Tooru's sitting on the floor of his house, back against the couch where you used to sit with your legs over his lap. The room feels too quiet now, too empty, like it’s been scrubbed clean of you, except it hasn’t. Not really. Your ghost is everywhere despite the break-up. And he’s trying. Really trying, not to feel it.

"I hate you," he says, staring down at the cup you gave him for his birthday, filled with lukewarm tea in his hands.

"I hate how you never shut the cabinet doors. I hate that you laughed when I got mad about it. I hate the way you walked me to class. I hate the way you touched my hair like it was yours to mess up. I hate how you remembered every dumb thing I said when I was tired. I hate that you knew what kind of milk bread I liked without asking. I hate your stupid playlists. And your even stupider taste in shoes."

"I hate that your toothbrush is still in my drawer." A pause, as he swallows a lump in his throat. "I hate that I haven’t thrown it away."

And then it breaks, just a little, the edge in his voice softens, his eyes drop, and the room feels heavier as he tries to convince himself as much as the rest of the world.

"I hate you. I really do."

Tooru exhales sharply, burying his face in his hands for a second, then lets his head drop against the cushion behind him. The TV flickers muted light across the room and his tea's gone cold. He thinks, maybe tonight is the night he finally throws out your toothbrush.

Then, a knock.

He freezes. Blinks once, like he imagined it. But it comes again. Three soft raps against the door. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares. His heart thuds loudly in his chest, and his hands feel too slow as he pushes himself up, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he reaches it too fast.

His thoughts are running wild with all of the possibilities and a disbelieving smirk creeps his way onto his face. He opens the door.

"Surely it's not-"

It’s you.

Same eyes that could make him drop to his knees. Same sweatshirt he always pretended not to like on you. Same expression he can’t read unless he’s really looking.

Tooru's breath catches, but he covers it with a familiar half-smile, cracked and uncertain at the edges.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice is quiet, and in some way, relieved. Not accusing. Not even surprised. Just careful, like he wants to believe this is real, but he’s not sure he’s allowed to.