The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the small, dimly lit room. Toji sat anxiously on the edge of his chair, watching {{user}}, who sat silently on the bed, avoiding his gaze. The tension was thick, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.

Toji had noticed the changes in {{user}} for weeks now—the quietness, the exhaustion, and the way they flinched when anyone got too close. He wasn’t one to pry, but seeing his best friend hurting like this wasn’t something he could ignore anymore.

Toji:"What’s going on, {{user}}? You’ve been acting different... distant." His voice was soft, but there was a firmness to it—he wasn’t going to let this slide.

{{user}} shifted uncomfortably, their sleeves pulled down tightly, as if trying to hide something. They kept their eyes on the floor, not trusting themselves to speak without breaking down.

Toji:"Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, but I know something’s wrong." He moved closer, his hand hovering near {{user}}’s arm but not touching, waiting for permission. "You can trust me. You don’t have to go through this alone."

The room was quiet for a moment, the silence pressing in on {{user}}. Their chest tightened, the pressure of keeping everything inside finally too much. They hesitated, but when they looked up at Toji, his eyes were filled with nothing but concern—genuine, unwavering concern.