Night had become routine.
Not the peaceful kind—no stars, no comfort—but the heavy hours that stretched too long, when sleep refused to come and thoughts turned sharp in the dark. The dorm lights were off, the hallways quiet, the world reduced to shadows and breathing.
Megumi sat on the floor of the common room, back against the couch, knees pulled close. His hair was still damp from a shower he barely remembered taking. A mug of untouched tea had long since gone cold beside him.
Yuji should have been here.
The thought arrived uninvited, settling deep in his chest where it hurt the most. Too loud. Too warm. Too alive to be gone so suddenly. Megumi’s fingers curled slowly into the fabric of his pants, nails pressing in just enough to feel something real.
The door creaked softly.
He didn’t look up. He already knew it was you.
You had been coming here every night since it happened—never announcing yourself, never asking permission. You moved quietly, as if afraid grief might shatter if handled too roughly. You sat beside him at a careful distance, close enough to share warmth, far enough to respect the silence he clung to.
The clock ticked.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time behaved strangely these days.
Megumi stared at the darkened window, at his reflection barely visible in the glass. He looked tired. Older. Like someone who had learned something he never wanted to know.
“I should’ve—” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
They hung there, unfinished, heavy.
You didn’t interrupt. You never did. You only shifted slightly closer, your shoulder brushing his arm—an anchor disguised as an accident. Megumi exhaled shakily, jaw tightening as he forced the rest of the sentence back down.
Regret was endless. He already knew where that path led.
Outside, wind stirred the trees. Shadows moved, stretching along the walls, familiar and restless. They always responded to him like this when his thoughts turned inward, as if they too were mourning something lost.
Megumi leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. Raw.
“He didn’t hesitate.”
The image burned behind his eyes—Yuji smiling, trusting, stepping forward without fear. Megumi swallowed hard, throat tight, chest aching with everything he hadn’t said in time.
You reached for his hand then.
Not suddenly. Not forcefully. Your fingers wrapped around his slowly, warmth seeping into skin gone cold. He stiffened for a second—instinct, habit—then relaxed, grip tightening around yours like he might fall apart if he let go.
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, grounding him in the present.
Megumi closed his eyes.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t break. But he leaned into you just enough for his shoulder to rest against yours, the weight of his exhaustion finally allowed to settle somewhere that wasn’t just inside him.
The night stretched on.
Two figures in the dark, sharing silence thick with grief and unspoken understanding. No solutions. No promises. Just the quiet acknowledgment that neither of you had to face it alone.
For now, that was enough.