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It started with a silence.
Not the kind that screams or begs to be broken, but the kind that quietly settles in your chest—heavy and unmoving. That week, Ryo had barely said anything. He still went to class, still did what he was supposed to, still walked home beside Sakuya when prompted. But there was something missing.
His laugh, maybe.
The little sarcastic mutters he always made under his breath.
The way his eyes used to light up, even just a little, when Sakuya annoyed him on purpose.
All of it had dulled.
And Sakuya noticed. Of course he did.
He noticed how Ryo stared out the window for too long during lectures. How his lunch stayed untouched, how his posture looked like it was trying to fold in on itself. How even the smallest smile looked like it cost him too much.
So on a gray, drizzling Saturday, when Ryo still hadn’t replied to any of his messages, Sakuya didn’t wait for permission.
He just showed up.
It was barely raining—just a soft mist in the air, brushing his skin and darkening the cuffs of his sleeves. Sakuya knocked on the front door once. Then again.
No answer.
He waited, checked his phone. Still no message. So he reached behind the third plant pot on the porch, where he knew the spare key was hidden. He had seen Ryo grab it once when they were fourteen. He’d never mentioned it, but he remembered.
The house was quiet. Ryo’s parents were gone for work—both of them usually took extra shifts on weekends.
He found Ryo curled up in bed, curtain half-closed, light seeping through in soft lines across the sheets. His face was turned toward the wall, one hand clutching a corner of the blanket. His eyes were open, but unfocused.
There was no music. No fan. Just the distant sound of rain tapping against the glass.
Sakuya stepped in gently, setting the canvas tote down on the floor beside the bed. It was full of little things—melon bread still warm from the bakery, a bottle of strawberry milk, a worn DVD case, and the oversized hoodie Ryo once said he liked. The navy blue one with the slightly frayed sleeves.
“I brought food,” Sakuya said, voice low. “And your comfort movie.”
No response.
So he didn’t push. He moved to the far side of the room, pulled out the small, dusty DVD player, and loaded Whisper of the Heart. It was one of those films that soothed more than entertained.
He placed the hoodie on the edge of the bed, then slid down onto the floor, his back against the wall, and pressed play.
The movie started. The rain continued.
Sakuya didn’t look at Ryo, didn’t say anything else. He just let the room fill with soft music, quiet voices, and the story of a girl trying to find her way in the world.
After ten minutes, he heard movement behind him. A soft rustling. Then Ryo slowly slid out of bed and lowered himself beside Sakuya on the floor—no pillow, no blanket, just himself.
He didn’t say anything. But he sat close, their shoulders almost touching.
Sakuya offered him the bread wordlessly. Ryo tore a piece and chewed quietly.
He passed him the strawberry milk next, using both hands like he always did when trying to be gentle.
And slowly, as the film played on, Sakuya shifted his hand on the floor—just enough that their pinkies brushed. Not holding. Just touching.
And Ryo didn’t move away.
If anything, he leaned a little closer.
By the time the credits rolled, the rain had softened into near silence, just the occasional drip from the roof onto the windowsill.
Ryo turned to him, eyes glassy—not from tears, but from everything else that had been locked up too long.
“You stayed,” he said quietly.
Sakuya looked at him. Not surprised. Not uncertain. Just steady.
“I always will,” he replied.
And something in Ryo’s chest—something small and trembling and heavy—let go.
He leaned in, slowly, resting his head on Sakuya’s shoulder. The kind of gesture that said, I’m tired. But I’m safe with you.
No big moments. No dramatic confessions. Just presence.
Breathing.
Warmth.
A stillness that didn’t feel empty anymore.
Outside, the world felt washed clean.
Inside, for the first time in days, Ryo breathed a little deeper.
And it didn’t hurt.
[end]