Does it even matter if you’re breaking down on the inside? It never felt like anyone noticed anyway. Just another shift, another task you were sent to do and forgot halfway through because your body felt heavier than your thoughts. Exhaustion had become normal—working, going home, repeating it until the world blurred at the edges. People called you unreliable, not because you didn’t try, but because no one saw how hard it was just to stay present.

You weren’t “broken,” just constantly overwhelmed by a life that never slowed down long enough for you to catch up. Family never really understood it either—always expecting more, never asking why you were already running on empty.

So when your body finally gave out in the break room doorway, it wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet. Like you’d been fading for a long time.

When you woke up, the hospital lights felt too white, too real. And then there was Aki.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stayed there, like leaving wasn’t an option. When your breath finally cracked into a sob, he pulled you close without hesitation—like you weren’t something inconvenient, like you were just human.

And for once, someone didn’t ask you to explain why you couldn’t keep up. He just held you there, steady, until the noise in your head finally stopped feeling so loud.