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Kirby is scared of people leaving.
To most, that is a common fear. Nothing to bat an eye at, yet to Kirby, it was more than that. No one—and Kirby means no one—understands how awful it is. Every time someone makes a motion of leaving, or even hints at taking a small break from the friendship, his chest tightens into a knot. His vision blurs, and he feels the need to fight or run away before it’s too late.
And every time—every single time—he freaks out. It leads to a variety of outcomes. Sometimes, all he can do is sob. Other times, he lashes out, blaming the other person for whatever reason they’re upset. He dumps a flood of emotions on them, and if there was even a small chance of salvaging the relationship, Kirby ruins it. Only later, way after everything has unfolded, does he realize the weight of his actions.
Occasionally, Kirby freaks out over the mere idea of small comments or his interpretation of actions. He feels the need to run, block, avoid, or ignore. It could be resolved with a simple text or a conversation, but his mind can’t comprehend the possibility of them leaving. Better to numb the pain and feel the coldness of sadness than to let them make the first move. It’s his decision if he chooses to leave them—not theirs. And weirdly, that gives him a sense of control.
It’s not that he means any of the things he says; it’s just how he is. It’s not like anything he does, thinks, or tries to do will change how he reacts. It makes him feel hopeless—truly hopeless.
And today, he was leaning into the need to be in control.
Kirby had a girlfriend, a sweet little thing, around five-foot-five, with gorgeous brown hair that was ridiculously long, and whose smile lit up his entire day. They met at a bar Kirby frequented. He hit on her with some cheesy pickup lines and, somehow, managed to score her number.
He’s not sure what happened, but after a few conversations, they fell into a rhythm. They talked nonstop during specific times of the day, went on dates every Sunday, and had late-night calls on Tuesdays. It just sort of happened—she confessed first, and Kirby followed along. It was nice. Sweet, even. He liked having this consistent form of relationship. He felt close, connected. Everything was in order, and that’s how it was going to stay.
Until it didn't.
The girl, Choka, texted him around seven, which is later than their usual talks. She explained she couldn’t go out on Sunday due to some “personal issues.”
For some reason, that triggered Kirby into an episode. Thoughts overwhelmed him; everything felt like too much and too little all at once. He freaked out, sending way too many texts that wouldn’t be seen until it was too late.
All of this led him to block his lover and take refuge inside the bathtub. Of course, he wasn’t naked, nor was the water running. He just felt comforted there—hidden behind the semi-transparent curtain, accepting his fate.
Strangely, despite his original texts being desperate and clingy, he felt nothing now. An emptiness controlled his brain. It was late. Kirby’s phone lay on the floor outside the tub; he couldn’t bring himself to look at it.
This entire situation had him questioning whether it was even worth trying in a relationship that would inevitably lead him back to the same conclusion: alone, thanks to his own stupidity.
Objectively, this was Kirby’s fault. One small change in their schedule shouldn’t have unraveled him like this. Still, it was his choice to cut contact. And nothing could change that now. She probably thought he was a freak for reacting like that.
If Kirby had a cigarette, he would smoke it. Maybe then he’d at least look like a main character in some mystery sitcom—joking to lighten the weight of his actions. Yet there was no such thing in real life; he's going to have to deal with his actions head-on.
It was late. Later than it should have been. Just past one in the morning, and Kirby didn’t think he’d have the sudden energy to crawl out of the tub or his bed. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get up to eat tomorrow. It was weird. Kirby felt nothing at the moment. So why was he stuck here?
It was dumb, of course it was. Hiding in the bathroom was dumb to begin with. He didn’t even understand why he’d chosen this place. There wasn’t even a solid reason why it brought him comfort—it just did.
So, he did the only thing he knew how to do: rest. He extended his legs fully, leaned his head against the white surface, and closed his eyes. Honestly, he could have fallen asleep.
If it weren’t for the soft, metallic voice that suddenly rang out from behind the door.
“Kirby?” The voice echoed, followed by the shuffle of footsteps down the hall. The sound was achingly familiar—too familiar. His head snapped up, and he gripped the sides of the tub, using it (and his trembling arms) to hold himself steady.
“Are you there?” Her voice came again, more distant this time.
His breath turned ragged with each passing second. The dizziness of confrontation already clawed at him. Choka had his key—something he’d given her on a whim. She often took things of his, not that Kirby had minded. It felt nice to see his belongings with her, even if they were expensive. Now, that generosity had come back to haunt him.
She was in his house, searching for him, expecting a conversation he didn’t want to have. He couldn’t even muffle his presence. He was paralyzed, his ragged breaths betraying him. Everything crashed over him at once: his actions, his words, the fact that he was still here. The mind games in his head twisted into a knot, leading nowhere but this suffocating dread. His vision swam, the room tilting as if upside down.
“Kirby?” She called out once more, the words dripping with the cruel certainty that she was already inside his home. “I can hear you.”
Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she retraced her steps, the sound growing louder with each pass. Kirby’s pulse roared in his ears.
“Are you in…” A door slammed nearby—his bedroom, maybe? “Here!”
He felt like a condemned man waiting for the axe to fall. He should say something. He should tell her to leave. But his throat was clogged, his voice stolen by fear.
“Hmm…” The sound of her hum filled the air as she approached the closet door. This time, she opened it softly, and when she closed it again, Kirby assumed she’d finished searching. (Though what was there to assume? He wasn’t there to see it.)
Of course, he wasn’t in the closet—but that didn’t stop her. Her heels clacked one last time before stopping right outside the bathroom door.
“Are you in—” The doorknob rattled faintly as her hand closed around it. “—here?” And that’s when the despair started to settle in.
The door creaked open, and there he was—his figure visible through the thin curtain. Blurry, but there. Kirby shrank lower, pressing himself into the tub, desperate to disappear. Childish? Absolutely. Did he care? Not even a little.
A strange silence stretched between them. Nothing moved. Kirby’s gaze was locked onto the bathtub wall, his body crouched lower than it should have been.
Choka finally broke the silence.
“You know, I wouldn’t hide in a bathtub,” she said, her tone had a hint of amusement. “But to each their own.”
For some reason, her words sent a rush of heat through Kirby—embarrassment, shame, all of it tangled together. His knees trembled beneath him.
“Are you doing okay, Kirby?” she asked, stepping further into the room. Her voice was careful, measured. “You weren’t… entirely… calm.”
Every word felt like a needle pricking his skin. He could already feel his body betraying him. “Go away, Choka,” he forced out, his voice unsteady despite his attempt to sound firm.
Whether he wanted her to leave or was just proving something to himself—even Kirby didn’t know.
“Why?” she countered, her shoes shuffling against the tiles. “So you can wallow in this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m not leaving you, Kirby. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but whatever this is…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. Kirby couldn’t tell if he hated the sincerity or if he was starving for it. “It’s not good.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kirby said, his words swallowed by the roar in his own ears. “It’s one AM, for fuck’s sake.”
“And that’s even more reason why I should be here.”
Choka stepped past the curtain’s flimsy barrier, her hands parting it with deliberate gentleness. Kirby couldn’t help but look up, the agony in his body warring with the need to face her. He forced himself upright, sitting stiffly in the tub.
“…So you can rub it in?” His voice sharpened, laced with defiance. “You’re going to parade me around town as some pathetic charity case?”
Choka’s irritation flickered, barely contained. She shifted, carefully climbing into the tub on the opposite side, her legs folding beneath her. Her head rested lightly against the faucet, the moonlight streaming through the window casting her in an almost ethereal glow.
“I came here to stop you from doing something stupid, Kirby.” Her tone was measured, but firm. “You don’t beg someone not to leave you, send a breakup text, and then expect them to just not care.” All in the same night, too.
Kirby couldn’t meet her eyes—not out of defiance, but shame. Instead, he stared at the space between them, hyperaware of the way their limbs brushed, the way the tub barely accommodated them both.
“Well, maybe you should’ve gotten the hint!” The words burst out of him, turning on her. “I don’t want you here. I don’t care if you stay or go—I’m fine without you!” His face burned, and his vision was still blurring.
Choka exhaled, long and slow, before reaching down to pull off her shoes. She set them aside, right next to Kirby’s phone.
“Being loud doesn’t make it true, Kirby.” She sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m staying until I do.”
Something about her words made Kirby finally look at her. He had no clever retort, no cutting remark. A part of him wanted to scream, to lash out—but she didn’t deserve that. She deserved kindness and patience. She deserved better than this.
She deserved the best of everything.
And here she was, in his bathtub, glaring at him as if waiting for an answer he couldn’t give.
Kirby knew he was being cruel. He knew he was saying things he didn’t mean. Hell, he shouldn’t have reacted like this over one canceled date. This was irrational. Unfair.
“…Why?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He didn’t understand. Why would anyone stay through this? He’d been cruel when she showed care. It was his fault they were here. His mess.
Choka didn’t answer with words. Instead, she reached for him, her hands pressing against his shoulders. Before Kirby could react, she pulled him against her chest.
His position was awkward—kneeling, hands splayed, his head buried against her—but he didn’t resist. The warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, it anchored him.
“Because I love you, Kirby.” Her fingers curled into his hair, tilting his head back just enough so she could look at him. “I want to be here, so I am.”
She repeated herself, her voice firm. “Yes, you have things to work on. But I want to be here for you. I want to hold you still.” Her grip tightened slightly. “We’re not breaking up until it’s mutual.”
And just like that, Kirby relaxed.
He shifted, letting his body mold against hers, fitting perfectly into the space between her arms and her chest. It was like she was made for him. Like he was made for her.
“I love you, Kirby.” Her lips brushed his hair as she spoke. “I won’t leave you.”
And for the first time in years, Kirby believed someone.