Work Text:
He's not coming home.
Seiko thinks she's started to accept that fact. It's been 2 months, and there’s no sign of him anywhere. She’s tried everything, all the police reports, the press conferences, desperately begging for someone to know something, but he's not coming home.
It's quiet.
So quiet. She's been staying in his mansion for weeks on end; it's never been this quiet.
Every moment with him is usually so loud; he's always whining or arguing with someone. It shouldn't be this quiet. She never thought she would miss it, but she does. She misses him.
She misses the sound of his voice as he rambles on about a new project he's working on, the way he moves his hands when he gets excited about something, the way he rants and curses about someone online. She won't see him like that again. She won't hear his high-pitched complaining and whining. He's not coming home.
So many unfinished projects and sketches lay scattered on his desk. Half a bottle of acetone for when he would paint both of their nails. Her nails are chipped and broken, the last threads of him hanging from her fingers.
Hiroaki Nakamigawa isn't coming home.