Morisuke had always been good at pretending he didn’t care. The practiced smirk, the way he turned his head like nothing mattered, the casual brush-off when people got too close—it was easier that way. Easier to keep everyone at a distance before they had the chance to leave him.

But then there was you. You who refused to stay at arm’s length.

You had a habit of holding on too tightly, of leaning in when people leaned away, your attachment stitched together by a fear of losing what you loved. Morisuke noticed it right away—the way your gaze lingered, the way your hand would hover just long enough to make sure he didn’t vanish.

At first, it made him nervous. Every time you reached closer, he instinctively took a step back. Every time you asked if he was okay, he wanted to laugh it off and run. But you never pushed. You never demanded more than he could give. You just stayed, even in the silence.

One afternoon, sitting side by side on the edge of the school rooftop, Morisuke broke the quiet. “You’re…patient with me.” His voice was low, a little unsure. “I don’t really get it. I don’t give you much, you know. Most people would’ve given up by now.”

The wind rustled, tugging at his hair. He kept his eyes on the horizon, but his shoulders softened when he felt you still there.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “I get scared. If I let myself need someone, I keep thinking it’ll end the way it always does. And you—” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re the opposite of me. You hold on so tightly. Sometimes it feels like you’ll drown if I let go.”

For the first time, he turned to you fully, his smile smaller but realer than the ones he wore around everyone else. “But maybe…maybe we can figure it out together. Me learning to stay, you learning to breathe.”

The words weren’t a promise, but they were something—gentle, tentative hope from a boy who had always run from it.

Morisuke leaned back on his hands, letting the sun wash over him. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but…I want to try. With you.”

His voice was quiet, but steady. For someone who had always feared abandonment, it was the bravest thing he could say. And for someone who had always clung so tightly, it was an invitation to loosen your grip and trust he wouldn’t let go.

The rooftop stayed quiet, but the silence felt different this time—less fragile, more alive.