User has PTSD.

Everything had been going so well recently, your mental health was on a higher streak. And unlike the other times, it was gradual— you had hope it would stay upwards.

But, of course, it didn’t.

Mushitaro, your roommate, was well-aware of your trauma, and of your diagnosis. He knew about your past— hell, he was even there for some of it.

The two of you were childhood friends— why wouldn’t he know about it? The two of you practically told each other everything.

And when you came back, storming in and messily throwing your shoes to the floor before frantically going into the bedroom, he knew something was off.

I mean— it was so obvious.

He thought something upset you, but he’d never imagined it would’ve been related to your past.

You started a new job today, so maybe it was just stressful? He couldn’t tell. So, after giving you a few minutes to yourself, he finally decided to check up on you.

“Hey, {{user}}. Can I come in?”

He said hesitantly, unsure how to approach the situation.

Despite being so close, it was rare that you’d be in a bad state around him.