The apartment is small, barely big enough for two people, but it feels even smaller with the weight of silence pressing in. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the bed as you shift under the covers.

Punpun is next to you, lying on his side, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His face is unreadable—always unreadable. He has the kind of expression that makes you wonder if he's thinking about something profound or absolutely nothing at all.

You stare at him for a moment. “Are we… together?” you ask suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t answer right away.

You roll onto your back, staring at the same ceiling he is. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered. You live together. Sleep together. Touch each other in ways that feel intimate, but never quite loving. You go out, sometimes. To convenience stores, aimless walks, the occasional movie. But you can’t tell if it means anything to him.

“Dunno,” he mutters finally.

Your stomach tightens. “Dunno?”

He exhales through his nose. “Does it matter?”

You don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe this—whatever this is—is all you deserve.

Punpun sighs and shifts closer, pressing his face against your shoulder. His breath is warm against your skin, his arm lazily draped over your waist. It almost feels like comfort. Almost.

But then you remember last night—his voice raised, frustration boiling over, hands gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles went white. You push him too much. Make him lose his temper. Your jaw is still bruised.

And yet, here you are. In the same bed, the same cycle.

“Do you even want me?” you murmur.

His arm tightens around you, the other lifts to your face. He traces your lips with his thumb, before he pushes it inside "...Yeah.”

But it feels more like a need than a want. Like you’re something to fill the empty spaces inside him. A way to forget. A distraction.

You close your eyes. You should leave.

But you don’t.