DOPAMINE ; plug!eren x reader
Eren fucks up your relationship, and is now desperately trying to get you back.
Warnings: Mentions of sexual activity, foul language, mentions of substance use
A/N: I originally was going to leave it after finishing part 2, but you guys are kinda eating this series up and now I'm unsure what to do... maybe I should just keep writing more parts until you guys are satiated with it. If you couldn't tell I love a good slow(ish) burn. Anyway, this is also poorly proofread as I've been terribly busy.
Enjoy, and thank you all so much for your support! I love you all so much :')
Love, Still.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
âStress relief, Y/N. It was stress relief.â you sighed to yourself, feeling the ache eat away at your chest as you unlocked the door to your dorm room, pressing your hand firmly against your temple as you pushed the door open half-heartedly. Last night couldnât have gotten any worse. You went to that party to get over Eren, not to have him eat you out against a wall, finger you until you cry out of overstimulating pleasure, and then loom around you the entire night before falling asleep together with him.Â
You absolutely refused to let yourself actually feel vulnerable again. You couldnât let it happen, not after how you let yourself feel for all those months.Â
You made your way to the small bathroom within your dorm suite, dragging your feet along the cold floor with the usual exhaustion you felt after waking up, before splashing your face with cool water just to wake yourself up and really focus. On what you did, on what you let him do. On what you couldnât let happen again. So what if he made you cum on his tongue and fingers, watched out for you the entire night and made sure you were safe, took off your makeup for you, changed your clothes for you and slept beside you?Â
You hated him, didnât you?Â
Well, you were trying to convince yourself you really did.Â
Was it working?
Not quite.Â
You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, watching the clear dabbles of water drip off of your dull skin. You groaned softly to yourself as you leaned in closer, examining over your face, pulling gently at the sickening skin. You had shit to do, you had people to go see, you had a life to make for yourself, and you just had to look absolutely sickly today. You sighed in disappointment, and then turned around, looking through your drawers to find a towel. Just as you were patting your face dry, your phone lit up, lighting up on the bathroom counter. Turning towards it, you picked up your phone. It was a text from Eren.Â
Instantly, you felt your guts twist in all the wrong ways, your eyes squinting just slightly in disgust, just at seeing his name on your phone. You felt nauseated. Sick. You hated this feeling. It wasnât from disgust. It was the fact you loved him so much, it made you feel sick to your damned stomach. Yet, it also didnât mean you werenât still pissed as shit for what he did to you.Â
eren: why did you leave?
You paused for just a second, eyes staring at the screen blankly. You had two options: ignore him, or respond with some bullshit. Just to be petty, you decided to respond with some bullshit.
you: why would i have stayed?
You froze after accidentally hitting the send button before thinking about what you were saying. Shit, was that too mean? No, you didnât care how he felt. He deserved it. Being sorry wasnât nearly enough to satiate you and your restless mind. After months and months of entertaining other women, he thinks one good night could just fix that shit? It was all rooted in your blood, in your firing neurons, the bitterness, the fuming anger, the hurt. You wanted to convince yourself you werenât actually that affected by it all, but you were. You were more than affected.Â
Sure, to Eren it may have seemed like you barely cared, but you did. You cared so fucking much, it made you sick to your stomach, just thinking about it all. All of those classes, study sessions, meetings, the party, it was all an attempt to distract yourself from the thought of him. Because if you spent too much time thinking about him, youâd run back. If you spent too long letting those thoughts linger, youâd ruin the little respect you had for yourself within seconds. The things he did to you without even knowing it, it was so fucking inexplainable.Â
You drag the palms of your hands down your face, trying your best to ground yourself before you let your gaze drag towards your phone screen once again.Â
eren: wdym why would u have stayed
eren: i thought we fixed things
eren: y/n what are you talking about
Of course he thought you guys fixed things from simple sex and a single good night. âOf course,â you thought to yourself, the bitter feeling in your heart overriding most logical thought in your head. âOf course you thought it would be okay,â the thought alone made you angry. Did he really think that a single night could excuse and disregard how he acted all those months? It didnât feel like that in the slightest. Did he think it could be that easy?Â
You hesitated to respond, trying to convince yourself not to say something snarky to him. Like â âAre you fucking stupid? You think tucking me to bed is going to get us back together?â or, âI told you I was done with your ass.â but thenâ an idea popped in your head.Â
The idea of calling him stress relief. No, donât do that. Thatâs too far. Would it make him feel half as bad as you felt? Maybe. Hopefully. Then, the idea of calling him stress relief became a little more appealing to you. Was it a little evil? Maybe. You couldnât really tell at this point, your mind was clouded with anger. To you, it was completely justified. Yet at the same time, you worried about hurting his feelings too much.Â
you: that was just stress relief, eren. get over urself.
Eren didnât respond immediately like he had before. He left you on read for a good 5 minutes, before finally responding.
eren: the fuck?
eren: stress relief? youâre deadass?
You didnât know how to respond. Yeah, no. That was a low blow, Y/N. You didnât mean that in the slightest. If you did, you wouldnât have said you loved him in the middle of him eating you out. But youâd rather have him believe what you just said over him thinking he had any sort of advantage over you. You wanted to convince him, just as much as you wanted to convince yourself, that you didnât give a fuck anymore.Â
You swallowed nervously before leaving him on read, shutting off your phone before you could conjure up anything worse to say. Ultimately deciding not to entertain any further conversation with him. The day droned on and on in a hazed blur; full of errands, two hour lectures, doing just about anything to distract yourself. Thankfully, it was working. You found yourself on auto-pilot, taking care of favors you offered to handle for others, emails, homework, assignments, reports, focusing on whatever task you had at hand. Doing anything but giving him a second of your thoughts.Â
On the other hand, Eren was losing his goddamn mind.Â
It started with the five minutes after he sent that last message. Five minutes that felt like an hour. He stared at his phone like it might buzz if he willed it hard enough, thumb hovering, jaw tight, rereading your words over and over until they didnât even sound real anymore.
Stress relief.
The phrase stuck in his throat like glass.
He tried to laugh it off at first. A sharp, humorless breath through his nose. Sheâs fucking with me, he told himself. You always did thatâsaid things you didnât mean just to see if theyâd hurt. Just to see if heâd flinch. He knew you better than that, right? He paced the length of his dorm room, phone in hand, then set it down, then picked it back up again not even ten seconds later.
Still nothing.
Just: âreadâ. His room felt wrong without you. Not emptyâoff. Like someone had shifted the furniture an inch to the left and his body noticed before his brain could catch up. Your spot on the bed was still slightly indented. He hadnât fixed the sheets, and he wonât. He couldnât bring himself to. The air still smelled faintly like youâyour shampoo, your perfume, mixed with the stale scent of weed and alcohol last night. It made his chest ache in a way he didnât have a word for. It started to hurt. He started wanting you back so bad, it started to physically hurt his chest.Â
He tried to distract himself too. Showered too hot, steam clouding his bathroom, standing under the water until his skin went red and steaming, until his thoughts got loud enough that the sound of the water couldnât drown them out anymore. Got dressed. Undressed. Changed shirts twice because everything felt wrong against his skin. Especially while feeling completely deprived of your touch. He grabbed his keys with the intention of leaving, then froze with his hand on the door.
If I leave, she might text.
So he stayed. Just for a little longer.Â
By late morning, heâd opened your chat so many times his phone practically did it automatically. He scrolled upâtoo farâpast messages he shouldnât have reread. Little things. Inside jokes. Late-night âare you awake?â texts. A stupid meme youâd sent at almost 4 a.m. months ago followed by a voice message of you quietly cackling in bed that he remembered laughing at so hard his sides hurt.
How does someone go from that to this?
He tried to be angry. God, he tried. Told himself you were cruel. That you used him that night. That youâd always been selfish, always hot and cold, always pulling him close just to shove him away the second it got too real for you. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his hair, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. But he couldnât, knowing he took a good amount of the blame, if not almost completely.Â
Anger kept slipping through his fingers, replaced by something worse.
Confusion.
Because none of it lined up. Not the way youâd looked at him last night when you were high in his arms. Not the way youâd said his name last night when his head was between your thighs.. Not the way youâd fallen asleep beside him like your body remembered something your mouth was trying to forget. Not the way youâd said I love youâquiet, honest, like it scared you too, in the midst of him going down on you.
People didnât do that for stress relief.
Was he just coping? He didnât know, he didnât know anything anymore.
Around noon, he finally forced himself out. Went to class but didnât hear a single word, despite his best efforts. His notebook stayed blank. He tapped his pen against the desk in a frantic, uneven rhythm, leg bouncing so hard the guy next to him shot him a look. Every vibration from his phoneâeven spam emailsâmade his heart jump.
Still nothing from you.
By mid-afternoon, the panic set in fully. The kind that sat heavy in his chest, made his breathing shallow, made everything feel slightly unreal. He replayed the night over and over, searching for the exact moment he mustâve misread something. Wondered if heâd said the wrong thing. Done too much. Not enough.
Did I fucking make it all up?
He typed out messages he never sent.
Tell me what I did wrong. Donât do this to me. Y/N, Iâll fucking beg, just tell me what I can do for you to come back.
Deleted all of them.
By evening, he was exhausted in a bone-deep way that had nothing to do with sleep. He sat alone on his bed, phone facedown beside him like it might bite. His thoughts kept circling the same ugly realization, one he hated more than anything else:
You had control again.
And you knew it.
That was the point, anyway.Â
The idea that you could reduce him to something so small, so dismissible, made his stomach churn. Not because it hurt his ego. But because it meant heâd let himself believe, for one stupid night, that things could be okay again. That it was just one of your arguments, that youâd always done this and eventually, youâd be back in his arms. That it was fixable.
That youâd chosen him.
When his phone finally lit up laterânot a message from you, just a notificationâhe didnât even bother checking. He just stared at the wall, jaw tight, eyes burning, heart cracked open and left there.
And the worst part?
Even after everything, after the confusion, the anger, the humiliation, if you texted him right now, if you said come over or I didnât mean it or even just are you awake?
He knows, without a doubt, that heâd go.
Thatâs what really ruins him.
Then, the first few days after that night are painfully sharp.
For Eren, it feels like walking around with a nasty, purpling bruise no one can seeâevery movement pressing firmly into it right where it hurts, every thought finding it again. He smokes more than usual, not even for the high, just for the way it dulls the edges. âCause regardless, he canât get you out of his system, no matter how much he tries. The burn in his lungs gives him something physical to focus on. Something simple. Inhale. Exhale. Donât think. Or at least, try your best not to.Â
He still goes to his classes. Still delivers stashes of drugs. Still answers texts about hanging out with his friends, with absolutely no intention to truly pursue them. Life doesnât pause just because something inside him cracked open. But everything feels quieter.
He keeps catching himself reaching for his phone. Every time it buzzes, his heart jumps stupidly, traitorouslyâthen sinks to his gut when itâs not you. He re-reads that last message from you more than he should. Stress relief. The tangent of texts of him asking if you were serious, just to be left on read for days. You hadnât texted back, and you wouldnât. You didnât even consider it, thankfully. Yet to him, the words feel unreal every time, like if he stares long enough theyâll rearrange themselves into something that hurts less.
They never do.
You did your part, and you did it well. Even if it was eating you alive just as much.
By the end of the first week after that night, his room smells permanently like smoke and cologne and something stale. It lacked your scent once again, something he still hadnât become accustomed to. He probably wonât for a while. He sleeps with the window cracked even when itâs cold, just to feel something on his skin. At night, the silence is the worstâtoo loud, too empty. His bed feels bigger than it should. He keeps waking up reaching for you, fingers brushing nothing but wrinkled sheets instead of your soft, warm skin.Â
Every morning, he wakes up a little more hollow.
You, on the other hand, stay busy.
Pain is easier when itâs scheduled.
Your days fill themselves almost aggressively, like you had more plans than hours within the dayâclasses back to back, each of them being 2 hour lectures, study sessions, labs, errands, favors you didnât need to say yes to but did anyway. Your mind stays occupied just enough that you can pretend youâre fine. You try your best to convince yourself that you are fine. That you donât care at all anymore. But you drink too much caffeine. You forget to eat sometimes, more often than not. You tell yourself itâs productivity, not avoidance.
And most of the time, it works.
Until it doesnât.
Late at nightâ every single night, actually. When your phone is face-down on the bed and thereâs nothing left to do, nothing left to check off, nothing left to distract youâthatâs when he creeps in. When the quiet presses against your ears and your chest feels tight for no clear reason. When you catch his scent on someone passing by and your stomach drops before you can stop it. When you think you hear his voice telling you something sly and flirty but itâs just the wind brushing against your window right outside and your cruel mind coping with itself.
Youâd roll over. Youâd stare at the blank ceiling, like it would contort and give you something to distract yourself with. It does the complete opposite. You think about how warm his shirt felt. About how careful he was with you. About how easy it would be to go backâand how stupid that would be. You wouldnât risk that, you really wouldnât. But you still had his shirt, resting over your chair near where you studied. It still smelled like him, but the scent was growing fainter and fainter by the day.Â
You never text him.
Neither does he.
Though, part of you hoped he would again, even though you wouldnât have responded either way.Â
He sees you around campus more than he wants to admit.
At the library, onceâyour hair messily pulled back, brows furrowed deeply, fingers flying across your laptop like the rest of the world doesnât exist. It didnât, at least to you, in the moment. You were in the middle of typing up a long essay that you just had to get a perfect score on. He lingers at the end of the aisle, pretending to look for a book he doesnât need, just to steal another glance. You donât look up.
You look untouchable.Â
Another time, he spots you at one of your usual cafĂŠs, sitting by the window with a notebook open, iced drink sweating onto the table. You were deep into writing something, maybe an organizational list, something creative, something enough to keep your mind at ease. For a moment, he actually starts toward youâheart pounding, rehearsing something, anythingâ
âand someone else slides into the chair across from you first.
A girl, someone from your class. She chatters almost instantly, quickly grabbing your attention with little care for her surroundings. For a second, Eren almost snarled in annoyance. Of course.Â
He stops short, jaw tightening, turns around before you can see him standing there like an idiot.
He tells himself itâs better this way. Maybe it was fate, maybe it just wasnât the right time to talk to you again.Â
Walking across campus one afternoon, he catches sight of you ahead of him, sunlight hitting your back, familiar stride unmistakable. He almost calls your name, but he doesnât. Youâre listening to music, on your walk back from one of your classes. You were calm, unbothered, distractedâas always. He finds that it may be the right time to ask you to talk, just the two of you. Calmly, carefully. His pace quickens ever so slightly, eyes dead set on you.Â
Then your phone rings. You pick up, and itâs someone from your hometown. An old, childhood friend, checking up on you. As you answer and the conversation drifts and flows, you laugh softly, distracted, already drifting away and focused into someone elseâs conversation.
Every time he thinks now, something gets in the way. Or you look too busy. Too focused. Too far gone.
And then by the second week, the ache isnât sharp anymore.
Itâs worse.
It feels like itâs slowly killing him. Itâs dull. Constant. Like something missing that he canât stop feeling the absence of. He smokes more. Sleeps even less. Goes through the motions with a blank look that even his friends start to notice. He feels like heâs shrinking around the hole you left, rearranging himself to live with it. He attempted being around his friends, just to completely drown them out each time he was with them. Shit wouldnât work, no matter how hard he tried.Â
You feel it tooâjust differently.
You function. You smile when you need to. You donât break down in public. But every night, when the world finally slows, you feel the weight of him settle in your chest like gravity. Heavy. Inescapable. Familiar.
Two weeks pass.
Neither of you says a word.
And somehow, the silence hurts more than the fight ever did.
One particular night, you stand behind the chair that his shirt rested on. Should you give it back? Should you keep it? Burn it? No, you liked the shirt too much to do that. You picked up the shirt quietly, bringing it to your face.Â
The shirt was almost completely devoid of his scent now. It smelled like notebooks, ink, and the candles youâve been burning in your dorm while studying. You almost frowned to yourself in disappointment. Maybe you shouldnât have left the shirt here right where you studied, maybe you shouldnât have burned all those candles for hours. But why did you care, right? He just had a nice scent, that was all.
Thatâs why you found yourself hugging the shirt while trying to sleep, letting tears fall from your eyes, brows furrowing as you nuzzled yourself closer to his shirt, wishing it was his chest. Wishing that you could go back in time, wishing you had changed instead of acting so hot and cold. Would that have made him change too? Was it really all your fault?Â
You opened up your messages with him, wanting to say something, anything. But you refused. Because part of you was still petty. Regardless, if he had treated you the way you had to him, you still wouldnât have entertained other people. It didnât matter if it wasnât serious, or if it wasnât anything real. It looked and felt real to you. And it made you feel real things. Your eyes began to burn a little and you sighed deeply, your breathing hiccuping and stuttering in your throat.Â
The next day starts as usual. You got ready for class, you got to class on time, you were focused, in your environment where you thrived the most. The moment class lets out, the building exhales with students.Â
Doors swing open all at once, voices spilling into the halls in a sudden, overwhelming rush. The corridors flood with bodiesâstudents laughing, complaining, calling out to friends, bumping shoulders without apology. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows lining the walls, bright and warm in a way that feels almost offensive after winter. Spring is finally settling in. Everything smells lighterâfresh air drifting in through open doors, hints of perfume, coffee, clean fabric, sweaty jock students.Â
You step into it automatically.
Headphones in. Music playing just loud enough to blur the edges of the world. You weave through the crowd on instinct, body moving before your mind does, eyes fixed somewhere ahead but not really seeing anything. Lunch break means movement, noise, distractionâexactly what you need. You needed to refuel, let your brain rest for the next hour. Of course, not completely. Never completely, for as long as you were conscious, youâd be sure not to let your mind drift too far.Â
Youâre focused on anything but your thoughts.
Then you see him.
Itâs not dramatic. No sudden stop, no gasp. Just a subtle hitch in your step, like your body recognizes him before you do. Your pace slows without permission, shoes scuffing the floor as your attention locks onto a familiar silhouette near the far side of the hall. Tall frame, tanned skin, brown hair tied into a bun, strands loosely hanging and framing his pretty face a little too well. Greenish blue eyes, a fitted shirt that hugged the same arms that were around you when you were sleeping in his bed just two weeks ago. You pursed your lips. Yeah, there was no doubt about it.Â
Eren.
Your chest tightens immediately, sharp and uninvited. Itâs been two weeks, and somehow the sight of him still lands like thisâlike muscle memory, like a bruise pressed too hard. He looks⌠normal. Too normal. Standing there in the sunlight like nothingâs wrong, like the ground didnât fall out from under you. Had he gotten over you already?Â
And then you notice who heâs with.
Mikasa stands close to him, angled just enough that it feels intentional. Sheâs talking animatedly, her hands moving as she speaks, her expression softâalmost fond. No, completely fond. Sheâs blushing, sheâs shy, sheâs fiddling with her fingertips nervously while talking, as if trying to express her feelings to him. Oh, for fucks sake. You swallow, not realizing how tight your throat felt. Eren rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well, and thereâs a faint smile on his face.
Your stomach sinks.
Of course.Â
You slow to a near stop now, barely aware of it, watching from a distance as people stream around you. The music in your ears keeps playing, but it fades into background noise, replaced by the rush of blood in your head.
They look comfortable.
They look easy.
To you, it looks like theyâre laughing quietly together, sharing something private in the middle of all this noise. Like theyâve slipped into their own little pocket of calm. Like whatever happened between them didnât matter, and mattered all at the same time. So this was what it was? This is how they looked together?Â
Your fingers curl reflexively at your sides, your hands balling into fists.Â
Of course he moved on quickly. Of course itâs her.Â
You feel angry, you feel annoyed, you feel jealous, you feel everything you were keeping at bay for the last month since you broke up with him. You donât hear a word theyâre sayingâbut your mind fills in the blanks anyway.
Mikasa leans in slightly, smiling gently, her fingers brush his arm like sheâs trying to subtly get closer to him. Eren doesnât pull away right away. He smiles, small but real, eyes crinkling at the edges. His face looks warm.Â
You feel sick to your goddamn stomach.Â
Itâs not jealousy definitively, matter factâitâs way worse. Maybe itâs a mix of everything terrible youâve ever felt towards him. Itâs that hollow, sinking confirmation of something you were already afraid of. The quiet I knew it settling in your chest like weight. Of course, of fucking course he wasnât going to be caught up on you when he had bitches on his dick every fucking week, trying their best for a slither of his attention.Â
You should look away.
But you donât. Your throats closing up, preventing tears from building in your eyes, your brows furrow deeply, you feel nauseated and suddenly lunch doesnât seem appealing to you at all.Â
On the other hand, Mikasa exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as if sheâs been holding tension there for days. âHey,â she says, voice softer than usual. âI wanted to⌠apologize.â she said softly, looking up at Eren.Â
Eren blinks, surprised. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, not out of charm, but nerves. He remembered being pretty harsh once he had completely cut her off. âFor what?â
âFor lashing out,â she admits, eyes flicking down briefly before meeting his again. âWhen you told me you didnât feel the same way. I shouldnât have taken it out on you.â
Heâs quiet for a second. The crowd surges around them, but he barely notices.Â
âIt wasnât great timing,â he says honestly. âBut I get why you were upset.â
She nods. âStill. I crossed a line.â He nods awkwardly. A pause. Then, gentler, âAre you⌠okay?â
Eren lets out a small breath, almost a laughâbut it doesnât reach his eyes. âNot really.â
Mikasa watches him carefully. âIs it because of her?â
His answer is immediate.
âYes.â
Thereâs no hesitation. No deceit. Just truth.
âSheâsâŚlisten, Iâm deeply in love with her,â he says quietly, like admitting it out loud still hurts. âI never really meant to give you the wrong idea. Anything I said beforeâabout trying to feel somethingâit wasnât real. It was just me being stupid and empty. Like I said before. Itâs still all the same, Mikasa.â he affirms. A real rejection, for once.Â
Mikasaâs expression tightens, disappointment flickering across her face despite herself. She steps a little closer anyway, fingers instinctively curling around his arm.
âBut Erenââ
He gently pulls back this time. Firm. Clear.
âNo,â he says, not unkindly, but firmly. âLetâs not, okay? I already told you the truth.â he continued. The conversation began to make him feel bitter, remembering how it felt to realize how much you had hurt.
The rejection lands heavier than she expects. Her jaw tightens, frustration flaring.
âRight,â she mutters. âGot it.â
She turns sharply and walks away, swallowed by the crowd.
You donât hear any of it.
You only see the smile. The closeness.Â
And by the time you force yourself to move again, your chest feels tight enough that breathing takes effort. You turn and keep walking. Because from where youâre standing, it already looks over between you and him.Â
While youâre walking and taking deep breaths to attempt calming down, swallowing down any urge to start crying, a friend of yours approaches, almost scaring you and making you jump for a second. âHey, Y/N!â your friend, Sasha, approached with the brightest smile in her eyes. âIâve barely been seeing you around campus, Iâ are you okay?â she asked, cutting her initial sentence short once she saw tears in your eyes.Â
You panic for a second, shitâ was it visible? You began blinking quickly, clearing your throat, âYeah, of course?â you responded like it was such an absurd thing for her to be asking. âOh, well, I mean, I just have some allergies. Yâknow,â you gesture around to the weather.Â
âAh, right.â Sasha smiled and nodded skeptically, but she applied no pressure. âAnyway, I was wondering if youâre free right now for lunch?â she asked. âThereâs a new spot on campus, have you been? I havenât, we should go!âÂ
Your first instinct is to say no, to go somewhere alone, cry alone, let it out. But then, thinking about it, perhaps Sasha would do better with distracting you than you would with yourself. You smile, âOkay, yeah, of course.â you respond kindly, forcing yourself to switch up, bracing yourself for her chaotic energy.Â
Eren is still standing there when it happens. He exhales slowly, fingers flexing at his sides, replaying the conversation in his headâwondering if he shouldâve said more, or less, or nothing at all.
Thatâs when he sees you.
Not your faceâjust the back of your head, half-hidden by the tide of students moving through the hall. At first, he thinks he imagined it. His brain has been doing that to him lately, filling empty spaces with you when youâre not really there.
But then you tilt your head slightly, and he knows.
Your walk is unmistakable. The way you move like youâre used to weaving through crowds, like you donât want to be noticed. Your hair catches the sunlight, soft at the edges, and even from this distance, something about you looks⌠off.
You look tired.
Not in an obvious wayânot slumped or dragging your feetâbut in the quiet way that settles into someone when theyâve been carrying too much for too long. Your shoulders are just a little tense. Your head dips forward as if the weight of your thoughts is pulling it down. Your smile is forced and exhausted, despite being such a gorgeous sight.
His chest tightens painfully.
Youâre walking beside someoneâone of your friends, he thinks. Theyâre talking, leaning toward you, saying something that makes you nod and pull one earbud out. You smile, but it doesnât quite reach your eyes. Itâs the polite version. The one you use when you donât want questions.
God.
He takes a step forward without thinking.
Just one.
Like maybe if he moves fast enough, he can catch you. Say your name. Fix something before it slips further out of reach. His heart starts to pound, loud and frantic in his ears. Then you laugh softly at something your friend says, and they steer you toward the exit, bodies blending into the flow of people. You donât look back.
He stops. Stands there like an idiot, watching as you disappear piece by pieceâyour jacket, your hair, the familiar line of your shouldersâuntil thereâs nothing left to see but strangers. His throat feels tight. Dry.
You looked so beautiful it almost hurts. Not polished or glowingâjust you. Real. Worn down. Still here. He canât tell if youâre sad because of him or just tired from life. He canât tell if youâre okay. He canât tell if you ever think about him the way he thinks about youâconstantly, destructively.
The doors swing shut behind you. Eren exhales shakily and lets his head fall back against the wall for a moment, eyes closing. He doesnât chase you. Not because he doesnât want to. But because heâs terrified that if he doesâand you keep walking anywayâitâll finally break him.Â
A few days have passed since you saw him with Mikasa in that hall. You managed to survive that, but at the cost of your own livelihood. You piled under assignments, extra credit, things that benefitted you academically but almost seemed like a reach. Did you really have to attend all of these conferences? Did you really need to do that extra credited assignment, even with a 100 in that class? You were so hurt, you genuinely did, in fact get sick. You felt weak, you were dull. Nobody quite noticed, thank god.Â
Now, itâs 12:47 a.m.
The dorm is quiet in the way that feels intentional, like the world has decided to leave Eren alone with himself on purpose.Â
Eren sits on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, phone heavy in his hand. The only light in the room comes from the screen and the faint orange glow of the city bleeding in through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, a car passes. Someone laughs down the block. Life keeps moving. It pisses him off. He feels everything way too much now, itâs like heâs losing himself. He pretty much already has.Â
Heâs highâbut not comfortably. Not comfortably in the slightest.Â
Heâs the the kind of high that sinks too deep, settles behind his eyes and makes every thought echo way louder than it should. His body feels loose, boneless, but his chest is tight. Too tight. Breathing feels deliberate, like he has to remind himself to do it or else heâll start coughing (which has already happened a few times tonight).Â
Thereâs a half-smoked joint in the ashtray, burnt crooked where his hands started shaking halfway through. The room smells like weed and his cologne, layered over the faintest trace of you that still lingers no matter how many times he washes his sheets. He swears itâs real. He swears it hasnât faded. Or maybe he was going crazy. It was probably both.Â
He scrolls.
One picture of you turns into ten. Ten turns into months back. Your smileâunguarded, real. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh too hard. A photo you didnât know he took, you sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of his shirts, looking annoyed at him for something stupid. You two were so good together.Â
God.
His throat tightens without warning.
He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, like thatâll stop it. It doesnât. His vision blurs just slightly, the screen swimming as tears well up despite his best effort. He exhales through his nose, sharp and shaky, scrubbing a hand down his face.
âFuck,â he mutters, voice rough, already breaking.
He hates how good you look in his memories. Hates how even the bad ones are tangled up with warmthâfights that ended in apologies, slammed doors followed by soft knocks, nights where you cried into his chest and mornings where everything felt fixable, screaming and yelling turning into moans and whispered confessions. He scrolls and analyzes photo after photo. Finds the time where you two were napping together, with your entire body on top of his like he was your mattress, drooling on his bare chest. Or the other time, when you gave him the cutest, confused look ever after he made a dumb joke that didnât make any sense.
He thinks about the way you loved him.
Then he thinks about the ways he failed you.
Thatâs where it really starts to hurt.
Every time he brushed something off. Every time he entertained attention he didnât even want just to feel something. Every time he assumed youâd stay because you always did. The guilt crawls up his spine, heavy and suffocating, settling deep in his chest. He hadnât realized it before, but he did now. He has, for the past month-ish. And itâs killing him.Â
âI didnât mean it,â he whispers to the empty room, like saying it out loud might rewrite the past. âI never meant it, fuck, Y/N.âÂ
His hand curls around his phone tighter, knuckles whitening. He scrolls again, slower now, masochistic. A video this timeâyour laugh caught mid-sound, loud and unfiltered, you shoving the camera away while telling him to stop. âEren, Iâll actually hit you, quit it! Itâs not funny!â you said with embarrassment and humor after you had spilled powdered sugar all over yourself. His own laugh in the video couldnât be more genuine.Â
âYou look like a mess, baby.â he said in the video, his voice sweet and endearing. He watched you, the way your face melted at how sweet he was being before you rolled your eyes,Â
âYeah? You always look like a mess,â you retorted, making him laugh again before you gestured for him to come closer.Â
âLet me show you something,â you said.Â
He stepped closer to you, the video capturing your sneaky smile before you jumped onto him, pressing a kiss to his face and getting all of that sugar onto him next.Â
âUgh, fuck!â Eren coughed, choking on the sudden, sweet attack that he inhaled, followed by your little evil laugh. âIâm dying!â he complained before the video ended with you stealing his phone, kissing the camera next before ending it with a sneaky smile. A happy smile.Â
He breaks.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Itâs quiet. Ugly.
His shoulders cave inward as a sound tears out of his chest, half-sob, half-breath. He bends forward, forearms braced on his thighs, face dropping into his hands. Tears slip through his fingers anyway, hot and relentless, dripping down onto his wrists.
He doesnât wipe them away this time.
He lets it happen.
His breathing stutters, chest hitching as the reality settles inâthe kind that doesnât fade with time or distance. He loves you. Heâs loved you through every version of yourself. Through the good days and the volatile ones. Through the way you cared too much and then seemed like you didnât care at all. The times where you kissed on his neck lovingly while he wrecked you, the times where you threw shoes at him, the times where you slapped at his chest, the times where you cried in his arms.Â
And he still wants you.Â
Thatâs the worst part.
Even now. Even after you convinced yourself, and him, that he was stress relief. Even after the silence. Even after seeing you walk away without looking back.
His reflection catches his eye in the dark screen for a split secondâeyes red, lashes wet, hair falling messily into his face. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Still undeniably him, still painfully aware of how badly he wants to be wanted by you.
He laughs weakly under his breath, shaking his head.
âThis is so fucked,â he whispers to himself.Â
The room feels too small. The walls too close. Staying here suddenly feels impossible, like if he sits still any longer, the weight in his chest will crush him completely.
His thumb hovers over your contact.
Once. Twice.
Then he stands abruptly, wiping his face with the back of his hand, heart pounding hard enough to make him dizzy. He doesnât bother fixing himself. Doesnât bother thinking it through.
All he knows is this:
If he doesnât see youâ if he doesnât tell youâ heâs not going to survive another night like this.
And thatâs when he heads for the door.
While heâs in utter turmoil, you were busy. Barely awake, but surely busy. Not because youâre tiredâbecause youâve been forcing yourself not to be. Youâre slumped over your desk, shoulders tight, spine aching, eyes burning from staring at the screen too long. You really needed to invest in blue light glasses. Your lamp casts a warm, tired halo over scattered notes and textbooks, the rest of the room swallowed by darkness. Youâve been doing this every night latelyâworking until you canât think anymore, until exhaustion knocks you out right where you sit at your desk. You donât even sleep on your bed anymore, just out of spite for those traitorous thoughts that kept haunting you at night.Â
Itâs easier than lying in bed. Easier than letting your mind wander. Easier than thinking about him.
Your inbox is open, cursor blinking patiently at the end of a half-written sentence to a lab supervisor who absolutely does not need an email at one in the morningâbut here you are anyway, fingers moving on autopilot. Important words. Professional tone. Anything to stay grounded.
Thenâ
Knock. Knock.
Your fingers freeze mid-keystroke.
The sound cuts through the quiet like something sharp, wrong-hour wrong-place wrong-feeling. Your heart jumps straight into your throat. No one knocks on dorm doors like that this late unless somethingâs wrong.Â
You pull your headphones off slowly, holding your breath.
Another knock follows. Softer this time. Unsteady. You stand from your desk.Â
The knock comes againâsofter this time. Uneven. Like his hand hesitates between every hit.
You open the door.
There he is.Â
âY/Nââ
Thatâs all he gets out before he breaks.
Your eyes widened and you completely froze. Yet, before you could say anything, he continued.Â
His face folds in on itself, eyes immediately filling again, breath stuttering like heâd been holding it the entire walk here. Just the sight of you up close makes him lose it. Youâre the same girl he met over a year ago, youâre the same one that kissed his face for no reason, just to remind him that he was special to you. Youâre the same one that fell asleep on him, grounding him through rough nights. He presses his lips together hard, like heâs trying to stop himself, but it doesnât work. A sob tears out of him anywayâquiet, wrecked, humiliating. His face is flushed, his eyes are red.Â
âI canâtââ he chokes, shaking his head. âI canât do this anymore. I canât.â
You were frozen, eyes still slightly wide at how he looked, at how he was acting. He steps forward without asking, like instinct, like gravity. You stepped back, not to get away, but to let him into your room a little more. Your heart completely shatters. His shoulders are slumped, posture ruined, like something heavy has been sitting on his chest for days and finally crushed him. His t-shirt hangs off him just enough to show how tense his body still is, veins standing out stark against his skin, hands trembling at his sides.Â
âPlease,â he says, voice cracking completely now. âPlease, IâmâfuckâIâm begging you.â
He wipes at his face with his sleeve, sniffing hard, eyes red and swollen and locked on you like youâre the only thing keeping him upright.Â
âIâve been trying,â he rambles, words spilling faster now, panicked. âIâve been high every night, Iâve been smoking crazy, working, doing dumb shit, keeping busyâanything so I donât thinkâbut nothing works. Nothing. I still wake up thinking about you. I still reach over like youâre supposed to be there.â
Another step closer. Heâs too close now. You can see the tear tracks drying on his cheeks. The way his jaw clenches like he hates himself for crying in front of you, but he couldnât be asked to care anymore.Â
âI know I fucked up,â he blurts out. âI know. I know I did. I entertained shit I shouldnât have, I said things I didnât mean, I was selfish, I was stupidâGod, I was so fucking stupid.â
His voice drops, wrecked.
âI never wanted anyone else. I didnât even care. I never did. I just wanted to feel something when you were pulling away and I panicked and I made it worse.â
He laughs onceâsharp, broken. âMikasaâI cut that off. Completely. I told her I didnât love her. I told her I was in love with you. I didnât even hesitate. I swear to you. Sheâs been gone since you broke up with me, I promise,âÂ
He reaches for you then.
Not confidently. Not smoothly.
His hands lift like heâs not sure heâs allowed to touch you, fingers hovering in the air between you like theyâre aching. You didnât move, and he instantly took that as permission to finally hold you. One strong hand pulled you against his body, your bodies pressing against each other as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, leaning forward as the door to your dorm shut behind you two. His shoulders shake as another sob pulls through him, tears instantly soaking your soft skin.Â
âI just want you back,â he whispers against your skin. âI donât care how. I donât care if itâs messy or slow or if you hate me for a while. Iâll take anything. Iâll fix it. Iâll do whatever you wantâjust donât leave me like this. Please, Y/N. Iâll do anything, Iââ he choked on his sobs.Â
âI need you,â he admits, pathetic and honest and shaking. âI donât know how to be okay without you. I donât want to learn.â
âIâm sorry,â he sobs again, forehead dipping toward your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitching. âIâm so fucking sorry. Please donât make me go back alone.â
And standing there, with his grip barely holding on, his body leaned into you like heâd collapse if you movedâyou feel it hit you fully.
Not just how much he loves you.
But how much power you have right now.
And how dangerous it would be to use it.
You stepped back, barely catching your own breath. He didnât hesitate. Eren moved forward like heâd been given permission to exist againâshuffling inside with that messy, wrecked energy that made your chest clench. His head was tilted down, sniffing, lips trembling, shoulders slumped like heâd been carrying all the weight of the world for the past few days.
You didnât speak. You didnât have to. You just guided him toward your bed with a small gesture, and he obeyed like it was instinct. He lowered himself onto it slowly, almost reverently, like he didnât trust the surface to hold him.
Then he collapsed against you, chest pressing into yours, arms loosely draped over your waist. His face buried against your shoulder, messy hair brushing your cheek, muffling the soft, uneven sobs that kept breaking through. You felt the warmth of him, the slight quiver in his body, the rhythm of his desperate, uneven breathing. His hard muscles pressing into the soft of your skin.
âI love you,â he whispered, barely audible at first, then louder as if saying it could stave off some internal collapse. âI fucking love you. Iâve always loved you. Youâre⌠youâreâprecious, Y/N. Youâre everything. And Iâm so sorry. Iâm so fucking sorry.â
You let your hands move on their own. One lifted, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. Another trailed down his shoulder, fingertips pressing softly against his upper back, dragging back and forth, small gestures of comfort without breaking your own composure. Reminding him that you really were there, and that you were in fact listening.Â
âI donât⌠I donât know how to be without you,â he continued, rambling, voice thick with tears and frustration. âI thought I could⌠I tried to stay away, I tried to distract myself, but nothing works. Nothing. Youâyouâre always there. Even when I donât want you to be, even when Iâm mad, even when Iâfuck, Y/N. I canât do this without you. I justââ he choked on his sobs again. He was completely wrecked, completely fucking desperate.
His hands tightened around your waist, a weak grasp that somehow held him to you, grounding him. His face dragged from your neck to your chest, resting against your breasts, listening to your heartbeat. Every word spilled out in a torrentâconfession, apology, fear, worshipâall tangled together in the way only he could.
You didnât answer. You just stroked his hair, wiped at his cheeks gently, and let him talk. Let him unravel. Let him be desperate, vulnerable, pathetic. You felt the weight of his body settling deeper against yours, his warmth seeping into your ribs, his tears soaking through the shirt at your chest.
âIâm sorry for everything, Iâm so fucking sorry, Iâm sorryâŚâ he whispered again, muffled against your chest. âFor the times I hurt you, for the times I made you doubt me, for⌠everything. I justâI need you. I need you, Y/N. Please, justâplease donât leave me.â
The room was quiet but for his soft, ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle. You kept your hands in his hair, on his back, wherever they fell naturally, steadying him without saying a word. You let him talk until the words finally ran thin, his voice slowing, cracking less, until the trembling stopped and his chest relaxed against yours.
And then, finally, he fell asleep without knowing it. Face tucked into your chest, one arm draped lazily over your torso, breathing soft and even. You felt him exhale against you one last time before the weight of sleep fully claimed him.
You stayed awake, tracing the lines of his jaw, smoothing the messy strands from his forehead, your palm resting lightly on his back. The room smelled faintly of himâsweat, faint cologne, something uniquely Erenâand it made your chest ache in ways you werenât supposed to feel.
You didnât move. You didnât speak. You just lay there, letting him rest, and let yourself think. About him. About everything. About how thisâthis moment, this closenessâdidnât fix anything, and yet it meant everything.
And with the city lights bleeding softly through the blinds, the distant hum of late-night traffic, and the weight of him pressed to you, you stayed still, awake, thinking, knowing that some things could never be simple.
