no time to cry when everything's falling apart. not when your parents sit you down and say, firmly, finally:

"you're a distraction."

not when they stare you down with that clinical disappointment.

"you're not thinking long term."

not when they say they'll intervene. not when they threaten to reach out to the mikage corporation—reo's father—and tell him that you're interfering with his son's future.

"you want to see him succeed, don't you?" your father asked, as if the question were rhetorical.

and that's the cruelest part.

because you do.

you love reo more than anything. more than school, more than comfort, more than breathing some days. he's bright and stubborn and too good, too hopeful, too big for the life they want you to live. he talks about football like it's salvation. like it's the only place he ever truly feels alive.

you've seen it, too. the way his whole body lights up after training, the way he talks about improving with a fire in his eyes that could burn down the world if you let it.

you can't take that from him. not ever.

and so, you sit in bed with your phone clenched tight in your hands, and you begin to type.

"reo."

you stare at the single word. backspace.

"i think we should break up."

you pause. it's so quiet, so cold. he'll ask why. he'll panic. you've never even fought before—not seriously. he tells you everything. he leans on you. trusts you.

you blink away tears and keep typing.

"i don't think this is working anymore. i'm sorry."

it doesn't feel like your fingers. it doesn't feel like your voice. it feels like betrayal.

you hover over the send button. your thumb trembles.

but this is the only way.

you close your eyes and think of his smile, his laugh, the way he kisses your forehead before every game. the way he says, "with you, i feel like i can do anything." you hope he still can.

you press send.

and then you turn off your phone.

────୨ৎ────

reo stares at the message for a full minute before his brain even begins to process it.

he reads it once. twice. again. again.

i don't think this is working anymore. i'm sorry.

no explanation. no context. just—

gone.

he dials your number immediately. it goes straight to voicemail.

he texts: "what are you talking about?"

nothing.

"where are you? can we talk?"

still nothing.

his stomach twists, his heart crawling up his throat. he knows you. knows your words, your rhythm, your warmth. this message isn't you. this is something else. something wrong.

but he can't make sense of it. can't breathe around it. the pain is so immediate and sharp, like someone's cracked open his chest and left it bleeding.

did he mess up? did he miss something? how could everything feel so perfect yesterday and completely shattered now?

────୨ৎ────

you sit on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, your phone facedown beside you. it's been vibrating on and off for the last ten minutes.

you don't look. you can't.

if you do, you'll cave. and if you cave, your parents will do what they promised. and if they do that—reo loses everything.

and you can't be the reason he stops playing football. not when he loves it more than anything.

not even if it means breaking both your hearts to protect his.

you bury your face in your hands and try not to cry too loud. no one would hear you, but still, you try.

────୨ৎ────

reo doesn't sleep that night. he paces his room, runs back through every conversation, every hug, every look. nothing makes sense. nothing fits.

he types again. "if this is about something i did, please just talk to me. we can fix it."

when you still don't reply, he throws his phone onto the bed and sits down hard, hands buried in his hair.

"what the hell is happening?" he whispers into the quiet.

his chest aches. it physically aches.

you're not just a girlfriend. you're home. you're the safe place he could fall into when football got too heavy, when pressure became too loud. he could tell you anything. with you, he didn't have to perform. didn't have to be perfect.

and now you're gone.

just like that.

────୨ৎ────

you don't sleep either.

you lie still and wonder if he hates you. if he's crying. if he'll ever forgive you. if he'll ever understand.

and a small, cruel part of you hopes he never finds out the truth. because if he did... he'd try to fight it. and you're not sure you'd be strong enough to stop him.

but you'd rather him hate you... than lose his dream because of you.

so you hold the pain. quietly. completely.

because this is love too.

even if it doesn't look like it.

────୨ৎ────

it starts with flowers.

delivered to your doorstep the next morning, wrapped in deep violet paper, your favorite. the note is in his handwriting. short. messy.

"i don't understand, but i'm not giving up. i love you."

you stare at them for a long time before placing them outside your bedroom window, where the sun won't reach them. they wilt quietly by the end of the day.

the next morning, a box.

your favorite snacks. ones he used to bring you after long school days. he remembered everything—down to the specific brand of chocolate you once said made you feel warm inside.

"you always made the worst days better. let me do that for you now."

you don't open the box. you leave it on the kitchen table, untouched.

stop this.

please.

you say to no one.

and still, he doesn't.

the next week it's a hoodie. his hoodie. the one you used to steal when he stayed over late and you pretended not to be cold, just so he'd drape it over your shoulders with that soft smile.

the smell is still there—him. like citrus and whatever warm scent lingered in his laundry detergent. it nearly drops from your hands the second you pull it out of the parcel.

you place it gently back in the box and tape it shut.

you don't send it back, but you don't wear it either.

he texts again, and again, and again.

"did i mess up?"

"please just tell me what i did."

"i can fix it. whatever it is, just talk to me."

you cry in the shower.

every message feels like a bruise. every gift feels like a wound. every part of him that finds its way to you is just another reminder of everything you can't have—not because you don't want it, but because wanting it isn't enough.

not when his future is on the line.

not when your silence is the only thing keeping him safe.

you respond to none of them. you can't bring yourself to block him either. you just... let it sit. let the unread messages pile. let him scream into the void you've become.

you try to tell yourself this is love.

you repeat it like a mantra.

you're doing the right thing. you're doing the right thing.you're doing the right thing?

so why does it feel like you're killing him piece by piece?

you notice it by accident.

you're lying in bed, phone heavy in your hand, your eyes swollen from crying too long and too hard. you open twitter out of muscle memory—just to scroll, to distract yourself—and his name pops up in your search history before you even finish typing.

reo mikage.

you click it, stupidly hopeful.

but instead of his profile, you're greeted with the familiar, slightly smug message:

"you're blocked. you can't follow or see @reomikage's tweets."

you blink.

then blink again.

and then—of all things—you laugh.

it starts small, quiet. just a breath through your nose. then it turns into a choked-out snort, and soon enough you're clutching your stomach, tears falling again—this time not from sadness but because of how unbelievably dramatic he is.

he blocked you.

you, the person who sobbed into his chest after horror movies. who stole his fries when you swore you weren't hungry. you, who knew him inside and out.

he blocked you like you're some clingy ex-girlfriend who writes messy sub-tweets and thirst traps.

you bury your face in your pillow, laughing and crying all at once.

so petty. so dramatic. so very reo.

you love him so much it hurts.

and maybe that's why, when the laughter dies down and silence creeps back in, the ache settles heavier than ever in your chest. because he's not blocking you to be cruel. he's doing it because he knows you'll check. because he's hurting too. because this is the only way he knows how to scream without saying a word.

still, you miss him in all his ridiculous, over-the-top glory.

you swipe over to instagram and click through stories mindlessly. until you land on nagi's.

a video of a couch. nagi's long legs propped up. a controller in his hand. he mumbles something about needing snacks before panning the camera over.

reo should be beside him. that's usually how it goes. reo shouting strategies, reo getting way too into it, reo calling nagi a loser every time he dies.

but there's only an empty seat next to nagi.

reo's not gaming.

your thumb hesitates over the screen.

what's he doing, then?

you try not to overthink it. maybe he's just grabbing water. maybe he's out. maybe he's in the kitchen talking to his mom. maybe—maybe—maybe—

but the truth is, you don't know anymore.

you don't get to know.

your stomach twists.

you stare at that empty space beside nagi like it holds answers. you imagine reo sitting there, legs bouncing restlessly, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line—stubborn, silent, shutting everyone out just like he's shut you out.

you close the story and toss your phone onto the bed, lying flat on your back as your eyes sting.

he blocked you on twitter.

and you still miss him with your whole heart.

how pathetic is that?

but then again, if reo can be petty enough to block you in broad daylight like the sassy little menace he is, maybe it's okay that you still love him this loudly.

even if he's quiet now.

even if he's not next to nagi.

even if you never get to laugh in his arms again.

────୨ৎ────

it's raining again.

fat drops hit the window with steady rhythm, a sound that used to comfort you, but tonight it only deepens the quiet of your apartment. your living room is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the television. 10 Things I Hate About You plays on screen, the familiar scene unfolding—the poem, her cracking voice, the sadness in her eyes. you've watched it a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different.

tonight, it feels personal.

you sit curled on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, a half-melted tub of ice cream nestled in your lap. it's the strawberry kind he used to buy without asking. a spoon dangles loosely between your fingers, forgotten as you stare at the screen but don't really watch.

your chest aches. your eyes sting. you've already cried once tonight, maybe twice. you've lost count.

somewhere in the movie, kat's voice trembles through the speakers:

"but mostly, i hate the way i don't hate you... not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."

you sniffle. wipe at your eyes. laugh bitterly at yourself.

you live alone now. no one's here to see the mess, and that makes it easier, somehow. you don't have to pretend. you can fall apart in peace.

the credits start to roll, soft music filling the room. you reach for another bite of ice cream just as—

knock knock.

you freeze.

the spoon slips from your fingers and lands on the blanket with a dull thud. you glance toward the front door, heart thudding. maybe you imagined it. maybe it was the wind or something falling outside—

knock knock knock.

you don't get up right away.

you stay on the couch, staring at the door like it might disappear if you look long enough. your heart is hammering in your chest, stomach twisted in knots. it's him. you know it. something in you knew the second you heard that knock.

you rise slowly, legs shaky. the sound of the rain only gets louder the closer you get to the door. your bare feet are silent against the floor, but your breath is a dead giveaway—shaky, unsteady, a mess.

you don't open the door.

instead, you press your forehead against it, like maybe if you're quiet enough, maybe if you pretend hard enough, he'll leave.

but he doesn't.

you hear it—his breathing. shallow, broken. a quiet sob, muffled through the door.

"i know you're in there," reo says. his voice cracks, fragile in a way that's so unlike him it hurts. "your lights are on."

you clench your jaw, eyes burning. "go home, reo."

silence.

a beat. then another.

"no."

you let out a shaky breath, press your palm to the wood between you.

"i said leave." your voice is soft, quieter than you mean for it to be. it betrays you. it begs.

"i'm not leaving."

you squeeze your eyes shut. your voice hardens. "why are you doing this?"

outside, you hear a shift. maybe he's sitting down.

maybe he's giving up.

"because i can't keep pretending like any of this is okay," he says, words tumbling out in a rush. "i let you go because you told me to. but i didn't stop thinking about you for a second. and when i finally thought i could maybe breathe again, i started sending you things because i didn't know what else to do. and when you sent them back, i thought... maybe you hated me."

you grip the doorknob but don't turn it.

"i don't hate you," you whisper. "that's the problem."

the rain hits harder now, pouring in sheets, thunder rumbling in the distance. you hear it in his voice when he speaks again—shivering, low, desperate.

"i'll sit here all night if i have to. i'm not going anywhere."

"you'll get sick," you say, panic rising. "you're soaking wet, reo, go home—"

"then open the door." his voice cracks again. "if you don't want me to get sick, open the damn door."

you flinch.

he doesn't say anything for a moment. just breathes. just waits.

"or maybe it's your fault if i do," he adds, and there's a shaky laugh behind the words, like he's trying to joke, trying to cling to anything that might make you open the door. "you'll feel really guilty, y'know? if i die from a cold or something."

you press your lips together to keep them from trembling.

"you're so dramatic," you whisper.

"only for you," he replies, barely audible. "always for you."

you slide down the door, knees to your chest, and sit on the other side of it. there's a wall between you still, but something about hearing him, knowing he's so close, makes it unbearable.

you both stay quiet for a while.

you hear the faint sound of him shifting again. maybe curling up to keep warm.

"i didn't mean for it to happen like this," you say eventually, your voice barely audible over the rain. "i didn't want to hurt you."

"then why?" his voice breaks. "why'd you break up with me like that? you just left. you didn't even give me a chance to fix it."

you wipe your eyes, angry at yourself for crying again.

"because they were going to ruin you."

"who?"

you hesitate. then: "my parents said they'll tell your parents i'm interfering with your future.."

there's a pause.

then he laughs—low, disbelieving. bitter.

"of course," he mutters. "i should've known."

"they said they'd take football away from you," you admit, every word scraping your throat raw. "that they'd pull everything if i didn't leave you. i didn't want to be the reason you lost your dream. i couldn't live with that."

you expect him to be angry.

but when he speaks, he just sounds wrecked.

"you should've told me."

"i was scared."

"of me?"

"of losing you," you say, tears slipping down your cheeks. "of making it worse."

he exhales hard, like he's trying not to fall apart on your front step.

"i wouldn't have let them touch you," he says. "i would've fought for you."

"but then you'd lose everything."

"you were everything," he snaps, then softens. "are. and now i've lost you anyway."

you press your face into your knees, heart in ruins.

outside, the rain keeps falling.

you picture him there, soaked to the bone, stubborn and hurting, curled up outside your apartment like the world ended and he's waiting for it to start again.

"please," he whispers. "just open the door."

you don't know what to say.

your hand moves to the doorknob on its own.

you hesitate.

the storm is still loud—rain hammering down like it's trying to drown everything out. your chest is tight, your heart thudding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

and then you open the door.

reo's sitting there on the doormat, soaked through, purple hair dripping, his designer hoodie clinging to his skin like it's begging for warmth. he looks up slowly, blinking raindrops out of his lashes, eyes red-rimmed and wide.

"you really opened it," he whispers, like he's not sure if it's real.

you don't say anything. you just step back, wordless invitation.

he stands shakily, his knees probably stiff from sitting in the cold, and walks inside without a sound. water drips from his clothes onto your floor, but you don't care. you don't even think to grab a towel.

you just stand there, watching him.

reo looks around like he's forgotten what your place feels like. like it's something out of a dream. the room is dim, the tv still playing the rom-com in the background. the scent of your strawberry ice cream hangs in the air.

he turns to face you. his lower lip trembles.

"i missed you," he says.

you nod, throat too tight to speak. then, slowly, you reach for him—hands on his cold, soaked cheeks, and you pull him into a kiss. it's desperate and messy and tastes like salt and rain. he kisses you like he thought he'd never get to again.

you both breathe hard when you pull away.

"you're freezing," you murmur.

he gives a soft, watery laugh. "yeah, whose fault is that?"

you try to smile. it's weak.

you fetch him a towel and a change of clothes—one of his hoodies you never gave back, and some old joggers he left behind. he disappears into the bathroom to change, and for a moment, you just stand there, heart aching.

when he returns, his hair is damp but his body's warm again. he sits beside you on the couch, quiet. too quiet.

you glance at him. his jaw's tight. his eyes are focused on the tv, but you can tell he's not really watching. he looks... distant.

"reo?" you ask softly.

he blinks and turns to you. "yeah?"

but there's something off about him. something lingering in his expression that doesn't match the relief you thought this moment would bring.

"what's wrong?" you ask.

he shrugs. "nothing. just... thinking."

you wait. you know he's holding something back.

and then, finally, he speaks—voice barely above a whisper.

"how was it so easy for you?"

you blink. "what?"

his eyes meet yours now, and there's no heat in them, just pain.

"to let me go," he says. "to ignore me. to send back the things i gave you. how did you do that like it didn't destroy you?"

you feel like he's just stabbed something straight through your chest.

"reo..." your voice breaks. "it wasn't easy."

he lets out a shaky breath, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "then why did it look like it was? like you just... moved on. like you didn't even care."

"i did care," you say, louder than you mean to. "i cared so much it nearly killed me."

"then why didn't you say anything?" he turns to you now, eyes sharp with hurt. "why didn't you fight for me? why did you just let me think i meant nothing?"

"because if i didn't let you go, they were going to take football away from you!" you say, voice cracking. "i thought i was protecting you. i thought—" your breath hitches, "i thought you'd hate me less if you believed i didn't care."

he's quiet.

the rain outside is the only sound for a long while.

then he says, softly, "but you were the one thing in my life that felt like mine. not something handed to me by my family or tied to expectations. just... you. us. and losing that—losing you—it didn't feel like protection. it felt like punishment."

you press your knuckles to your mouth to keep from sobbing. "i didn't know what else to do. they gave me an ultimatum. i didn't want to ruin everything you worked for."

he finally looks at you, eyes glassy.

"i would've given it all up if it meant keeping you," he says. "don't you get that? i don't care about the money or the name or their stupid threats. i just wanted you."

your tears spill over.

you reach for him again, gently this time, and he leans into your touch like he's been starving for it.

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "i never wanted to hurt you. i thought i was doing the right thing."

"it doesn't matter anymore," he says, voice hoarse. "you're here now."

you hold him tighter.

his arms are around you, but it still doesn't feel like enough.

not after everything.

not after weeks of silence and aching and missing each other in all the worst ways.

you pull back just slightly, just enough to see his face. his eyes search yours like he's trying to make sense of the fact that you're really here again — like he's afraid if he blinks, you'll vanish.

you brush your fingers along his jaw, the way you used to when he was tired after practice. and he leans into it instinctively, like his body remembers even when his heart is still catching up.

"reo," you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain, "can i kiss you?"

his breath hitches.

he nods. "please."

you close the space between you slowly, cautiously, like you're both terrified to break whatever fragile thing is blooming in the space between you. and when your lips finally meet his, it's not desperate. it's not rushed.

it's soft.

it's slow.

it's the kind of kiss that aches.

the kind of kiss that says i missed you, i never stopped loving you, i'm sorry i let you go.

his hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away tears you didn't even realize were still falling. he kisses you like he's remembering every detail of you — the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your skin, the way you used to sigh against his lips when you were alone.

you melt into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie — the one you never gave back. it still smells like him, even after all this time. like rain and pine and something stubbornly familiar.

he pulls back just a breath away, foreheads touching.

"i thought I'd forgotten what this felt like," he murmurs, lips brushing yours. "but it's still you. it's always been you."

you nod, eyes closed, breathing in the moment like it's the only thing tethering you to the world.

"it's still me," you whisper. "and it's still you."

and then you kiss him again.

this time deeper.

this time like maybe — just maybe — you can start over.

satoru’s obsessed with understanding you—your moods, your fears, your hopes. but instead of just asking, he tries to “figure you out” like a puzzle, quietly pining as he studies your expressions from afar, wishing you’d notice him just as much.

every time you’re distant or distracted, he spirals inward, muttering to himself about “losing the hypothesis of us.” he can’t bear the thought that maybe, just maybe, you might stop loving him.

he’s terrified to tell you how much he needs you, afraid it’ll push you away. so he masks his yearning behind awkward jokes or nerdy comments, but the cracks in his facade show when his voice falters or his hands tremble.

satoru keeps a stash of little gifts—books you mentioned wanting, or weird trinkets from his research—but he’s too scared to give them to you directly. instead, he leaves them in places where you’ll find them, hoping you’ll understand the silent confession.

when you laugh with someone else, his jealousy isn’t loud or angry—it’s quiet, painfully lonely. he finds himself comparing himself to them, hating that they get to share moments he can only dream about.

you sleep over one night and when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers your name, almost like a prayer, a desperate hope that you won’t forget him in the storm of your life.

when he finally confesses his feelings, it’s a messy, trembling admission—he’s not proud of how much he yearns for you, but he can’t keep it inside any longer. it’s both heartbreaking and painfully sincere.

his texts start sweet and hopeful, then gradually unravel into desperate pleas—“please don’t leave me,” “i’m nothing without you,” “you’re the only constant in my chaos”—and then he hides his phone, ashamed of his own obsession.

his love is a tangled web of obsession, hope, fear, and devotion. he’s begging you not just to stay, but to see him—the real, broken, yearning satoru beneath the blinding smile and cool exterior.

after confessing, satoru’s usual playful confidence softens into something more tender but also clingy. he checks on you obsessively—texts, calls, little “just thinking about you” messages—because now that he’s laid his feelings bare, the fear of losing you feels even more immediate. he wants constant reassurance that you’re still there, still his.

he’s still the goofball, but the teasing has a new edge—sometimes it’s his way of masking how overwhelmed he feels inside. if you try to pull away, even briefly, his tone might turn desperate or pleading, making it clear that his heart is tangled up in yours in a way that’s hard to shake.

satoru can’t stand the idea of you being alone, so he shows up unannounced sometimes, bringing your favorite snacks or a dumb movie, just to make sure you’re okay. he’s slightly pathetic in these moments, fumbling over his words when he’s worried, but you can see the genuine love behind it all.

he obsessively remembers little things you say—your favorite flower, a song stuck in your head—and uses them to surprise you, trying to prove he’s paying attention, that you matter. it’s both endearing and overwhelming, but it’s how he tries to hold onto you.

at night, he’s restless, sometimes whispering your name when he thinks you’re asleep, caught between hope and anxiety. if you comfort him, he finally lets some of that tension go, clinging to you like a lifeline.

his protectiveness spikes—he’s intensely watchful whenever you’re near anyone else, but instead of lashing out, he becomes quietly possessive, subtle but unmistakable.

when you talk to someone else, even casually, a cold shadow flickers across his expression, barely hidden behind his usual grin.

he might joke at first—snarky comments like, “oh, you having fun over there? don’t forget who owns your time,” but there’s a sharpness beneath it, a warning you can’t quite ignore.

his eyes follow you closely, calculating. if he catches you laughing or sharing a moment with someone else, his smile tightens, and his voice lowers. “they don’t deserve you. only i get to see that side of you.”

satoru’s clinginess becomes more intense, borderline suffocating. he’s constantly needing to be near you, “accidentally” appearing whenever you meet other people, his presence looming like a shadow that’s hard to shake.

when you’re on the phone or texting someone else, he gets restless and tense, sometimes snatching your phone away with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “let me see who’s so important.”

if you push back or try to set boundaries, he becomes eerily calm—almost sinister. his tone drops to a quiet, dangerous whisper: “don’t make me prove how far i’ll go to keep you.”

he starts keeping tabs—subtle but invasive. knowing your schedule, who you talk to, even the times you try to have space. it’s his way of holding the world at bay so no one else can take you from him.

his teasing becomes laced with possessiveness. “you belong with me,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your wrist with a pressure that’s equal parts comforting and controlling.

despite the darkness creeping in, there’s still that desperate yearning beneath it all—the terrified hope that you’ll stay, that you won’t leave him alone in his obsession.

 satoru becomes almost unbearable when you talk to anyone else. if you so much as glance at another person, he’s instantly sulking or whining, like a kid who’s been caught losing his favorite toy.

“hey, what was that?” he pouts, voice dragging out the words like it’s the worst crime imaginable. “you smiled at him? seriously? i’m right here, you know.”

he clings to you like a barnacle, wrapping his arm around your waist or grabbing your hand and refusing to let go. “don’t go anywhere,” he whines softly, eyes wide and pleading, “please? i get scared, okay? what if you forget me?”

he’s constantly texting you when you’re apart—bombarding your phone with messages like, “who are you with? are you thinking about me? don’t leave me alone!” and then immediately sending a follow-up: “sorry, i’m just… i love you too much.”

when you hang out with friends, he tags along uninvited, pretending it’s casual but really watching your every move with this awkward, clingy intensity. if you’re laughing or talking without him, he pouts and mutters, “that should be me.”

he gets whiny over the smallest things, like you not answering his calls right away or taking too long to reply. “are you ignoring me?” he asks, voice breaking a little. “you’re not mad, are you? please don’t be mad.”

even when he’s being annoying, there’s this pathetic, desperate neediness that makes you want to soothe him, but sometimes it’s exhausting.

he tries to mask his jealousy with jokes, but they come out bitter and clingy: “guess i’ll have to up my game, huh? no one else better try to steal you.”

at night, he gets extra needy—dragging you close and burying his face in your neck, whispering, “don’t leave me. you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

and when you finally tell him he’s being a little much, he gets all pouty and defensive, like a sulky kid, “but i can’t help it! you’re mine, and i’m scared you’ll leave me for someone better.”

beneath all that whiny, clingy, annoying behavior is a scared, fragile guy who’s terrified of losing you and just doesn’t know how to handle it gracefully.