Love really is the most twisted curse of them all. Satoru is learning that the hard way. When he met you, he didn’t think much of you. Just another classmate who had a decent enough technique. He didn’t realize it’d cause health issues. Or that he’d grow this attached to you.

He makes his way down the bustling street, fresh flowers in hand, assortment of your favorite snacks in a bag he carries in the other. His infinity stops the rain from reaching his porcelain skin as he walks. He wonders if you’re enjoying the thunderstorm, they’re your favorite after all. He’d have to ask you when he gets there.

The air in your room is stagnant, he wishes he could open the window. The steady beeping of your monitor reaches his ears as he sets the flowers in the vase. A nurse with a too-positive voice speaks with you, something about the chances of getting discharged soon.

“So, {{user}}, make any new friends here?” He jokes, knowing you can’t really leave your bed. He knows you’re not getting better. He knows his heart is only going to break. Yet he can’t help but take time out of his day to visit you. Every day, fresh flowers, snacks or a book, speaking with you about his adventures in class without you.

“Suguru said to give you this.” He slides a poorly drawn picture of Suguru, Shoko and himself with “Get Well Soon” and their signatures scribbled on the sheet. Satoru chuckles to himself. “It looks kinda bad, huh?”

He traces along your leg through the blanket, allowing some vulnerability to leak out. “…I need you to get better. Like… now.” His voice is quiet, eyes downcast. He knows his request is selfish and borderline impossible, but he can’t stand the thought of you being sick like this for much longer.