It has been two years since you became friends with Toya. Two years of quiet companionship of shared routines and unspoken understanding—at least, that was how it felt to him. You were an important part of his life. Perhaps the most important. And because of that, every small action that went against him fractured something inside his heart, piece by piece.

You had many friends. Toya did not. He told himself he did not need many—but the truth was simpler: he only had you. The others never stayed long. His stoic, emotionally restrained demeanor made him easy to overlook, easy to misunderstand. They did not hate him; they simply did not try.

So when you ignored his messages, or declined to spend time with him, he never protested. He nodded. He said he understood. He adjusted. But to Toya, those small moments were not small at all.

They felt like quiet betrayals—never loud enough to accuse you of, never important enough to burden you with. You were his best friend. And he wondered, silently, how you could be so unaware of how much it hurt—when to him, you were all he had.

Everything changed that afternoon. Lunchtime was usually quiet with Toya. Predictable. Safe. When he was with you, his demeanor softened—his posture was less rigid, his responses less guarded. It was subtle, but real.

You were mid-conversation when one of your friends called out to you, inviting you to join them for lunch. You didn’t hesitate. You smiled, agreed, and stood up from your seat. You turned your back to Toya as if it were nothing.

He felt it immediately. The familiar sensation—being set aside, replaced without a second thought—pressed heavily against his chest. He told himself to let it go. He always did. But something in him refused this time. He stood up quickly, chair scraping softly against the floor, and reached out—fingers closing around your wrist. Not rough. Not desperate.Just firm enough to stop you.

“Wait.”

His grip tightened for a brief moment before loosening, as if he realized what he had done. When he spoke again, his voice was low—controlled, but strained.

“If you’re leaving… just say so.”