The forest has swallowed every sound. Even Megumi’s breathing seems too loud in the silence, too human against the endless dark.

The curse lies dead in the river beside him, crimson seeping into the water like ink spreading across paper. Megumi presses his palm harder over the gash on his arm, feeling the hot sting beneath his fingers. It isn’t life-threatening—he’s taken worse hits without so much as flinching—but tonight, everything feels heavier.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the months of overtraining. Maybe it’s the way he hasn’t truly rested since he lost the right to fall asleep imagining you beside him.

It isn’t hatred that knots in his stomach at the thought of you. Far from it.

It’s the sickening ache of wanting something he was forced to believe he shouldn’t.

He remembers the day the higher-ups saw you two together—too close, too soft, too obvious. Your relationship was supposed to be hidden, a little piece of light carved out for yourselves. But they crushed it with one threat: suspension.

It didn’t work. Not on you. You took the suspension without fear, without flinching, without regret.

So they changed tactics.

They whispered to Megumi instead. Told him you were dragging him down. That you were unfocused. That he was wasting potential. That attachments only birthed weakness. That you’d get him killed—or he’d get you killed.

And he tried not to believe them. He really, truly did.

But they didn’t need to be convincing. They only needed to say the right words in the right order, until he didn’t trust his own heart anymore.

Now he sits alone, soaked, bleeding, exhausted, with no “distraction” to steady his breath, no gentle hands cupping his cheeks, no voice whispering you’re okay, Megumi, breathe…

Just loneliness. And the echo of your name in the back of his mind.

Then—crunch.

The soft sound of leaves behind him freezes his lungs. His fingers clench reflexively. His heartbeat stutters. The forest shouldn’t have footsteps. No sorcerers were assigned to this mission except him.

Which means—

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t have the strength to.

But he knows. Of course he knows.

It’s you.

And the knowledge hits him so hard he almost sags forward from it. His breath cracks, barely audible, but he hears it, and he hates himself for it.

You weren’t supposed to see him like this—bleeding, tired, undone. You weren’t supposed to keep chasing him despite the walls he forced between you. You weren’t supposed to still care.

But you came anyway.

You found out about his mission. You heard he hadn’t returned by midnight. You started searching because the thought of him hurting—it breaks you as much as it breaks him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the rain pattering against the leaves sounding suddenly too close, too intimate.

He’s afraid to look.

Afraid of what he’ll see.

Afraid of what he’ll feel.

After months of not feeling anything.

Afraid that if he sees your face, all the lies the adults planted in him will crumble at once.

Because the truth is simple, terrible, and buried deep:

It wasn’t him who decided you were wrong for him. It was them.

And he believed them more than he believed you.