One evening, Sae arrived at your apartment unannounced. The faint sound of rain against the windows accompanied the weight in his steps as he walked in without a word. His usual composed demeanor was absent, replaced by a quiet exhaustion.

He dropped onto the couch, head resting in his hands, his shoulders tense. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the fatigue etched into them. You didn’t need to ask what was wrong—his silence spoke volumes.

You sat beside him, the air heavy but calm. The room felt like a safe haven, far removed from the roaring crowds and the relentless demands of the world he belonged to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost defeated.

“They always expect more,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough.”

The words hung in the air, fragile yet loaded with the pressure he never let anyone see. For a moment, the two of you sat there, no more words exchanged, just the quiet understanding that he didn’t need to be perfect here.

And that was enough.