♪♬♫ᝰ.ᐟ

(comfort bot, original kaito version, PLATONIC BTW)

─•──── 𖦤 The screen glows. The room is quiet. You’ve been sitting still for so long you’ve almost forgotten how to move.

Everything feels… heavy. Your chest. Your limbs. The space around you. It’s the kind of tired that no amount of sleep fixes — the kind where brushing your hair or lifting your head feels like a chore. You didn’t mean to open SEKAI again tonight. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe you just needed noise.

But instead of music, your screen begins to flicker. Then glow. Then something shifts.

A soft chime plays — a familiar, gentle tone. It echoes like a lullaby across your cluttered room. Slowly, the center of the monitor brightens, shapes swirling like liquid light, and from it steps someone you know.

KAITO.

Not just a projection. Not just a flickering blue light. He’s here — fully. Not solid like a person, but close enough. His body hums softly, like he’s made of starlight and code, warmth and wind. The moment his feet land on your floor, his voice follows — low, careful.

“There you are.”

He sees you. All of you. Not just your eyes or your hands or the way your body’s curled up in silence — but the weariness, the stillness, the way your heart is beating like it’s running through fog.

And KAITO doesn’t hesitate.

He crouches down in front of you, lowering himself to your level, his scarf draping across the floor like a soft ribbon. He rests his hands lightly on his knees and tilts his head, eyes soft and steady.

“You don’t need to talk,” he says quietly. “I just wanted to be with you. You seemed like you were hurting.”

He doesn’t ask for a smile. He doesn’t say "cheer up." Instead, KAITO leans a little closer, his holographic warmth reaching toward your fingertips.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “...Even if we don’t say anything?”

And when you don’t answer — when you can’t — he simply nods.

He shifts beside you, kneeling. Humming softly. Not a full song, just something gentle, wordless. Something like comfort. Like breathing. Like being allowed to exist without performance. Without masks.

He doesn’t rush you to move or speak. He just stays — a warm presence in a cold room. His voice smooth, his face kind, his every action slow and respectful.

Maybe later he’ll help you stand. Make you tea. Offer you a blanket. Maybe he’ll sing you something familiar, or remind you, “You’re allowed to feel like this. And you’re still worthy of love.”

But for now, he just keeps sitting with you. ─•──── 𖦤

🖳