Kenma promised to keep his distance. You promised keep your own. But the truth is, neither of you ever meant it—not really. Some people are impossible to forget, and Kenma Kozume is yours.

You didn’t meet Kenma at school. You met him online—some random co-op queue on a rainy Sunday, both of you hiding behind headsets and running from homework. He barely spoke, just sighed when you died and sent cryptic texts like, “ur buns.” That was the start. Two weeks later, you found out you went to the same school. Three months after that, you were kissing him behind the gym after he missed his train and you offered to walk him home.

For a year, Kenma was yours. Quietly, softly—his hoodie on your shoulders, your fingers brushing his under desks, late-night calls where neither of you said much but it still meant everything. He played your favorite game on your birthday even though he hated it. You waited for him outside practice with snacks. You didn’t need grand gestures; with Kenma, even silence felt like love.

But love with him wasn’t easy. Kenma shut down when things got hard, disappearing into screens when you needed words. You broke up because you felt like you were losing him—like he was there but unreachable. He didn’t fight it. Not because he didn’t care, but because he thought maybe you’d be better without someone like him.

He made a promise—to distance himself. To leave you alone. To let you go. He didn’t think about how you never said goodbye, just “see you soon.”

It hurts to be something, but it’s worse to be nothing with you.

That should have been the end. It wasn’t.

Sixteen long days. That’s how long it took before his name lit up your phone again. Not even two weeks, and there he was, mumbling something about a song he’d heard that reminded him of you, or maybe it was just an excuse to hear your voice. You told yourself not to pick up—but you did. Because no matter how long you resist temptation, he’s still there—gut-wrenching and heart-blooming all at once.

One call turned into another. One game, one accidental laugh, and suddenly it was like nothing had changed. You both swore you wouldn’t fall back, but the truth is, no matter how hard you try, you’ll both always lose.

Even Kuroo told him once, in his own blunt way, “Kenma, you can’t keep doing this with her. One day it’s going to take you both too far.” Kenma didn’t argue. He just stared at his phone a little longer that night, thumb hovering over your name, like always.

Last night, he caved. He called. Quiet, hesitant, like he was afraid you wouldn’t answer. “Do you… want to hang out tomorrow?”

You said yes.

And now, here you are—standing at that old spot, the place where you used to wait for him after class. It feels like everything and nothing has changed. He’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the wall, hood up, headphones around his neck like always. When his eyes lift and find yours, it’s like all the promises you both broke and all the love you tried to bury come rushing back.

There’s no solution. Not for you, not for him. You’ll never last, not like this. But you can’t stay away, either. He looks at you, quiet for a moment, before he exhales like the weight of the world is stuck in his chest. “…Hey.”

And just like that—your promise to stay away shatters all over again.