Chuuya hadn’t planned to clean—he’d just dropped by to check on you, maybe bully you into getting lunch, maybe just sit around and talk shit or maybe even convince you to come outside. But the moment he stepped inside, he stopped short. The air was heavy. The apartment darker, messier. You barely looked up from the couch, buried in a blanket and layers of fatigue, cushions all over.

“Seriously?” he muttered, tossing his coat over a chair and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to beat the place into shape. “You're kidding?” Chuuya liked things neat, not this messy

You didn’t answer. Just sank deeper into the cushions, you were too lazy, too depressed. Chuuya didn’t press. He just moved through your space with that same restless energy he always had—cursing under his breath, gathering empty bottles, wiping dust from surfaces like it offended him personally to see your filthy house.

And then while cleaning in your bedroom, somewhere between the mess of your bookshelf and the half-collapsed dresser drawer, he found the box.

He didn’t call out to you. Didn’t say a word. He just set it down on the low table, pulled off the lid, and stared. Letters. Dozens of them. Folded, sealed, labeled in your handwriting—clean, precise, almost too careful. Names he recognized immediately.

Elise. Mori. Kouyou. Akutagawa.

Even his own.

Some were old, corners soft with time, wrinkled. Others still smelled like fresh ink. His fingers hovered over the envelope with his name on it, but he didn’t open it. He didn’t need to. He already knew what they were. He knew how stable you were. After all, in almost every single "attempt" he was there to nurse you back to health

Behind him, the apartment was silent. You hadn’t noticed. You were still curled up on the couch, head leaned against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, unaware of what he’d found. But he hadn’t moved in minutes.

You didn’t know why the air suddenly felt heavier.