He didn’t know how he ended up like this, slumped against your shoulder, muttering things he swore he’d never say out loud.

You’d probably never believe it, but back then, he didn’t hate you. Not in the way you thought. The truth? He didn’t know how to talk to you. He wasn’t exactly great with feelings, and whenever you were around, it was like his brain short-circuited. So, he defaulted to short answers, hoping that his silence would do him more favors than his stuttering ever could.

But you took that silence differently. He could tell. The way your brow furrowed in frustration— Your distaste was palpable. God, you thought he was stuck-up, didn’t you? He wished he could’ve been different back then, acted like a normal person, maybe cracked a few jokes like he did with everyone else. Instead, he fumbled, and the space between you both only grew wider.

What the hell was wrong with him.

When you graduated, he figured that was that. You’d move on, forget him, maybe even think of him as some arrogant idiot who never gave you the time of day.

But here he was, two years later, spilling everything—his clumsy feelings, the confusion, the regret—all while half-drunk at the team’s reunion barbecue. How humiliating. Yet, as embarrassing as it was, Osamu felt oddly relieved. He wasn’t indifferent at all; in fact, he was completely head over heels.

You didn’t say much as you listened, just letting him ramble.

“Y’know…” he muttered, voice thick with alcohol, “You were the best, really. Actually, I—” He stopped himself, letting the words trail off. Too much. He didn’t want to embarrass himself any further. But it was too late, wasn’t it?

Please don’t throw up.