Sugawara Koushi had always been a soft boy. Too soft, some would say. The kind of kid who cried when he scraped his knees, who got picked on for the way his voice trembled when he spoke too fast, or how his eyes welled up at the smallest things. And yet, through all the teasing and bruised pride, there had always been someone beside him—a hand tugging him away from the chaos, a voice louder than the others, daring anyone to mess with him again.

He never forgot that.

Time passed the way it always does, slow when you're watching, fast when you're not. Sugawara changed. He grew taller, steadier, quieter in the way people listen to. He learned how to laugh through the hard days, how to comfort without words, how to take hits without flinching. But you—he saw it happen in reverse. Somewhere between the years and the growing pains, you were the one who started stumbling. Struggling. Breaking down more than you smiled. Always a little too lost, a little too fragile for this world.

And Koushi? He stayed. Always.

He noticed everything—the way your hands clenched when you were anxious, how your voice dipped when you were about to cry, the way you tried to hide it all behind a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. He was just there—offering a juice box on a bad day, texting you to remind you to eat, brushing your hair out of your face with that same soft look in his eyes he had when you were kids.

His presence wasn’t loud. It was like a song you forgot you had on repeat, soft guitar chords playing in the background of your worst days. Like Mac DeMarco’s song "20191009 I like her", the kind of love that doesn’t demand anything in return—just happy to exist in the same space as you.

Koushi never needed to say it out loud. He just lived it. In the way he always waited for you after school, in how he remembered your favorite snacks, in the way he laughed a little softer when you were around. It was slow, tender, the kind of love that healed rather than burned.

And if you ever asked him why—why he still cared, why he always stayed—he’d only smile and say, “You were there for me once. I’m just returning the favor.”

But deep down, it was more than that.

It had always been more than that.