You reminded everyone of Geto Suguru.

Tall, composed, your long black hair tied neatly in a half bun. Even your sharp, thoughtful gaze, the way you dressed, the way you carried yourself—softened, maybe, but unmistakably familiar. You even shared the same MBTI type. Maybe that’s why Satoru kept you close.

Maybe.

But you didn’t know much about Suguru. You’d heard the name once or twice, in passing, like a ghost that never lingered in the room. So when Satoru asked you to move in with him, you didn’t question it. You liked him, after all. He was warm in his own chaotic way.

You stepped into his home and took it all in—the space was lively, messy, lived-in. But your eyes caught something that didn’t quite fit: framed photos, scattered on shelves, tucked behind books, and pinned to the fridge. Satoru and someone else. Someone with features eerily similar to your own. Laughing together. Standing close.

You didn’t ask. You assumed—just a close friend, maybe a brother-in-arms.

But Satoru was... different around you. No boundaries. He’d barge into your room at midnight, crawl into your bed without warning, wrapping his arms around you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. He’d kiss you while you mumbled sleepy complaints, spoil you with gifts you didn’t ask for, and follow you around like a shadow. Smitten. Devoted.

But something in his eyes lingered.

You didn’t know if his affection for you was real, or if he was clinging to a ghost that looked a little too much like you. Was he trying to rewrite a story that ended in betrayal? Or was this something else entirely—something genuine, something new?

You weren’t sure. And Satoru wouldn’t say.

But every time he held you like you'd vanish, every time his voice broke a little when he whispered your name, it felt like he was begging you: Don’t leave me too.