You were eleven. Touya was eleven. And there were things you didn’t understand yet—like how a heart could break without ever saying “I love you,” or how someone could be right next to you and still feel like they were slipping away.

You were best friends. Had been for years. The kind of friends who didn’t need to speak to understand. The kind of friends who snuck out barefoot and bruised, who counted stars like they were promises, who knew each other’s silences better than most knew words.

But lately, Touya had been… distant. And not in the usual, grumbly-Touya way. This was different. He barely looked at you anymore. Barely spoke unless you asked first. He still showed up, every day, but it felt like his body arrived before his spirit did.

And today, you snapped.

“I’m right here, Touya,” you shouted, standing barefoot in the middle of the field behind your house, eyes burning. “I’ve been here. Every single day. What else do you want from me?”

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, lips a thin line, eyes colder than they used to be. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”

You flinched. “What?”

“I didn’t ask you to wait for me, or follow me, or act like you get it. You don’t. You don’t know anything.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“No,” he muttered, “what’s not fair is pretending things are okay just because you want them to be.”

Your voice shook. “You think I want this? I lie to my parents just to see you—Touya, I know something’s wrong, and you won’t tell me, and I—”

“Because you can’t fix it!” he yelled. “You can’t fix me!”

Silence.

You swallowed hard. “I never said I could. I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

He looked at you for the first time in what felt like forever. Really looked. And something behind his eyes cracked. Just for a second.

Then he turned his back.

“You were gonna leave eventually anyway,” he said, voice flat. “Everyone does.”

That broke you.

You didn’t even try to stop the tears this time. “You’re the one leaving,” you whispered.

You ran.

You didn’t see the way his fists trembled. Didn’t see the way he looked back. Didn’t hear the way his voice finally broke, once you were gone:

“…I didn’t mean it.”

Touya didn’t come the next day. Or the one after that.

And when he finally showed up again—eyes dimmer, burns fresh, voice tired—you could already feel that the version of him you knew was fading fast.