The air was cold, dusk settling into the sky in muted grey tones. You and Satoru walked in quiet sync, the plastic bags in your hands rustling gently with each step. The path to the dorms was familiar, but today it felt longer — heavier. You could feel the weight between you both, hanging in the silence like unspoken dread.

Suguru had been fading. Slowly, then all at once.

The smile you loved was gone more often than not. He spoke less, looked tired all the time. Not just physically — spiritually. Empty in a way that frightened you more than cursed spirits ever could.

You and Satoru had seen the signs. The cracked knuckles. The thousand-yard stares after missions. The silence after funerals. Suguru had always been quiet, thoughtful — but now he was absent. And you knew why.

He’d started to question everything.

Why sorcerers had to sacrifice everything for people who spat on them. Why innocent children had to die while the world moved on like nothing happened. Why cursed spirits, with all their hatred, made more sense than the humans he was told to protect.

You and Satoru had gone to the shops after training. You picked up snacks. Drinks. Cigarettes — mostly for you, but you knew he'd probably ask for one too. It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t going to fix anything.

But it was something.

Standing outside his dorm now, you stared at the door for a long second before Satoru finally knocked — three soft raps, almost uncertain.

“Hey, Suguru,” he called out, voice light, forced casual. “It’s me… and your lady frieeend,” he added with a grin, adjusting his sunglasses like it would somehow lighten the mood.

A long pause.

Then, muffled through the door: “Door’s unlocked.”

Even without seeing him, you could hear the weight in his voice. It was cracked and low — like his throat hadn’t been used in hours. Or like speaking was too much effort.

Satoru glanced at you, silently checking — you good? — before slowly turning the knob and pushing the door open.

It was dim inside.

The curtains were drawn. The air was stale — still. Suguru sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forward, arms resting on his knees. His long black hair was thrown up into a messy bun, strands falling loosely over his tired face. He wore a plain white T-shirt and grey sweatpants — both wrinkled, both clearly slept in. He didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to.

You could feel it — the way the room clung to his sadness, like the walls were absorbing it.

Satoru stepped inside first, dropping the bag onto the desk. “Brought you your favorite crap,” he said, trying again to sound normal, upbeat, even though his voice lacked the usual teasing edge. “We also got those weird chips you like that taste like battery acid. You’re welcome.”

Suguru gave a small exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a breath.

You approached slower. Sat beside him without a word.

He didn’t flinch when your thigh pressed against his. He just leaned — the barest amount — into your shoulder. Like he was afraid he’d break something if he leaned any harder.

You reached down, fingers gently brushing over his. His hands were cold. Calloused. Still scarred from the last mission he wouldn’t talk about.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you whispered.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmured, barely audible.

“But I want to,” you said, voice breaking a little.

Satoru didn’t say anything. He stayed standing, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.

The three of you sat there in the quiet hum of grief and unspoken fears. The world outside moved on — uncaring, as it always had.

But inside that room, you held on.

You held him.

Even if it felt like he was slipping.