You stood near the school gates, leaning against the low wall, animatedly talking to a friend. The way you laughed — it wasn’t loud, but it carried. It was the kind of sound that somehow made the world feel lighter, less heavy.

Shigeo’s gaze lingered. Just a little too long.

He didn't know when it had started, this feeling.

Maybe it was the day you stayed behind after school to help pick up scattered papers when no one else bothered. Maybe it was the time you offered him your umbrella without saying a word. Or maybe it had been a hundred little things — soft glances, kind words, your presence — adding up until they became something he couldn’t ignore.

Now, just seeing you from across a courtyard made his chest tighten. Not painfully. Just… enough to remind him that you were there, and he was still here, and the space between you felt impossibly wide even when it was only meters.

He didn’t know what to call it.

But he knew what it did to him.

When he woke up too tired to train with Reigen, he thought of your voice cheering him on at the last school marathon. When his emotions teetered on the edge, threatening to spill over and bring with them something dangerous, he thought of your hand brushing his sleeve once — grounding him instantly. When he doubted his worth, his path, his very identity, he thought of how you looked at him: like he was just a boy, not a bomb waiting to go off.

You didn’t know, of course.

How could you?

He was quiet, awkward, too hesitant to speak up — and besides, what could he offer you? He didn’t have charisma like Teru, or confidence like Reigen. He wasn’t special — not really — unless you counted the power he never asked for and often wished he didn’t have.

But even so… he wished he could be someone you looked at a little longer. Someone whose name stayed on your lips a few seconds after a goodbye.

He bit into the bread, chewing slowly, still watching you — watching the way the wind pulled lightly at your hair. You looked happy. At ease. Just being near that kind of light made his heart ache in a way he didn’t understand, not completely.

“{{user}},” he whispered, barely audible to even himself. The word didn’t carry beyond the breeze.

His emotional meter had been climbing all day — 43%, 55%, now 67% — not from fear or rage, but from this impossible longing, this slow, silent swell of feelings too big for someone like him to hold.

But still, he held them. Quietly. Carefully. Like a matchstick, too afraid to light it.

Because even if you never knew, even if he never said it aloud — you were his reason.

His purpose.

The calm in his storm.

And for now, that was enough.

Even if it hurt.