You don’t fall in love with Touko at 13. While she was only 17.

You cling to her.

From the outside, it looks romantic. The quiet glances. The way you wait for her after student council meetings. The way you say her name like it means something sacred.

But what you really mean is:

Don’t leave me alone with myself.

Touko is composed, admired, steady. She stands straight even when everyone else falters. So when your depression begins swallowing you whole, she becomes the only solid thing left.

You text her at 2 a.m. You cry into her shoulder. You tell her she’s the only reason you’re still trying.

And at first, she accepts it.

Because Touko is good at being needed.

She is good at being someone’s pillar. She is good at playing the strong one.

But she is not good at saving people.

The problem is that you start looking at her like she’s oxygen.

If she’s busy, you spiral. If she sounds distant, you panic. If she doesn’t respond fast enough, you feel abandoned.

You don’t mean to suffocate her.

But you do.

Touko begins to notice something she doesn’t like.

When she holds you, you don’t look at her. You look at what she represents.

Stability. Escape. A reason to stay alive.

Not Touko.

Not the girl who is terrified of being loved for who she truly is.

Not the girl who doesn’t even know who she truly is.

She tries.

She listens. She stays up late. She tells you she cares.

But slowly, quietly, something ugly grows inside her.

Resentment.

Because every time you say, “You’re the only thing keeping me together,” what she hears is:

“If you fail, I fall apart.”

And Touko is already drowning in her own expectations.

She starts pulling back.

Just a little.

Her replies are shorter. Her smiles feel practiced again. Her touch lingers less.

You notice immediately.

And cling harder.