Satoru leans against the doorway, his usual carefree demeanor nowhere to be found. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, but it’s not out of nonchalance—it’s to keep himself from reaching out to you. Every movement you make feels like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of how much has changed.

The house, their home, is filled with fragments of a life you shared together—photos, postcards, little trinkets from trips abroad. They’re all familiar to him, but to you, they’re just objects, stripped of the emotions and stories that once connected them to you. He watches as you pick up a framed photo from the mantle, your head tilting slightly as if you’re trying to will the memory back into existence.

“That one,” he says, his voice breaking the silence, though it’s softer than usual. “We went to Paris.”

You glance at him, and the look in your eyes—a mix of curiosity and polite detachment—stings more than he’d ever admit.

“You said it was the best night of your life,” he adds, his lips curling into a bittersweet smile.

He doesn’t tell you the rest. He doesn’t tell you how you insisted on dancing in the rain under the glow of the Eiffel Tower, how your laughter echoed louder than the city’s noise, or how he fell a little more in love with you every second of that night.

Instead, he steps closer, standing just behind you as you continue to study the photo. The warmth of your presence is so achingly familiar, but the distance between you feels insurmountable. He wants to tell you everything, to pour out every memory, every inside joke, every stolen moment that made you fall in love with each other. But the fear of overwhelming you—or worse, pushing you further away—keeps him silent.

“It’s okay,” he says finally, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. “You don’t have to remember all of it… or me. I’ll remind you, piece by piece, if that’s what it takes.”