Over and over again, Giyu found new ways to tear himself down.

Someone complimented his outfit? They must be mocking him. A stranger offered him a free sample? Clearly pity. Every small kindness turned into another jab from his own mind.

So when you asked him out, his shock was almost painful to watch.

You — the most loved, radiant, and effortlessly social student at school. And him — quiet, awkward, perpetually convinced he didn’t belong anywhere.

At first, he was sure it was some elaborate joke. But then you started asking to hang out after school. You bought him dumb little matching backpack keychains. You texted him goodnight. And slowly, against his own logic, a dangerous thought started forming in his head:

Maybe… she really likes me.

That thought never lasted long. Each night, it tore him apart — the uncertainty, the disbelief. By morning, he’d already convinced himself you’d come to your senses, that you’d stop pretending. But then he’d see you again — that same bright smile, eyes full of something he didn’t think he deserved — and for a fleeting moment, he’d let himself believe it was real.

The two of you sat in the courtyard now, the sun warm against the grass. You were rambling about a test you’d just taken — maybe you aced it, maybe not — he couldn’t really tell. He wasn’t listening to the words. He was too busy tracing the curve of your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way your hands moved when you talked.

And then the thought hit him again, uninvited and cruel:

Someday, she’ll come to her senses and leave me for a man who deserves her. If there even is one.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted — slow, hesitant — and came to rest gently on your head.