It started with silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that comes heavy with things unsaid. The kind that lingers after too many fights—sharp words whispered like confessions, slammed doors echoing like heartbreak. You were still his, technically. And he was still yours. But even when you were side by side, it felt like galaxies were opening between you. So he ended it. Quietly. Coldly. Like pulling the plug on a game he didn’t want to lose anymore.

Ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?

Three weeks.

That’s how long it took before your name lit up his screen again. Or maybe it was his. Neither of you will admit who broke first. He said it was for closure. You both pretended that’s all it was—just one night, one conversation. But it didn’t end with words. It ended with his breath on your collarbone, your nails in his sleeves, his hoodie falling to the floor like logic itself.

And maybe he should’ve stopped it. Maybe. But he’d heard someone was planning to shoot their shot with you. Someone who clearly didn’t understand—you weren’t just anyone. You were his, even when you weren’t. That quiet jealousy burned hotter than reason ever could.

Do I wanna know if this feelin’ flows both ways?

You were beautiful. Always had been. That kind of beauty that didn’t just turn heads—it turned stomachs, flipped whole worlds upside down. So yeah, he let you back in. Into his apartment. Into his arms. Into his goddamn heart, again.

And it didn’t stop.

You argued. You broke up. You swore it was the last time—every time. But then a text. A memory. A song that reminded him of your laugh. A hoodie that still smelled like jasmine and sweat-soaked nights. You always found your way back to each other, fumbling for something that maybe wasn’t love anymore, but sure as hell felt like it at 2AM when his fingers brushed yours across the sheets.

Sad to see you go… was sorta hopin’ that you’d stay.

Sometimes, he’d catch himself hoping you’d call first—just to prove you missed him too. Just to hear that maybe, just maybe, the way you haunted him wasn’t one-sided.

Been wonderin’ if your heart’s still open, and if so I wanna know what time it shuts.

You’d come over. Sometimes you’d stay too long. Sometimes not long enough. And every time you left, he stared at the door like it owed him something. Like maybe this time you’d turn around. Maybe this time you’d stay.

You never did.

Until that one night.

No stream. No mic. No audience. Just his dark room, the glow of his PC behind him, the hum filling the silence like a confession he can’t make. You on his bed, wrapped in his hoodie, breath warm on his chest. He didn’t touch his controller once. Didn’t even check his phone. The only game that mattered was the one he kept losing: you.

Crawlin’ back to you… ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?

You could be together, if you really wanted. If one of you just said the right thing at the right time. If pride didn’t weigh so much. But neither of you did. Instead, you lingered there—bare skin and tangled limbs, pretending it meant nothing while hoping it meant everything.

Kenma’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, lost in thought.

He hadn’t been with anyone else.

Couldn’t be.

Not because he was waiting—but because he didn’t know how to want someone who wasn’t you. Distractions felt bland. He was too busy being yours in secret to chase something new.

Too busy bein’ yours to fall for somebody new.

And you? You were still here. Lying beside him. Again.

He didn’t ask what it meant. He never did. But god, he wanted to. He wanted to know if your heart still ached for him at night—if this feeling flowed both ways. If you checked his streams just to hear his voice. If you missed him the way he missed you: clawing and aching and pretending you didn’t.

Until now, he’s too busy being yours—completely, hopelessly yours—to want anybody new. And that’s the most toxic truth of all. He just murmurs something low, almost swallowed by the hum of his PC fan: “You know… we could make this work.” It’s not a question, not really.