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it’s tiring.
the same thing over and over again for the past god knows how long. you wake up in the morning to an empty bed, tangled sheets like a ghost of his presence that faded long ago. the room feels suffocating, every corner heavy with memories that linger like cobwebs you’re too afraid to clear away. you leave for class, for work, dragging yourself through the motions, only to return to an empty home every night.
it’s almost cruel, the way the little things still scream his name. a coffee cup, abandoned on the counter with a faint ring of dried liquid. a hoodie slung over the back of a chair, forgotten in haste. the faintest scent of his cologne clinging to the hallway like a cruel trick of your senses. proof he’s been here. proof he still exists. but proof, also, that he’s always just out of reach.
you reckon it’s been months since you last saw him—really saw him. the kind of eye contact that lingers, the kind of words that carry weight. now, even your memories of his voice feel hollow, like echoes in an empty room. maybe he doesn’t even remember you exist.
and maybe the worst part is that you can’t decide which would hurt more: knowing he’s forgotten, or knowing he hasn’t.
because geto suguru wasn’t just your best friend. he was everything.
your rock. your family. your closest companion. the one who held your face in his hands like it was precious, tilting you toward a stream of sunlight filtering through linen curtains while you lay tangled in bed, laughing at nothing at all. the one who shared late-night whispers about dreams and fears and things too small and fragile to survive in daylight. together, you built a world that belonged only to you; a space where time stretched soft and unhurried, and the rest of the universe spun on an axis entirely separate from your own.
you’d thought it would always be that way, that no matter what storms came, he’d be there to pull you into the eye of it, where it was safe and quiet. but he hadn’t called upon you in so long, and the silence was deafening.
you didn’t feel like you existed until he called upon you. and that was a dangerous thing. because now, without him, you weren’t living. you were surviving. floating through days like a ghost, hollow and heavy all at once.
and the hardest part wasn’t the absence itself, but the memories that kept replaying in its place. the laughter, the quiet, the light. remnants of a world you once believed would never fade.
it’s only when it’s 2 in the morning, and you’re nursing a glass of room-temperature coffee you probably should’ve thrown away hours ago, that you hear the keys turn in the lock.
the sound is foreign, almost unsettling. your chest tightens with the weight of it, like you’ve been caught somewhere you don’t belong—even though this is your home. the mug trembles faintly in your hands as you stare down at the lukewarm liquid, your gaze fixed on the faint swirl of cream that never quite mixed in. the bitter taste on your tongue curdles into something sharp, something sour.
you hear the door creak open, and then his voice—soft, quiet, as if the word itself is apologizing. “tadaima.”
you freeze. it feels unreal, like you’ve conjured him from the depths of your exhaustion. and when your eyes lift to meet his, the air between you feels charged, a fragile thread stretched thin enough to snap. his expression mirrors yours too perfectly—wide eyes, lips parted as if mid-thought, his body stiff and unmoving in the doorway.
you think of all the times you waited for that voice, for that face. of all the mornings you woke to sunlight and a presence that made this house feel alive. now, the room feels suffocating, while he looks like a stranger standing in the place of someone you once knew.
and you don’t know what to do.
“h-hi,” is what you manage to croak out, the word barely audible over the lump lodged in your throat. you instantly curse yourself, fumbling to add, “okaeri.”
“y-yes, hi,” he replies, his voice just as uncertain, as if the sight of you has thrown him off balance. he shrugs off his coat with stiff movements, scratching the back of his neck like he’s searching for something, anything, to say.
the air feels cold despite the fuzzy socks hugging your feet, and it settles thick in your chest, pressing down harder with every passing second. you can’t help but stare. he looks different. had he gotten a haircut? when had he gotten those boots? details like these feel absurd to notice now, but they gnaw at you, tiny reminders of how much time has slipped through your fingers.
he clears his throat when he feels your gaze lingering, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “i didn’t think you’d be up.”
you want to tell him that you’re always up, that sleep has been a stranger to you for weeks. but the words don’t come. instead, you grip the mug tighter, the ceramic cooling rapidly in your hands. something unspoken hangs in the air, heavy and brittle, and you wonder which of you will break first. but you mentally prepare yourself. because if not now, then when? you take a breath, your hands trembling slightly as you set the mug down. “is that why you came home late?”
wait, no. that’s not how that was supposed to come out. the question hangs in the air, sharp and brittle, and you instantly regret it. it feels too much like an accusation. too pointed. too… desperate.
suguru blinks at you, those familiar eyes widening in surprise, a flash of guilt crossing his face like a fleeting shadow. it’s almost too much. too real. his expression reminds you of something fragile, something you could break with just a word. and in that moment, you feel the heat creep up your neck, your cheeks flushing as the weight of your own vulnerability presses down on you.
“i—uh,” he stammers, his gaze flickering nervously, as if unsure what to say next. but instead of defending himself, he just stands there, a few feet away, the space between you feeling insurmountable now. “i think so. yeah. ‘m sorry.”
“is that all you have to say to me?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air like an accusation you never meant to make. your hand trembles a little. but you smooth it out. again and again. you play with the ring he’d given you years ago, a promise of what your lives would look like. a promise that now feels like a distant memory, a fantasy you once believed in.
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—and his face softens in a way that almost hurts. his eyes are solemn, regretful. he pulls his boots off, the sound of them hitting the floor like a dull echo in the quiet room, and without another word, he steps into the kitchen.
he moves like he’s unsure of his place here anymore. like he’s not sure if he has a place here at all.
he stands next to you, silent, as he grabs the mug of shitty coffee from the counter, its warmth long faded, and dumps it into the sink with a swift motion. “don’t drink that. i made it yesterday.”
you blink, surprised at the sudden shift in his actions. it’s a strange kind of intimacy. caring, but hollow, like he’s trying to make up for something without knowing how. you want to say something but the words are tangled in your throat, too heavy to speak. “suguru-”
“i know,” he sighs, his voice like gravel, weighed down with exhaustion. “i know. ‘m sorry.”
it’s like he can see it coming. like he’s already mapped out the destruction, the way every little thing you’ve built together is going to burn to the ground. he knows that in a matter of moments, everything—everything—you thought you had will be reduced to ash. the memories, the soft laughter in the early mornings, the way his hands fit into yours so perfectly, the small, meaningless things that once kept you tethered to him, all of it will crumble. all of it will vanish.
you both know, even as the words hang in the air, that this is the end. the end of your teenage years spent sharing a bedroom, whispering into the night about everything and nothing. the end of the mornings spent in the kitchen, dancing barefoot to jazz while cooking the shittiest meals. the end of the soft touches, the warmth, the feeling of him pulling a blanket over your sleeping body when you passed out on the couch after too many late nights. the end of the mornings where you’d wake up to the smell of his cologne and a cup of coffee waiting for you.
and all that remains now is the realization that you won’t exist in his world anymore. not the way you used to. not the way you needed to. you won’t be the one he turns to when the world is too much, and you won’t be the one he calls out to when he’s lonely because he won’t fucking call upon you anymore—
you feel it, right there, in the pit of your stomach. the quiet, suffocating weight of it, pressing down on your chest, stealing your breath. the calm before the storm. the stillness that comes just before your world shatters.
and then it breaks. right there, in the quiet of the kitchen, the silence between you two suffocating, and you finally feel it—your throat closes up, the tears burning at the edges of your eyes. you try to hold it in, try to stop the sob that threatens to escape, but it’s impossible. the pain is too much, too sharp, and it tears through you like a jagged knife.
you break. your hands tremble, the sharp edges of your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm as you try to steady yourself. you try not to sob, but it’s too much. you’re suffocating. you can’t breathe. you can’t stop the tears, the heat rising to your face, burning your skin with the weight of it all.
not a single sound escapes you. you don’t want him to hear you break. you don’t want him to know how badly he’s destroyed you. but you can’t help it. it’s like all the years, all the moments, everything that’s been weighing on you for months suddenly crashes down in one brutal wave, and there’s no stopping it. you feel your soul fracture, a million tiny pieces scattering across the floor.
“what went wrong?” you whisper, voice trembling, barely audible through the thick, suffocating weight of the room. your breath hitches between soft sobs. “did i do something? i don’t- i don’t understand.”
your words trail off into a broken silence, and for a moment, you can’t look at him. you’re terrified of what his face might tell you. but then he sighs, low and heavy, like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand regrets.
and somehow, you put it all together.
it’s a fucked-up kind of understanding, jagged and bitter, but it settles into the pit of your stomach all the same. everything—everything—you’d envisioned, all the years you’d mapped out together, all the promises whispered in dark rooms, now stood in front of you, shattered into pieces too small to put back together.
suguru and you were supposed to make it to the end of the line. that’s how it was supposed to go. you imagined it that way, planned it that way—he did too. or at least, you thought he did. you felt he did. you can still picture it so vividly it hurts, like pressing on a bruise that won’t heal.
the day you moved into this apartment flashes behind your eyes. sitting on the cot together, surrounded by fluffy blankets you hadn’t yet unpacked, scrolling through pinterest on your phone. picking out homes, marveling at the way your futures lined up so perfectly. talking about how many children you’d have. dreaming about the life you’d lead, the life you’d build together. growing old, side by side.
but now, all those dreams are scattered across the cold tiles of this kitchen, broken and sharp, as if they’d never meant anything at all.
you look up at him, your vision blurred with tears, and it hurts—god, it hurts—because his face doesn’t look like the suguru you built those dreams with. he looks tired. distant. and even now, standing just a few feet away from you, he feels impossibly far.
and you know it. it’s all over. everything has been lost.
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