The sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, half-finished pencil strokes soft against the page. A familiar pair of eyes stared back from the paper—his eyes.

You’d draw him again.

Lately, drawing had become your way of missing him. When the days stretched too long, when the bed felt too big, when his texts came late and short—you’d reach for your pencil. Sometimes it was Sae in his uniforms, sometimes just his profile, the slope of his shoulder, the faintest curl of his hair. Sometimes it was both of you together—tiny snapshots of a life you were still building, piece by piece.

You didn’t mean to make it a habit. It just happened. Whenever you missed him too much, you’d draw. It was easier than words.

That Saturday, you’d gone out with friends for the first time in weeks, trying to shake off the feeling of yearning. You left your sketchbook open on the couch, figuring you’d come back later to finish shading his eyes. You didn’t expect Sae to come home early.

He unlocked the door quietly, dropping his duffel bag beside the shoe rack. For once, his body didn’t ache from exhaustion—it was the kind of tired that made you want to be home. He hasn’t told you he’d be back tonight. He wanted to surprise you, maybe take you out, maybe just hold you until you fell asleep. Something simple.

But the apartment was empty.

For a moment, disappointment flickered in his chest. He looked around—the dim lights, the faint smell of tea, the blanket thrown carelessly across the couch. Everything felt the same, yet not. Then his gaze fell on the sketchbook.

He hesitated before reaching for it, flipping through the pages with care. Each page told its own story—each portrait of him, each and every soft stroke—delicate, loving, deliberate.

His throat tightened.

There was something humbling about seeing himself through your eyes. You hadn’t drawn the prodigy midfielder that the world adored—you’d drawn him. The way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the faint curve of a smile he never gave to cameras, the tiny, domestic moments that didn’t belong to anyone else.

It was him—the only parts of him you knew.

He sat down, elbows resting on his knees, and turned another page. There was one sketch that stopped him—a small drawing of his back as he tied his shoelaces, your handwriting beside it: Don’t forget me when you go chasing stars again.

The corner of his lips tugged upwards—a sad, fond kind of smile.

That was when the door clicked open.

You froze in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of him—sitting there, hair tousled, still in his travel jacket, your sketchbook open in his hands.

“S-Sae?” you stammered, voice soft, uncertain if you should apologise or laugh. “You’re home?”

He looked up at you, expression unreadable at first. Then he set the sketchbook down carefully and stood, crossing the room in slow strides. “You draw me when I’m gone?” He asked quietly, not teasing—just curious.

Your cheeks warmed. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “It makes me feel like you’re still here.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough for you to feel the steady calm of his presence. “I didn’t know I was that easy to draw.”

“You’re not,” you murmured. “You are too perfect.”

That earned you the faintest chuckle—rare, soft, and private. He reached up, brushing his fingers over your cheek, tracing the edge of your jaw as if committing it to memory. “You should’ve told me you were lonely.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never do.” His voice was quiet, the kind that carried weight. “I don’t say it enough, but you’re…the reason I like coming home.”

You blinked up at him, unsure on how to respond, but he leaned down before you could speak, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Next time,” he said, “draw us together, okay? I want to see what I look like when I’m actually here.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket. “Then don’t disappear so much.”

He hummed, eyes *soft. “I’ll try.”