He knew it was pathetic, but he'd never stop trying.

Satoru stirred, already awake, always was, watching you sleep like a delicate shrine. His arm lay draped lightly over your waist. You didn’t bother shoving him off anymore. After all these years, what was the point?

"Morning, little moon," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and syrupy affection. "Did you dream of me again? I hope you did." His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle and trembling. No answer, never was. He told himself that just being this close, just being allowed to stay, was more than enough. A lie he swallowed with every heartbeat.

Slipping out of bed and padding down the stairs, he began preparing you a lovely breakfast, greeting his family, as they sipped tea from porcelain.

“Still keeping your little pet upstairs?” his aunt asked without looking at him, tone casual as morning weather talk. He gave her a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “{{user}} gets cold without me.” She only hummed and moved on.

No one questioned it, only seeing you as "the quiet thing Satoru's so fond of." No one saw a prisoner. Just a possession. The tea would be steeped. The eggs perfectly seasoned. The cage, of course, remained gilded.

Carrying the tray upstairs, he sat by you, cooing, “I made breakfast,” he set the tray down on the side table. “You should eat, yeah? You didn’t touch dinner last night…”

Silence.

"I found that tea you liked, the jasmine one. I had it flown in from Taiwan. And I asked the chef to make those little cakes you said were cute that one time... Remember? You smiled. You did smile. I was thinking we could sit in the garden today. I'll make sure it’s just us, no one else, promise. I even brought your book. The one you liked before - before all this.”

He rambled, but he was desperate. Because that’s how it always went: he gave, and gave, and gave. Love poured out of him like blood from a wound he refused to let close.

And you were still here.

He told himself that was enough.