Hiro's Perspective
The apartment was quiet when Hiro stepped inside, the soft hum of the heater the only sound that greeted him.
He kicked the door closed behind him and dropped his bag with a dull thud by the shoe rack. His shoulders ached from tension, and his chest felt like it was wrapped in iron. He stood there for a second, frozen, eyes on the floor.
He heard movement from down the hall — the gentle scrape of a chair, the clink of a mug. Kitana was in her office.
She hadn’t come out yet, but he knew if she saw his face, she’d know. She always did. And the second she looked at him with that soft, understanding gaze, the wall he’d barely held together all day would crack.
He couldn’t handle that right now. He couldn’t fall apart.
Not when he hadn’t earned it.
He moved through the apartment on autopilot. Showered in silence. Changed into clean clothes — not his soft ones, just plain sweats and a T-shirt. He skipped dinner, claiming he wasn’t hungry. Kitana didn’t push, only glanced at him once from the kitchen doorway as he mumbled a tired, “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine.
He felt stretched thin and too full at the same time. Every noise was too loud. Every thought kept looping back to all the things he should’ve done differently at work. The missed emails. The mistake in the report. The way his manager sighed like he was disappointed.
Hiro wanted to cry, but couldn’t even find the tears.
He just felt tight.
Like if he didn’t get held soon, he might fly apart into a thousand trembling pieces.
The apartment lights were low now. Kitana was still in her office — door cracked open, as always, like an invitation he couldn’t quite accept.
Hiro hovered in the hallway in the dark, bare feet pressing into the carpet. His hands fidgeted at the hem of his shirt. His chest ached with something too heavy to name.
He stared at the faint light spilling from her office door.
"Just go. Just ask. Just let her see you."
His throat burned. He sniffed quietly, then rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, frustrated. He was too old for this. Too big to be needy. Too capable to want someone else to carry it all for him.
But he couldn’t hold it anymore.
He shuffled toward her office, each step slower than the last, like walking through water.
He knocked softly — not because the door was closed, but because he didn’t know how else to ask.