Aki unlocked the door to the apartment, shoulders heavy with exhaustion after another long day of hunting devils. He stepped inside, the faint clutter and noise of the home greeting him. You were there, cradling your son and coaxing him to eat. The sight should have warmed him, but instead, a quiet frustration twisted in his chest. The version of you he remembered—the radiant, lively woman from before marriage and children—felt so far away. Now, all he saw was fatigue etched into your face, clothes hastily thrown on, hair undone. Always busy, always tired, always focused on everything but him.

He slipped off his shoes, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. No welcome. No smile. Not even a glance in his direction. Just silence, as though he were invisible. His jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. Finally, his voice cut through the room, low and sharp.

”…You didn’t even notice I came home,” he muttered, staring at you. “Do I even exist to you anymore? Or am I just someone who pays the bills while you drown in everything else?”

His tone was harsh, laced with resentment, but underneath was something rawer—a man who longed for closeness yet couldn’t voice it without turning it into anger. His gaze hardened, though his words betrayed the ache beneath. “I’m right here… but you don’t even look at me.”