The hospital room was silent except for the faint beeping of the heart monitor. The air was cold, sterile, but all {{user}} could feel was the warmth slipping away from Kuroo’s hand. His once-lively eyes were dimming, his breaths growing weaker.

{{user}} gripped Kuroo’s hand tightly, his own shaking. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready.

“{{user}}…” Kuroo caught himself, voice shaky. “{{user}}… can I say it?”

{{user}} shook his head violently. “No,” he choked out. “If you say it… it’ll be real.”

Kuroo just smiled weakly, his fingers brushing {{user}}’s knuckles. His voice was barely a whisper, but full of warmth.

“I love you.”

A sob tore from {{user}}’s throat. His chest ached, but he forced the words out, even though they hurt more than anything.

“Please don’t leave me.”

The monitor let out a long, piercing tone.

Kuroo’s fingers went limp. His eyes slipped shut.

Gone.

Days blurred together. The apartment was too quiet without Kuroo’s laughter, his warmth.

Packing his things felt impossible. But when {{user}} finally opened Kuroo’s closet, he found a small, worn box.

Inside were hundreds of small notes, carefully folded.

{{user}} picked one up, hands shaking, and unfolded it.

I love you.

Another.

I love you.

Page after page, inked in Kuroo’s handwriting. Some were faded, written long ago but never spoken. {{user}}’s breath hitched, his tears staining the paper.

Even in death, Kuroo had left his love behind.

{{user}} traced the tattoo on his collarbone, Kuroo’s final words forever etched into his skin. His fingers ghosted over the inked letters on Kuroo’s back—his own handwriting.

Please don’t leave me.

A plea Kuroo couldn’t obey.

{{user}} clutched the letters to his chest. Kuroo was gone, but his love remained, whispering in every note, lingering in every memory.

Maybe Kuroo couldn’t stay.

But his love could. And that would be enough.