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Satoru woke up around four.
No alarm. Not that he actually used one to begin with. There was one on the nightstand, but it was more decorative than functional—just a little lie he kept around to make the room look normal. A false sense of security if you will.
The room was too quiet. He wouldn’t exactly describe it as peaceful—more bordering on unnerving than anything else. Just the sound of rain tapping the window like static. Thin and consistent.
The kind that reverberated in your ears because there was simply nothing else to listen to.
No heater hum. No traffic. No birds. No morning soundtrack the world was supposed to offer. Just stillness. So still that he felt that if he moved too quickly, his whole room would tip over with him still inside.
His throat burned. Raw, like he’d swallowed gravel. His Migraine pressed behind his eyes, like someone wedged a crowbar into his skull and was real gentle about prying it open. Hurt like a motherfucker. But considering the fact that he had heightened senses to the average person it was more or less expected. He had six eyes-one of them was bound to be a problem.
He laid there, blinking at the ceiling. The corners of his posters were peeling. Blankets twisted around his ankles like restraints. One arm flung across his chest. He used to sleep like this as a kid. Bent weird. Always halfway to falling off the bed. His mom thought it was cute. He’d grown out of it. Mostly.
Eventually, he sat up. Didn’t bother with the light.
He carried his uniform with him, rolled under one arm like an afterthought.
He slipped into his sandals—those cheap plastic ones that slapped against the floor if you moved too fast. They made him look like someone’s dad. Not his. Just… someone else’s. The kind of guy who watered and cared about his plants and swept his porch with a broom he left propped outside the door.
Shoko lived across campus. Seven minutes if he walked. Three if he jogged. Five if he dragged himself like he was doing now.
The air bit at his ankles. He didn’t wear socks. Didn’t even cross his mind. His sweater was soaked through by the time he reached her building, rain sticking to him like static cling. The stairs felt longer than usual. He hated that. He hated the way his chest heaved near the top like something was wrong with him. It wasn’t. He was just tired. Really fucking tired.
⸻
Her door gave when he pushed. Unlocked. As usual.
He really needed to talk to at her about that. Again.
Inside smelled like smoke, detergent, and something else he couldn’t name. The lamp was still on, casting that kind of yellow light that made everything feel too soft. Her window was cracked. Let in the cold, the rain, the city. Whatever was still awake on campus.
She was asleep.
He paused. Let his eyes adjust. She was curled on her side, hair a mess on the pillow, blanket shoved down to her waist like she lost a fight with it. She looked small, but not fragile. Shoko was never really fragile. Just still.
He peeled off his sweater, kicked off his sandals. The floor was ice. His feet were already numb.
The bed dipped when he climbed in. She was warm. Not metaphor-warm, just literal heat. It hit him like a goddamn furnace. He selfishly wanted to grab her and run her back to his own room so he could feel the comfort of her heat in his own space. But he wasn’t that selfish.
He stayed near the edge at first. But the thing about cold is it makes you greedy.
He edged closer.
She stirred.
Shoulder twitch. Mumble. “Satoru?” Her voice was wrecked. All morning and mucus.
“Yeah,” he said.
She blinked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were puffy. “It’s four.”
“I know.”
She sighed and pulled the blanket up. Didn’t say anything else. That was the thing about her—never asked why he came over. Just shifted to make space. That alone used to make him want to cry, in a way he’d never admit out loud.
Their feet touched under the blanket. Hers were warm. Unfair.
Eventually, she muttered, “You’re wet.”
“It’s raining.”
“Now the outside is all over my pillows.”
He pressed his freezing feet to her calves, deliberate.
“I had no idea.” He spoke with a smile in his voice.
She flinched. “Asshole,” she mumbled, but didn’t pull away. Just rolled closer and tugged the blanket up like she could smother the problem away.
She could feel him staring at the back of her head.He knew she could. She always could. He didn’t even mean to half the time. But she had a developed an awareness for it. For him she guessed.
Unnatural number of eyes aside, he was just kind of a lot.
“Did you bring your uniform?” she asked, half-asleep.
“Yeah. It’s on your desk.”
“Hung it?”
“Mhm.”
“Ironed?”
Pause. “Fuck no.”
She sighed through her nose. Not disappointed. Just tired of him. In that affectionately eternal way.
“It’s gonna wrinkle.”
“I know.”
Beat.
“Out of all the days to not look like shit in your uniform… today’s kind of the day.”
“Why?”
“It’s graduation.”
He scoffed. Stared at the ceiling like it had something to say. “Yeah, for two people.”
She didn’t say anything. Just breathed.
It landed between them like wet cement.
It was a fact that made her very sad.
Contrary to what most people seemed to think, Shoko had feelings. And thoughts. And wants. She just didn’t parade them around like Satoru did. He knew that. Respected it, in his own way. It’s why he never brought up the nights he’d heard her sobbing into her pillow—raw, muffled, like she was trying to dig her grief into the mattress.
She stared at the wall. Said, “Okay then.”
Just her acknowledgment.
The rain had softened. It sounded like it was hitting trees now.
He slid his arm around her back. Her tank was warm against his skin—faded yellow, the kind of soft cotton worn thin by too many washes. She told him once that her mom used to say it made her look sweet. He’d laughed at that. What the fuck did that even mean?
“Something moms say,” she’d shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
He didn’t press. But he remembered.
The cotton clung to her shoulder in a wrinkle, and when he leaned in, he bit it—bit her. Right where the seam met skin. Not hard. Just enough to make her jolt.
His teeth stayed there for a second longer than necessary. A little warning label. A stamp. A fuck-you. Maybe a comfort. He wasn’t sure.
“You’re so weird,” she muttered. But her voice was low. Not annoyed. Just tired. Familiar.
“What, you don’t like it?” he murmured, mouth still near her skin. Close enough she could feel the shape of the words against her shoulder.
She didn’t answer right away. He could feel her breath catch. Not in a big dramatic way—just the tiniest hitch. Her skin was warm under his mouth, warmer than the rest of her. When he spoke again, she could feel the soft press of his tongue against her skin in the vowels, the heat of his breath lingering afterward.
Her pulse jumped once beneath her collarbone, like it wasn’t sure what direction to go.
“I didn’t say that,” she said finally.
She didn’t move. Not really. Just adjusted a little. Like her body wanted to get comfortable again but wasn’t sure where the new edge was. Her shoulder stayed against his mouth.
He didn’t grin this time. Not all the way. Just let his hand settle on the dip of her spine, thumb tracing over the line of her shirt. The rain kept tapping at the window. Her hair smelled like the lavender stuff she stole from the supply closet, faint and oddly clean
This was how it was now. Close in a way that made other people uncomfortable. Sometimes made them uncomfortable too. Utahime had made a face the last time she saw them—half disgust, half concern. Called it unhealthy, flat and professional.
Yaga didn’t say as much, but the sentiment was there. Just muted under authority.
“You want me to stop”
She sighed and rolled closer.
“No.”
And her answer was one that made her very sad.
⸻
He woke up again, and e couldn’t breathe
Shoko was draped over him like a human lead blanket. Arm around his neck. Leg across his hips. Knee right on his guts. Her breath on his jaw.
He stared at the ceiling. The thought of pushing her off the bed made him laugh to himself.
Instead, he gently moved her arm. Brushed hair from her face. Slid her leg off, slow and careful, because any inconvenience would result in an absolutely knee to the dick. Shoko was not above that.
His arm tingled from being crushed. Her breath had left a wet patch on his collarbone. He bit her, so he couldn’t complain.
“Why’d you move me?” she muttered, half-asleep.
“You were crushing my lungs.”
She made a sound. Not a real word. Just a grumble.
Then she sat up and reached for the lamp. He watched her in the dim light—hair forward, tank loose on her shoulder. Skin flushed.
Click.
Darkness again. Just rain. And silence.
She didn’t lie back. Just sat there, picking at the blanket like it offended her.
Then: “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“You were being an asshole.”
It pulled him back to full consciousness.
“That thing you said. About graduation. It was really fucking mean.”
He didn’t answer.
She kicked him under the blanket. Not hard. “Did you hear me?”
He frowned and swatted lazily at her foot. “Yes, I heard you. What’s it matter?”
“It matters to me, Satoru.”
“I said it because it’s true.”
“You said it to be mean.”
Final. Sharp. No wiggle room.
He stared at her, hand still hovering near her foot.
He swallowed. “Yeah. I said it to be mean.”
It was small and honest. And it made him feel younger than he was. That kind of guilt that pulled you back to being a kid, to saying something cruel just to see how it landed.
“Don’t be mean, Satoru. Not today. Please.”
He hated the sound of that—how quiet it was. She never asked for anything. But here she was, asking for something simple: for him not to make it worse.
It landed hard. Like guilt with fingernails.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I just…”
The words slipped. Fell apart in his mouth. Turned to shit before they even formed.
She didn’t push. Just nodded.
“It’s fine. We should start getting ready.”
He just looked up at her and followed.
⸻
Satoru sat on the floor of her dorm, back leaned against the edge of the bed, legs bent loosely around her as Shoko settled between his knees. She didn’t say anything when she passed him the brush—just handed it over with that small tilt of her head, like this was something they did all the time.
It kind of was.
He took it. Let his hand rest on her shoulder for a second before starting low, at the ends like he’d learn years ago for someone who had much longer and much darker hair. Brush from the bottom up. So it doesn’t break. So it doesn’t hurt.
Her hair was warm from sleep, a little damp from the air. Tangled in places but soft, and when the brush caught, he paused—worked the knot free with his fingers, slow, careful. She didn’t flinch. She never did. Just leaned back a little more into him, her weight folding into his chest like she forgot where she ended and he started.
He glanced at that same yellow tank again. The one so old it looked almost translucent in the light. Frayed at the edges. Loose around the neck.
“You missed a knot,” she murmured.
“Where?”
“Left side.”
He found it. Tugged it loose with both hands.
“Thanks,” she said.
Quiet. Like the room was mourning something it couldn’t name.
He didn’t answer. Just kept brushing, slower now.
He could feel her breathing. The way her shoulder blades rose and fell under her skin, steady, precise. Her neck curved forward, collar slipping a little, and he found himself watching the hollow of her throat. Not in a way he’d admit to, but in that still moment it felt like looking at something he cared about very much.
After a while, she leaned back more fully, her head tipping against his collarbone. He let it happen. Let her rest there.
Then he tapped her arm. “Your turn.”
She twisted around slowly, knees bracketing his, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. Her hands found his collar automatically. Smoothed it down. Loosened his tie. She moved like she’d done it a thousand times, and maybe she had. Satoru wasn’t exactly careful with these things. And she was the one who always fixed him, even when she didn’t say it outright. Even when he didn’t deserve it.
The knot came undone easily under her fingers. She didn’t rush. Just… undid him. Quiet and methodical. Like she was taking apart a piece of machinery. Something delicate. Something ruined.
He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
The tie came together again, better than before. Neater. She adjusted it without asking, then reached up and wiped something off his chin with her thumb.
“You have toothpaste here.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m promise you, you do.”
She grabbed a towel and wiped it. Her hand paused on his cheek, thumb running once under his eye. A small motion. Gentle. Her brows barely furrowed, like she was working out a detail that wouldn’t stay still.
He watched her. His pulse ticked behind his eyes.
It reminded him of his mother.
Not all the time. But in that second—her hands on his face, the care she didn’t say out loud—it hit him hard.
The way his mom used to pull him in by the front of his shirt, lick her thumb, wipe crumbs from his cheekbone like she was erasing something. Her fingers in his hair, trying to flatten it before school. She wasn’t around much near the end. But he remembered those mornings. That type of quiet affection. It was almost cruel how much it hurt now.
He wondered about Suguru’s mom because he had never met her so he guessed he couldn’t really think about her. Just wonder. Speculate if you will.
He thinks she’d be the kind to fuss over him. Make too much food. Hug too long.
It made him incredibly sad. That whole category of care—the kind that came with closeness, with knowing—was gone. All the women who used to love them like sons were either dead or gone or grieving ghosts of themselves. And here he was. Sitting on the floor of a dorm room with his tie straightened by someone who never even asked him to say thank you.
“I think Utahime’s coming,” Shoko said, still fiddling with the knot.
“Oh, that’s nice.” His eyes trailed down the hem of her uniform jacket. She’d pinned a small white flower to the lapel. The kind that looked out of place on her—like a joke she wasn’t in on. “It’ll be the three of us.”
“Yeah.” She adjusted his collar again. “It’ll be nice.”
She didn’t say the rest. Didn’t have to.
She was the wrong third.
———
It wasn’t a real ceremony.
Shoko’s parents failed to attend because she had asked them not to. Satoru’s parents had no intention of being present in the first place.
There was no crowd, no confetti, no folding chairs lined up under a stage like the kind he had seen in those American movies Shoko used to force Suguru to watch because Satoru found most, if not all movies to be painfully boring in general. “Why watch something interesting when I could just do something interesting.”
The sun started to push through the clouds, faint but steady.
All they had was a rain-slick courtyard and two folding tables shoved under an awning. Yaga along with one of the older administrators handed out certificates printed on plain office paper, reading a speech off a clipboard that was half-hearted and riddled with typos.
It was over in less than ten minutes.
Which made complete sense considering only Satoru and Shoko were graduating.
That felt wrong, in a quiet kind way.
They stood side by side in their uniforms, damp at the hem, the stiffness of the fabric clinging to their knees from the humidity. Shoko didn’t say anything when her name was called. She just stepped forward, bowed lightly, and took the rolled certificate with both hands. Then stepped back.
Satoru followed. Didn’t bow. He just looked at the man, smiled with all teeth, and took his paper like it meant nothing.
Maybe it didn’t.
Utahime clapped anyway. Soft and real. Her jacket was pulled tight over her shoulders, hair half-up, curls already frizzing from the rain. She looked older than she had when they first met her—but then again, they probably did too.
“I’m proud of you two.”
“Thanks,” Shoko murmured, not looking up.
No one responded to that.
They went back inside after. Not to celebrate. Just to sit. Utahime had brought a box of food—rice balls, sesame crackers, those little sugared beans she remembered Shoko liked. She left them to eat in their own. Giving them the space she didn’t really want to give them.
They ate them in the common room, Backs against the wall.
“This feels fake,” Satoru said.
Shoko nodded. “It is.”
“I think we still get to proud. All things considered.”
“What’s there to consider?” He asks shoving a rice ball into his mouth.
She smirks, pushing him with her left arm.
“Fucking everything.”
—-
They weren’t supposed to be drinking. Not legally, anyway.
But laws tended to bend when Satoru was involved—especially when he waved around the kind of money that made bartenders look the other way. Flash a black card, act like you belonged, and suddenly no one cared that they were two barely-graduated teenagers in uniform.
It wasn’t glamorous. Just a half-lit bar near the edge of the city, one of those places that didn’t have a sign and smelled faintly like bleach and cigarettes. The kind of place people went to disappear.
It worked.
They drank until Shoko’s face felt warm and her brain quieted down. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to take the edge off the day. The week. The year. Satoru kept pace with her, casually throwing back drinks like he had something to prove and nothing to lose.
She just smiled at him, with all her teeth in that really sad way.
“I wanna go home.”
He tipped his head back, collecting both of their certificates and reached for her hand.
“Okay.”
———-
By the time they made it back to the dorms, it was past midnight. The rain had let up, but the pavement was still wet, catching the glow from the streetlamps in long silver streaks.
They stumbled through the hallway, half-whispering and half-laughing like they were sneaking in past curfew—even though no one was watching anymore.
Satoru tripped on a loose tile and barked out a laugh that echoed way too loud. Shoko shushed him, half-heartedly, already biting back a smile.
“Shut up,” she said.
“I’m trying.”
He missed the door handle the first time. Then again. On the third try, he got it, shouldered the door open like it had personally wronged him, and turned to grin at her like he’d accomplished something.
“Heroic,” she muttered.
“Don’t patronize me,” he said, stumbling inside.
The room was a disaster. It always was. Clothes everywhere, bed unmade, a ramen cup on the windowsill with something growing in it. Shoko stepped over an empty energy drink can and shrugged off her jacket.
“You should burn this place down and start over,” she said, tossing her jacket onto the back of his desk chair.
“Yeah, well, maybe I like living in squalor.”
“Did you just learn that word?”
She asked, kicking off her shoes and dropping her jacket onto the desk chair without looking at him.
“What word, squalor?”
She nodded, taking her fingers through her hair.
“What makes you say that?”
“It sounded unnatural.”
“You pay attention to everything I do?”
She looked at him over her shoulder, slipping out of her uniforms jacket, her white blouse underneath.
“Theres no one else to play attention to.”
He stared at her, and a small part of him hated her for that.
“You want the bed?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t want to sleep.”
They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The drinking was catching up to her—warm and slow in her limbs, but everything else still felt sharp.
Satoru sat first. Then leaned back against the headboard with a breath like he was bracing for something. Shoko climbed into his lap without asking.
Her legs straddled his, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Her hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it up. He lifted his arms automatically.
She kissed him. Tongue tracing his jaw. Not the kind of kiss that wanted something. Just contact.
Then she shifted her weight, reached down and helped him out of his pants. Her own clothes followed, methodical, quiet, until there was nothing left to take off.
When she sank down on him, neither of them spoke.
It didn’t hurt. But it didn’t feel good, either. Not at first. Her body knew how to do this, but her chest felt like it had a hole torn through it.
Satoru’s hands slid up her thighs, then her hips, not pushing her, just holding her there. Grounding her.
She started moving slowly. Rolling her hips like she could stay half-asleep inside the moment if she just didn’t go too fast.
The room was so quiet. It made her feel stupid. Like pretending this could help wasn’t even working.
She leaned forward, hair falling in her face, and let her palms rest flat against his chest.
Satoru let his head fall back against the wall. He didn’t close his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she said, barely above a whisper.
She kept moving. Rocking over him in the slowest rhythm she could stand. Her thighs started to ache, but she didn’t stop.
Satoru’s hands slid up her back. Light. Careful.
Then she blinked, and tears spilled out of her eyes without warning.
Her breath caught. Her body kept moving, but the rhythm cracked open.
“I miss him so fucking much, Satoru,” she said, voice breaking.
Satoru sat up straight and wrapped his arms around her, holding her chest against his.
“I know,” he whispered, mouth against her shoulder.
She kept crying. Quietly, steadily, while he stayed inside her.
Her face pressed into the side of his neck. Her hands clung to his back.
He didn’t move anymore. Just held her. Felt her tremble.
Neither of them tried to turn it into something else.
She cried until the weight in her chest gave out. Until the tears slowed. Until she could breathe again.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were swollen, and her mouth was wet, and she looked at him like she hated herself for letting it happen.
“I didn’t mean to—” she started.
“I know.”
He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. Something about the way he touched her made her chest hurt all over again.
They didn’t move for a long time.
Eventually, she shifted, lifted off of him, and curled up beside him on the bed.
He lay down next to her. Faced her. Didn’t say anything else.
They stared at the ceiling together until her breathing evened out.
Satoru blinked up at the dark, and didn’t sleep.
Two people left behind by something neither of them could name.
And outside, the rain started up again.