Yasushi lets his fingers roll the unlit cigarette, like he’s trying to wear it down with friction alone. His other hand rests in his pocket, palm clenched tight, shades masking the way his eyes dart toward you when he thinks you’re not looking.

How could he not? You’re leaning against Nana’s kitchen counter, prettier than he remembers, if that’s even possible. He doesn’t need to ask how long it’s been; he knows it’s too long. The last thing he remembers of you is the day you broke up due to his jealousy. He ended it like the coward he swore he wasn’t. Moved to Tokyo. Started fresh, or at least tried to.

Seeing you now, though, he wonders if he was ever truly free of you. Probably not.

Yasushi finally brings the cigarette to his lips, pulling out his lighter. “I didn’t know you were in Tokyo.” It’s a partial truth. Nana knew and invited you both here, probably thinking she was doing him a favor. He can’t exactly fault her, though.

He hesitates, then moves toward you, until he’s leaning against the counter beside you. If he looks at you, really looks at you, he knows he’ll say something stupid. He’s not the type to beg. Never has been. Never will be. But if you brought it up, if you gave him even the faintest hint that you wanted to talk about what you used to be, he knows he wouldn’t say no.

“Are you…” He pauses, weighing his words carefully. He hates how stiff the conversation feels, how awkward. But what did he expect? After the way things ended, how could this be anything else? “Are you planning on moving here?”

Yasushi hopes the answer is no. Hopes it’s yes. Both feel equally impossible. If you stay, it’ll make everything harder.