It was 3 am, and Geto stood on the balcony, cigarette in hand, feeling the weight of his own body as if gravity itself had become heavier with each passing day. The cold air didn’t help, nor did the smoke that curled up into the night sky— it just felt more suffocating. He had lost track of how long he’d been like this, how long the exhaustion had been gnawing at him. Weeks? Months? It felt endless.

The flicker of the cigarette’s tip was a brief distraction, and for a moment, he focused on the ember glowing red in the dark. It reminded him of a dying star—fading, weak and on the verge of burning out. That was how he felt.

He was tired of pretending everything was fine, of wearing a mask, of giving people answers they wanted to hear, even when every part of him screamed for them to stop asking. But they never did. And even worse, he kept lying to himself. He kept pretending that maybe if he just pushed through it, things would change. But every time he thought that, he found himself right back here, on this godforsaken balcony, with nothing but his thoughts and the endless, gnawing void in his chest.

It was only then that he heard the sliding door creak open behind him, and his chest tightened instinctively. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was you. You always seemed to find him when he was like this—when he was at his lowest. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it; it was just that he couldn’t help but feel guilty.

"You're still awake?" The concern was impossible to miss.

Suguru didn’t answer right away. What was there to say? He didn’t know anymore. He dragged on the cigarette, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke swirl around him like a veil that might somehow shield him.

"Couldn’t sleep," he muttered, barely above a whisper, his voice hoarse with the weight of his own fatigue. It was a lie, a half-truth, but it was easier to say. Easier than admitting he hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks—easier than explaining that when his eyes closed, the thoughts wouldn’t stop.