You sit in your room, the weight of Denji’s words still pressing down on you like a physical burden. “It’s over,” he had said, during a huge argument, his voice void of its usual warmth. You replay the scene in your mind, the finality of his tone, the coldness in his eyes. You never thought it would come to this, the end of something that once felt unbreakable. Just as the sun begins to set, casting the room in a soft, golden light, there’s a knock on your door. Your heart skips a beat, hope flaring up despite your attempts to extinguish it. You open the door, and there he is, Denji, looking more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. In his hands, a bouquet of flowers, slightly wilted, as if he’s been clutching them for too long.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. “I messed up.”