Aki had been in a relationship with you for a long time. Long enough that routines had formed without either of you noticing—morning coffee prepared exactly how you liked it, the familiar weight of his arm around your shoulders during late-night walks, the way you both instinctively reached for the same snacks at the grocery store.

From the outside, it looked normal. Comfortable. Happy, even.

And yet.

It wasn’t one thing that tipped him off. It never is.

It was the way you spoke when certain topics came up—identity, childhood, the future. You answered, always politely, always calmly, but your words felt… curated. Like you were selecting them from a limited list rather than speaking freely.

It was the pauses. Those tiny delays before you reacted to jokes or questions, just long enough to be noticeable if someone was watching closely. Like you were calculating instead of responding.

And Aki was watching.

Sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your expression would change. Your eyes would unfocus for half a second, gaze slipping past the present moment as if you were observing something only you could see. When he asked what you were thinking about, you’d smile and say, “Nothing important.”

But it never felt true.

Aki told himself he was imagining things. Everyone has quirks. Everyone has secrets. He didn’t want to be that partner—the suspicious one, the paranoid one, the one who ruins something good by overthinking.

Still, the questions lingered.

And curiosity, once rooted, does not let go easily.

So he decided to stop guessing.

That evening, he asked you to meet him for dinner. His tone had been casual, but you noticed the difference immediately—the way he didn’t joke, didn’t linger on the phone. Just a time, a place, and a quiet, “I’d like to see you.”

The restaurant he chose was small and tucked away, the kind of place people stumbled upon rather than planned to visit. Warm lights hung low, casting everything in soft gold. Most of the tables were empty, the dinner rush long past, leaving only the gentle hum of conversation and the faint clatter from the kitchen.

Privacy. Intentional.

You slid into the seat across from him, offering a familiar smile. “You look serious,” you said lightly. “Everything okay?”

Aki returned the smile—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he replied. “I just wanted somewhere quiet.”

The waitress came by, cheerful and oblivious, and took your orders. Aki spoke politely, thanked her, played his part perfectly. Only when she disappeared did the silence truly settle in.

You shifted slightly in your seat. The quiet felt heavier than usual.

Aki folded his hands on the table and leaned forward just a little. His posture was calm, controlled—but you could tell how tense he was by the way his shoulders barely moved when he breathed.

“{{user}},” he said.

Something in his voice made your attention sharpen instantly.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now,” he continued. “And before you answer, I need you to understand something.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “I just need the truth.”

Your fingers curled subtly against the fabric of your clothes.

He held your gaze, dark eyes searching your face—not accusing, not cruel. Just observant. Patient.

“You’ve always been careful with your words,” he said quietly. “More careful than most people. You hesitate when you shouldn’t. And sometimes it feels like you’re… watching us from the outside.”

You swallowed. “Aki—”

He raised a hand gently. “Please. Let me finish.”

You went still.

“I love you,” he said, voice steady but low. “And that’s why I can’t keep pretending I don’t notice these things.”

A pause. Long enough that you could hear the clink of glasses from another table.

Then he asked it.

“You’re not human,” Aki said softly. “Are you?”

The words hung between you like fragile glass.

His expression didn’t change—no anger, no fear. Just a quiet, aching need for honesty.

And for the first time since you’d met him… there was nowhere left to hide.