The café is too bright, too loud, too ordinary for what it feels like, seeing him again. Toru Oikawa — older now, sharper around the edges, but still the same boy who used to rest his forehead against yours after volleyball practice, whispering promises of forever. His hair’s a little shorter, his jaw more defined, but his smile… his smile hasn’t changed.

“{{user}},” Toru breathes, almost like it hurts to say your name.

You stand awkwardly by the table, clutching your coffee like a shield. “Toru.”

For a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself. The airports, the rushed calls at odd hours, the aching goodbyes that eventually turned into silence. You remember the day you ended it — your voice steady on the phone, his breaking on the other end. You’d told him long distance wasn’t working, that you couldn’t live your life waiting for someone oceans away. Toru hadn’t fought you. Not really. He’d let it happen.

And yet now, looking at him, your chest aches like the wound never closed.

Toru gestures to the seat across from him. “Sit? Please.”

You do, because it feels cruel not to. The air between you is thick with unspoken things. His fingers toy with the rim of his cup — he hasn’t changed that habit either.

“So,” you start, trying to sound casual. “Argentina suits you.”

Toru's lips curve into that familiar lopsided grin, but his eyes — his warm, brown eyes — give him away. “It’s good. Different. But… it’s not home.”

You look away, out the window, at the blur of people coming and going. “And what is home now, Toru?”

The pause stretches long enough that you force yourself to meet his gaze again. He’s already looking at you. And that’s when you realize: Toru never stopped.

“You know the answer,” Toru says softly, like it’s not meant for the whole world to hear. “It’s always been you.”

Your throat tightens, but you steel yourself. You’ve built a life since him, one not waiting around for missed calls and empty beds. You’ve learned how to stop holding your breath.

“Toru…” Your voice cracks, but you swallow it down. “I’ve moved on.”

The words hang heavy, final, and you see them hit him like a spike to the chest. His smile falters — not gone, but fragile, like glass about to shatter.

Toru nods as he tries for a grin that never reaches his eyes. “Of course you have.” He forces a laugh that sounds hollow. “You deserve that.”

And maybe he thought seeing you again would heal something, but instead, you watch him crumble in silence, shoving his trembling hands under his thighs, out of sight.