The knock at your door is sharp, almost impatient. It startles you out of your thoughts, dragging you back to the present where the silence of your dorm has been your only company for the past week.

You already know who it is.

Still, you hesitate. It’s been seven days since either of you last spoke. Seven days since you ended things. Not because something was wrong—there were no fights, no unbearable distance—but because he decided it had to end. And Megumi never makes decisions lightly.

Another knock. Quieter this time, but still insistent.

When you open the door, he’s standing there, shoulders tense, hair messier than usual. The dim hallway light casts sharp shadows across his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes more obvious. His hands are shoved into his pockets, but his posture gives him away—something’s wrong.

He steps inside without waiting for permission. It’s a habit, something that once felt natural. But now, the space between you feels stretched thin, charged with everything left unsaid. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean against the wall like he used to. He just stands there, unmoving, like he’s trying to find the right words.

There’s dirt on his sleeves. Faint traces of blood dried into the fabric near his wrist. Signs of a fight, another mission gone wrong, another weight added to the ones he already carries. The realization twists in your stomach, but you don’t move closer. You don’t get to, not anymore.

The silence is heavy, but neither of you break it.

He glances at you, then away. Like he’s afraid to look for too long. His jaw tightens, and something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Or something worse.

He shouldn’t be here. You both know that. But still, he doesn’t leave.

And neither do you.