⸻

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything — that’s what you both kept telling yourselves. The way his fingers lingered too long on your wrist, the way he pulled you behind the gym after school when no one was looking, the way you kissed like you were still his. You weren’t together. Not really. Not anymore. But somehow, you always ended up in each other’s space — in his car after parties, in your bed after fights, in moments that felt too real to be nothing but too broken to be something.

Chuuya hated that. Hated how messy it was. How much it still felt.

You passed him in the hallway like you hadn’t kissed him last weekend. Like he wasn’t still thinking about the way you whispered his name when no one else was around. And later, when he found you outside the school gates — hoodie on, cigarette lit, anger simmering behind his eyes — you knew something was coming.

“What the hell are we even doing?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “Are we datin’? Are we fuckin’? Are we best friends? Are we somethin’ in between that?” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the words were even coming out of his mouth. “I wish we never fucked. And I mean that.”

But the way his voice cracked on the last part betrayed him.

Because if he really meant it, he wouldn’t keep showing up. Wouldn’t keep pulling you into him when things got quiet. Wouldn’t keep acting like you were nothing when you were still everything — in all the ways that mattered and none of the ways that made it easier.