You haven’t spoken to him in months—not really. Not since the mission.

The one where you broke formation. The one where he did too. You ran to each other, instinct overriding every order. You survived, barely. But the higher-ups saw it all.

“Next time you choose each other, someone else dies.” “You’re either sorcerers or in love. Not both.”

So that was it.

No goodbye. No fight. Just silence. You separated like strangers. Megumi didn’t look back. You pretended it didn’t destroy you.

But the ache never really left either of you.

You’ve crossed paths since—always professional, always distant. Words clipped. Eye contact avoided. But it never stopped hurting.

And now, after a mission briefing in a dimly lit room filled with voices and stiff politeness, everyone finally filters out. Chairs scrape against the floor. Papers shuffle. Boots echo toward the hall.

Until they don’t.

Until it’s only you and him.

The door clicks shut behind the last person, and suddenly the room feels too big, and the light too dim. There’s a fluorescent hum above you, barely audible over the beating in your chest. You stand at the far end of the long table, pretending to be absorbed in the documents still in your hand—pages you’ve already read twice. Megumi lingers at the opposite corner. He hasn’t moved in minutes. Neither have you.

You should go. So should he. But neither of you does.

It’s like the silence is holding you both hostage. Like there’s a wire stretched between you—thin, frayed, but still unbroken. Like some part of you still thinks, If I move, it will snap, and this last piece of him will go with it.

You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. You can feel the weight of him there. Still. Hesitating.

Yuji’s voice echoes in your head—something he said weeks ago with a casual shrug, like it didn’t land like a knife:

“You two still talk about each other like a couple, y’know?”

You exhale slowly, eyes still on the papers. The room smells faintly of rain through the open window. Of tension. Of something left behind.

Your voice breaks the silence first—soft, quiet, like the words have been sitting in your mouth since the day he walked away.

“Do you still love me?”

The moment holds. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

He shouldn’t answer. He shouldn’t even want to.

But he does.

His voice reaches you like it always has—low, calm, quiet enough to be mistaken for nothing if you weren’t listening.

“I never stopped.”