There was never fire. No crashing storms or thunderous fights. Not at first.

With Sugawara, the downfall was quiet. A sweet kind of rot. The kind that started with soft smiles and ended with your throat full of guilt for ever needing more than he gave.

He was soft-spoken, gentle-handed. The boy who held your pinky in crowded hallways and left you sleepy notes in your pencil case. Your friends called you lucky. Your mom adored him. Strangers assumed you'd marry.

But somewhere between the kisses on your forehead and the goodnight texts he never missed, something shifted.

At first, you couldn't place it. The way he'd tilt his head when you brought up a bad day. The way your concerns turned into “You’re overthinking again, babe.” The way his kindness started to feel like a cage lined with velvet.

Because Sugawara didn't raise his voice. He raised doubt. In your own feelings. In your own memory. In the version of reality where you were allowed to be unhappy with someone so perfect.

You'd cry softly into his hoodie after another conversation that went in circles—never aggressive, never cruel, just… quietly invalidating. He’d stroke your hair and say, “You’re so emotional lately,” like it was something broken in you. And then he’d kiss your temple. Like that would fix it.

So you tried harder. Bit your tongue more often. Apologized for being “too much.” Let your boundaries stretch thinner, and thinner, until the outline of you blurred.

The breaking point wasn’t dramatic. It was devastating in its simplicity.

I don’t think this is good for me anymore, you’d texted, fingers shaking.

And Sugawara had just smiled. A sad, understanding smile before he replied with a that ached with kindness. One that made you feel like the villain. I get it, he reply. You’re overwhelmed. You need space. I can wait.

But you weren’t asking him to wait. You were asking him to let go.

He never said it out loud—but he never really accepted it either. He never blocked you. Still sent you pictures of sunsets. “Saw this and thought of you.” Still asked Daichi if you’d been sleeping okay. Still showed up to parties he knew you’d be at—and just so happened to end up next to you.

He never did anything wrong. That’s what made it worse.

Even now, your friends still say, “Suga’s such a good guy.”

And maybe he is. But that doesn’t mean he was good for you.

Because late at night, when your playlist was mysteriously updated with songs only he would’ve picked—When you’d open your door and find a takeout bag with your usual order, no note, no name—

You knew.

He never said “I miss you.” He didn’t need to.

You were just walking home. That was all. No detours, no wandering thoughts. Just you, the gentle hum of evening cicadas, and the slow melt of sunset dripping through the trees. The kind of walk where everything felt soft again—where the ache in your chest was a little quieter than usual.

You weren’t even thinking of him. Not really. Until a voice cracked straight through the calm.

“…I thought that was you.”

You froze.

The voice was so familiar it made your heart jump and your breath catch in your throat like a reflex. That slow, gentle kind of tone—too careful. Too knowing.

You turned. Slowly. Carefully. Like facing something that once was beautiful and now just… haunted. And there he was.

Kōshi Sugawara. Standing half a block behind you, hands in his uniform pockets, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t even mean to wear it. Like he wasn’t holding back a whole sea of things he wanted to say.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he added quickly, like he hadn’t been asking since the day you left. “I just wanted to say hi. That’s all.”