The view from Atsumu’s apartment was ridiculous — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, soft evening light cutting between the buildings. Everything about the place screamed success — the sleek furniture, the spotless hardwood floors, the quiet hum of the central heating. He had everything together. Of course he did.

And then there was you — sitting cross-legged on his expensive couch, arms wrapped around your knees, lips slightly pouted as you stared out at the city.

You shouldn’t be sad. Really. You were lucky — so lucky. Atsumu had told you as much, though not in so many words. He never made you feel bad for staying here, for not contributing, for taking up space in his life without giving much back. He’d kissed your forehead, said, “Take your time,” and meant it.

But still. Months without a job, without any real direction, left you restless. Every day blurred into the next, the same cycle of scrolling job postings and hearing nothing back. And the only thing you really looked forward to was him — hearing his keys at the door, the sound of his laugh, the way he’d drop down next to you on the couch and pull you into his chest.

It made you feel pathetic.

You sighed, pressing your forehead against your knees. It wasn’t like he made you feel small — he never would — but the weight of feeling like you were falling behind while he was so far ahead left a pit in your stomach.

You heard the door click open, and your heart jumped despite yourself. Stupid. He’d barely even walked in, and already you were looking forward to seeing him.