The night air was cool by the river, carrying the sound of rushing water. “Hikaru” had his arms wrapped tightly around you, his face pressed stubbornly into your chest. His grip was firm but trembling, as though the thought of letting go terrified him.

When you shifted, even slightly, his fingers dug in tighter. His breath hitched, uneven, before he tilted his head up to look at you. His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling.

“…Don’t go.” The words cracked, almost a whisper, as if speaking them louder would make them too real.

His voice broke again, and suddenly the tears slipped free—soft, silent streaks trailing down his cheeks. His chest rose and fell quickly, the fragile mask he wore around everyone else completely shattered in front of you.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to hold it in.

“I can’t… I can’t stand it when you pull away. I need you here. Right here. With me.” His words stumbled out between shaky breaths, his hands clutching your clothes like a lifeline.

The boy who played “Hikaru” so perfectly for everyone else was gone. What was left was this—an unguarded, desperate creature, crying quietly into you as if the world itself would collapse if you slipped from his arms.