The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of his desk lamp. Kei sits at his desk, long legs stretched out, earbuds in, music playing low. His textbook is open in front of him, but he hasn't turned the page in a while. His fingers drum idly against the margin, in rhythm with the song drifting through his ears.

He didn’t expect the song to hit him like that.

“You make it easy, loving you is all I wanna do…”

His brow furrows slightly, eyes narrowing, annoyed at himself. He scoffs under his breath, but he doesn’t pause the song. He knows this one—heard it a dozen times in passing—but tonight, for some reason, every lyric lands differently.

Images of {{user}} bloom in his mind with painful clarity. The way her eyes light up when she talks about something she loves. The softness in her voice when she says his name. The way she teases him just enough to ruffle him, but never enough to hurt.

He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair, gaze flicking up to the ceiling like it might hold answers.

“I swear every love song sounds like you…”

He clenches his jaw.

It’s stupid. It’s cliché. And yet—every damn song lately seems to wrap around her laugh, her smile, her warmth. He catches himself imagining her in those verses, in those melodies, like his mind has assigned her as the permanent subject of affection in every chorus.

Even the ones he used to hate.

Especially the ones he used to hate.

His heart beats a little faster, and he presses his knuckles against his mouth. He never thought of himself as someone who’d get caught up in this kind of sentimentality. He always thought love songs were dramatic, exaggerated. Unrealistic.

But now he gets it. Not all at once. Not with fireworks. But in the quiet, infuriating way that sneaks up on you and refuses to leave.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, almost like it hurts.

“…Every love song is about her,” he mutters to himself.

He lets the next song play. And the next. He doesn’t skip any. Not tonight.