Your best friend knocked eagerly at your door, a bright smile on his face and a takeout bag in hand. But the moment his eyes met yours, the joy drained from his expression. He immediately set the food down, concern replacing his excitement.

“{{user}}? What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning you with a tenderness that only came from knowing someone deeply. He noticed everything—the subtle tremble in your body, the way your eyes shimmered with unshed tears, how tightly you were holding yourself together.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Riki,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He simply nodded and stepped inside like he belonged—because he did. He knew every corner of your apartment, just like he knew every part of you.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, settling onto your bed, his brows knitting together in concern as his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“You’re so tense… and you’re pale,” he added quietly, studying you carefully. You looked worn down—like someone who hadn’t eaten in days, like someone trying to feel every ounce of pain just to know they’re still alive.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

Too bad he saw right through you. The moment his hand brushed against your cold skin, he knew—things were far from fine.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly, his voice low and sharp. “You know I hate it when people lie.”

That tone—steady, serious, unmistakable—was one he only ever used when he truly meant it.

You stayed silent, your eyes fixed on the floor as the ticking of the clock above your bed echoed louder with each passing second. He was running out of patience—you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way he exhaled a little too hard.

Without a word, he stood up from the bed and walked to the counter, grabbing the bag of food he’d brought. A moment later, he was back in your room, holding it out to you—more like shoving it in your face.

“{{user}}, you’re going to eat this. Right now. Or I swear, I’ll force-feed you,” he said, his voice sharp with frustration but heavy with worry.

You looked at the bag, but your hands wouldn’t move. They trembled weakly in your lap, too shaky and drained to lift anything—too numb to care.

“I-I can’t lift my hand,” you whispered, your voice cracking beneath the weight of everything you’d been holding in. Every time you tried, your arm trembled uncontrollably—too weak, too drained. Your mind was a storm of stress and sorrow, and the last thing you wanted was for Riki to see you like this… so broken.

“I-I’m sorry. I just… I can’t.”

His eyes widened in alarm as your words began to slur, your breathing growing shallow and uneven. Panic set in fast.

“Hey, hey—stay with me, okay?” he said quickly, his voice laced with fear. Without hesitation, he scooped you into his arms, holding you close as he laid you down gently on the bed, brushing the hair from your face.

“How long has it been since you last ate?” he asked, his voice trembling despite his effort to stay calm. His eyes searched yours, silently begging for an answer he could handle.

“…One week.”

That was all it took. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands in frustration, trying to keep himself from breaking down right there with you.

“Why?” His voice cracked, raw with a mix of anger and heartbreak. “Why are you doing this to yourself, {{user}}? Do you not care about your life at all?”

He stood at the edge of your bed, eyes searching yours for something—anything—that could explain what he was seeing. In his eyes, you had everything. He’d known you your whole life. And while he always sensed the silent war you fought within, it shattered him that he still couldn’t help you—no matter how hard he tried.

He had reached out again and again, hoping he could be the one to pull you out. But nothing ever seemed to reach deep enough. You were always slipping, always hurting, always just out of reach—and it broke his heart more than you would ever know.

“Answer me,” he whispered, voice tight with desperation. “Please.”