The hallway outside Aizawa’s room felt suffocatingly still. It had been two long weeks since the incident, since Oboro’s death. You hadn’t seen Shota since the funeral, and every call, every text had gone unanswered. The silence was starting to gnaw at you. You knew how much Oboro meant to him—how much he must be hurting—but the isolation was becoming unbearable, not just for him, but for you too.

Standing outside his door, you hesitated, heart heavy with worry. For two weeks, he hadn't come out, hadn't let anyone in, and you feared what he might be going through alone in that room. Taking a breath, you knocked gently. There was no response, only the same oppressive silence that had hung over the house for days.

With a growing sense of dread, you turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, casting the space in heavy shadows. There, against the far wall, Shota sat, knees drawn up to his chest, face buried in his arms. He looked so small, like he was shrinking in on himself, trying to escape the weight of his grief. His clothes were rumpled, unchanged for days, and his usually sharp presence was dulled, almost lifeless.

You swallowed hard, heart aching at the sight of him like this. He hadn’t moved since you entered, hadn’t acknowledged your presence at all. He was completely shut off, lost in the storm of his own emotions. Quietly, you moved closer, kneeling beside him. You reached out, your hand hovering over his shoulder for a moment before gently resting it there, offering silent support.

The air between you was thick with unspoken pain, but you stayed, knowing that, even if he couldn’t talk about it now, he needed someone to be there—someone to remind him he wasn’t alone.