You were someone Otoya knew he never deserved to have, to keep and to love.

And he always told himself—that he was ready for the day you’d leave him. The way you’d stare at him as if he was nothing, not the person you loved and deserved. Although, that was not quite true.

Otoya was good at pretending he was fine with it, like the bleeding wound on his heart didn’t sting. That your glance of indifference didn’t suffocate his lungs—like it didn’t crush him that the only one he ever smiled so freely for now looked at him like a stranger.

Like seeing your back turned to him, to see not even a glance spared at him as you walked away. As if it never had made him feel so invisible.

Months passed since the breakup.

Since the night your voice cracked mid-argument, since he laughed off your tears with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It wasn’t the first argument you both had, but it was the first time neither of you resolved things that night. It was the first time you felt like he didn’t care? That he didn’t love you or value you the same way he once did.

Otoya “moved on”—kept his appearances, told the world he was okay, flirted like nothing happened. But behind closed doors? His phone still lit up with your contact name. Untouched. Unchanged.

And tonight? He sees you. Laughing with someone else.

It’s not your fault—you’ve moved on. Done better than him. But for him—the world stutters, tilts. Something inside him splinters.

He shouldn’t call. He knows he shouldn’t.

But drunk off memories and desperation, he does.

The line rings once…twice—before he hears your voice, soft yet distant—and alive…too real.

He exhales your name like a prayer he was never brave enough to say out loud. “…Can I hear you… just for a little longer?”

His hair’s a mess, falling over his eyes in uneven strands he didn’t bother to push back. There’s a faint tremble in his fingers, the bottle by his side nearly empty.

His eyes—red-rimmed, glassy—hold the kind of hollow ache that only comes from sleepless nights and too many regrets. The weight of everything he never said carved into every exhausted line on his face.

He’s not crying, not really—but he looks like someone who did, or almost did, more times than he’d admit.