You’d been by his side for months. Listening to his outbursts, his frustration, his rage at the world. It was always you—there when he broke down quietly, the one who listened without judgment, who never asked him to change or expected anything in return.

Denji wasn’t easy. He never was. There were too many scars, too much need to feel wanted, to cling to something that felt like love. That’s why it was always Makima.

But still, you stayed.

That night, you were both on the couch. Power was asleep in the other room. The TV flickered softly, volume low. Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but his weren’t. He was looking at you.

Head tilted back, eyes tired, he finally muttered:

—“I wish I liked people like you back then.”

You turned to look at him. His voice didn’t sound like he was trying to be charming. It sounded like something that had slipped out—something he’d been holding in for days, maybe weeks. He lowered his gaze, almost ashamed for saying it.

—“What does that mean?” you asked, heart racing.

Denji let out a sigh.

—“That I kept chasing what hurt me… and you were right here. The whole time. And I’m just now seeing it.”

Silence followed. Not awkward—just heavy. A little painful. Because you’d thought the same thing more times than you could count, but never dared to say it.