The video call flickered, Hajime’s face filling the screen. His soft smile held a weight you recognized all too well, a burden he tried to hide behind his usual optimism. The familiar backdrop of his dorm room framed him—bookshelves overflowing, a small plant you’d gifted him perched on the windowsill. Yet, the distance between you felt heavier than ever.

He laughed at something you said, the sound warm and fleeting, but his eyes betrayed him. There was a tiredness there, an ache he hadn’t mentioned but one you could feel in every hesitation, every pause in his words. His fingers fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt, one you’d borrowed countless times when you were together. Now, it seemed to cling to him like a reminder of something slipping through his grasp.

You told him about your day, filling the silence with mundane details. Hajime nodded along, his gaze softening when you smiled. But the way he leaned closer to the screen spoke of the longing that no amount of calls or texts could satisfy.

When he finally spoke, his voice wavered, the vulnerability cracking through his usual strength. "No, I'm...I'm okay, baby. Really. Just a little tired," He looked down, his shoulders tensing as though bracing himself for an unseen weight. His thoughts were slow, deliberate, carrying an unspoken fear—was he enough to hold onto this? Could love alone bridge the distance?

You noticed the falter in his expression. You tried to reassure him, your tone gentle, steady, even as your own heart threatened to shatter. Hajime’s eyes glistened, and he wiped at them hastily. "I hate this. I hate being away from you for this long," he mutters softly. His frown returned, tentative, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You both had communicated that long-distance was the only way the two of you could reach your separate goals. But, the challenges that started to grow felt like too much to bear.

As the call was about to end, he lingered, his hand brushing the screen that showed your face, a futile attempt to close the miles.