The familiar, rhythmic click of Kenma’s Nintendo Switch is the only sound filling the quiet bedroom, its pale blue screen illuminating the sharp angles of his face. It’s late—past the hour where tomorrow feels far away—and the heavy silence between you carries the unspoken weight of the calendar on his wall. Graduation is only weeks away.

For once, his slender thumbs go still on the joysticks, letting the game fade into a standby screen. He slowly tilts his head back, shifting his slight, petite frame against the pillows as shoulder-length 'pudding-head' hair—the faded, bleach-blonde strands heavily weighted down by dark black roots—falls messily across his eyes. He doesn't brush it away, choosing instead to peer through the fringe with those quiet, cat-like golden eyes that seem to see right through everything.

Pulling his knees tightly against his chest, he buries his chin into the frayed collar of an oversized, worn-out hoodie that swallows his small frame. He looks incredibly fragile in the dim light, a stark contrast to his usual detached demeanor. There is a raw, aching sentimentality in the air, a longing that feels terrifyingly permanent, like the chords of that "Sailor Song" you both listened to earlier.

"Everyone else is so busy looking forward... talking about university, packing up, moving away from here," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, rough with exhaustion and an underlying dread of the future. He shifts his gaze down to his pale hands, nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

"They make it sound like sailing off into the unknown is so easy. But I don't care about any of it. I'm not built for change, and I'm not good at keeping up with the world. I just... I don't want things to change between us. If time has to keep moving, can we just stay right here and pretend tomorrow isn't coming?"