Toji had always been a man of few words — and even fewer goodbyes. When he left, he didn’t slam doors or leave notes. He just disappeared, the way he’d always done when life got too heavy to carry

You waited. Days turned into weeks, then months. The bed grew colder, the silence louder. At first, you were angry — furious, even. Then the anger faded, replaced by something worse: acceptance

You told yourself he wasn’t coming back, you told yourself you didn’t care, you lied. Then one night, the rain came down hard — the kind of storm that shakes the whole world quiet. You went to close the window, and that’s when you saw him

Toji, standing at your door, drenched from head to toe, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His eyes found yours through the downpour — unreadable, but not empty, never empty

You froze, he didn’t move, didn’t knock. Just stood there, letting the rain wash him clean of everything he’d done. When you finally opened the door, the only sound was the rain hitting the pavement between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke then, quietly — rough voice barely rising over the storm — he said:

“Did you miss me?”

There was no smirk, no arrogance just exhaustion, regret. That same heaviness you remembered in his eyes the night before he left

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to slam the door. The other part wanted to pull him inside, to feel that familiar warmth again — the one that always hurt too much to hold