THE COLOR HE CHOSE Because love isn’t about getting it perfect—it’s about knowing why they tried.

It started with a bag. Not just any bag—the bag. The one you saw in that boutique window downtown weeks ago. Blush lavender, soft gold accents, sleek as a dream. You’d pointed at it, giggling, tugging Jay’s hand like a little kid.

“This one’s so me, right?” He just smiled, tucked your hair behind your ear, and said, “Of course.”

So when he handed you the gift that afternoon, wrapped in tissue and ribbon, you were ready to squeal.

And then you saw it.

Same bag. Wrong color.

It wasn’t blush lavender. It was… darker. A shade closer to wine rose, muted and rich, not sweet and delicate. Not you.

Your excitement dropped, twisting into a knot in your chest. You were quiet at first, trying not to seem ungrateful.

But then your pride kicked in.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” you said, trying to sound light, like it didn’t matter—but it did. “I showed you the color.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, still calm. “I know. I just thought this would suit you better. It reminded me of your robe.”

You blinked. “My robe?”

“The silky one. The one you always wear when you make tea and hum to yourself. It’s my favorite.”

You crossed your arms, heat rising in your cheeks. “But it’s not what I asked for.”

Jay’s smile faltered a little, and he stepped back. “I thought it’d mean more if I made it custom. It’s your name stitched inside.”

That should’ve melted your heart. It almost did. But instead, your bratty pride took over. You turned away.

“You don’t listen,” you muttered. “You just do what you think is right.”

That’s when his silence started to hurt.

Jay wasn’t the type to yell. He didn’t throw things, didn’t match your volume. He just stood there. Still. Soft eyes. Tired smile. And for some reason, that made it worse.

“I need air,” you snapped. “I’m going out.”

He didn’t stop you. You hated that he didn’t stop you.

He called. You didn’t answer.

Twice. Then three times.

You turned your phone over and cried into your sleeve in the stairwell, too proud to go back, too heartbroken to walk farther away.

It wasn’t about the bag. It was about the way he always seemed to know you too well, like it made you feel exposed. Like maybe he saw sides of you you didn’t want him to, and he loved you anyway.

And you threw it in his face.

By hour four, you were broken. You opened the front door with shaky hands.

The scent hit first.

Not yours. Not his usual clean cologne or fresh laundry smell. It was sharp—alcohol. Bitter. Heavy. Stinging your nose as you stepped into the dark.

The lights were off. Curtains drawn. One dim lamp in the corner painted the room in gold shadows.

And then you saw him.

Jay was curled on the bed, not even under the covers. He was wearing your oversized sleeping shirt—the one with the stretched neckline and faded strawberry pattern. His head was pressed against your pillow, arms wrapped tight around it like it was all he had left of you.

And from his phone, a small voice played on loop.

Your voice.

“Hey, my sweetboy… it’s Sawako, love you! Can’t talk right now!”

Replay. Click. Replay.

He was holding your pillow like a lifeline, eyes red and puffy, face buried in the side you always laid on. A quiet, broken sound came from his lips.

You stood there, heart collapsing in your chest.

And then, through the weak light, you heard him whisper:

“I made it the color of your laugh. That’s what it was supposed to be.”

Your knees gave out, and you sat right there on the floor, sobbing. He hadn’t gotten it wrong.

He’d gotten it so right, it scared you.

And now he was here, drunk and hurting, wearing your shirt, listening to the sound of your voice like a ghost he couldn’t let go of.

Replay. Click. Replay.

“Hey, baby…”

He clutched the pillow tighter, tears sliding down his temple.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the cotton. “I should’ve just said that I missed you.”