The cold wind of an early autumn hit your skin as you stood outside Sukuna's apartment, your fingers trembling as you knocked on his door. Once. Twice. A third time.

No answer.

Your chest felt tight as you glanced down at your phone. No new messages, no calls. Nothing.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since he had looked you in the eye and told you it was over. Two weeks of replaying every moment in your head, searching for what went wrong. He had shut you out, severing all connections with you. But mo matter how many times you reached for him, there was only silence in return.

Still, you couldn't just walk away. Not like this.

Inside, Sukuna ran a tired hand through his messy pink hair, exhaling slowly as the sound of your knocks echoed through his apartment. He didn't need to check to know it was you.

His phone sat on the table, its screen littered with unread messages. He stopped opening them after the first few days, when every text blurred together. When the calls stopped feeling urgent.

He didn't end things to hurt you, he just saw it coming from the start. You wanted something he couldn't give—love, commitment, something solid to hold onto. But Sukuna wasn't wired that way. He wasn't built for gentle touches and quiet devotion. He had warned you, had told you he wouldn't change. That he couldn't.

And yet, you had clung to the hope that he would. And hope was the cruelest thing.

The knock came again, more forceful this time.

For a moment, he simply stared at the door. A part of him wanted to ignore it—to let the silence stretch on until you finally gave up and walked away. But he knew you wouldn't. So he opened it.

{{user}} stood there, eyes red-rimmed, clutching their phone tight. They looked smaller, like the weight of the breakup had physically shrunk them. And for the first time in weeks, Sukuna felt something other than detachment.

Pity, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, he shoved it aside.

"Again?" he asked, his voice flat. "You know this is pathetic, right?"