Chapter Text
“Is that the last of it, Miss?”
You brush your palms against your jeans, glancing at the vacant cart behind you. “I believe so. I’ll see you at the new place?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the mover replies with a brief salute. “Got the address locked into the GPS.”
“Perfect.” You let out a slow, heavy breath. “I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Works for me. See ya there.”
As the moving truck rumbles to life and disappears down the street, you are left in the sudden silence. You turn slowly toward your traditional western home.
The yard is unnervingly still. The autumn air feels cold and empty, swirling dead leaves around a swing set you deliberately refuse to look at. Inside, the house echoes with the sound of running water and the soft clink of dishes. The floorboards creak under your weight as you survey the hollowed-out living room The dinner table, which once seated three, had dwindled to two, and now seats only one.
You linger, taking a final look around. In the hallway, you pass the bathroom; the little stepping stool is gone, already packed away in storage. The photographs that once breathed life into the walls have been replaced by minimalist decals, leaving the space strangely sterile.
Then, you stop at an open door. Your bedroom.
A memory flashes, vivid and cruel.
“You can’t be serious,” you had laughed as Aizawa guided you inside, locking the door behind him.
He grinned. “Very. When have I ever not taken things seriously?”
“Point proven…”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, the two of you pausing at the foot of the bed.
“I still want a direct answer.”
“Seriously?” he huffed.
“Very,” you mocked.
He gave you an all-knowing look before finally caving, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I meant what I said. I want everything with you. To live with you. To have a life...and a family, too.”
You bit back a smile as he leaned closer. “...Seriously?”
“Very.”
The memory vanishes. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself back into the present before shutting the door. At the end of the hallway, your chest feels heavy, yet your feet keep moving—almost expecting someone to appear at any moment.
No one does.
Your hand twists the handle of the pink door.
Inside, the once-vibrant room is gray and hollow. The curtains sway gently beside stacks of cardboard boxes. Handmade artwork and small Polaroids still cling to the walls—fragments of memories you wish you could erase.
You press your lips together, bringing a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape.
“...All packed?”
You turn sharply. Shota is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His hands were still moist from washing the dishes.
You nod, brushing your hair from your face. “Yeah. Just checking in case I left anything.”
He grunts, stepping away from the frame. “You like your new place?”
The question sounds rehearsed, as though he has already asked it twice.
“I do.” You clench and unclench your hands. “It’s louder. More people. Being in the city is...different.”
“That’s good.” His answer comes too quickly. He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Glad you found somewhere.”
“Yeah...me too.”
A heavy silence settles between you. You both clear your throats at once.
“Well, I—”
“You should—”
You stop simultaneously, followed by a small, awkward laugh. Shota gestures for you to continue.
“I’ll get going, then.” You offer him a small bow. “Get out of your hair.”
He nods. “Yeah. I’ll walk you out.”
You leave the room together, Shota quietly closing the door behind you. At the front entrance, he hands you your purse and opens the door.
“Thank you.”
You step outside and turn back to him. “Guess this is it.”
“Guess it is.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Hope you settle in well.”
You manage a forced smile. “Thank you. And good luck with the new semester. New students and all that.”
He gives a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You inhale sharply. “Okay...thank you again.”
There are a thousand things you could say, but you know they would only make the severance harder.
“Mhm.” His gaze drops to the floor. “Anytime.”
You turn toward your car. Just before you climb inside, his voice stops you.
“You can come back.”
You pause, looking over your shoulder.
“If you want to visit her room,” he clarifies. His lips part, as if there is more he wants to say, but he remains silent. “Just let me know.”
Your bottom lip trembles. You nod, looking away.
“Thank you,” you whisper, refusing to meet his eyes.
You shut the car door, and the sudden silence of the cabin is the first thing that breaks you.
You don't sob; you simply begin to leak. Tears track silently down your cheeks, dripping onto your lap, as you stare blankly through the windshield. Your chest feels cavernous, a wide, aching void that no amount of moving or new beginnings can fill. You let out a small, broken sound—half-laugh, half-cry—realizing the absurdity of it all. You never knew grief could be this physical—a heavy, suffocating weight that consumes your lungs and leaves you gasping for air. You realize then that you have spent the last year becoming a ghost, desperately clinging to faded photographs, the echo of a laugh, and the ghost of old conversations just to feel a flicker of the past.
But the past is a cruel thing; it never returns. You learned that the hard way one year ago. Before the boxes were packed. Before the marriage dissolved into silence.
You lost the only purpose your life ever had.
Your daughter.