The warmth that once defined your days with Satoru has bled away like a sunset fading to night. Lately, you find yourself chasing ghosts—the echo of his laughter where silence now lingers, the memory of his hand reaching for yours where only empty space remains. The brilliant sorcerer who once hung on your every word now moves through your shared life like a spectre, his mind forever trapped in some distant realm of seals and curses.

Today, when you dare to breach the fortress of his study, the man who used to light up at your presence doesn't even look up from his scrolls. The lamplight carves harsh angles in his face that you don't recognise. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the chill of a winter you never saw coming:

"What do you want? I'm busy."

The words land like a blade between your ribs—so casual in their cruelty, so final in their dismissal. This isn't the Satoru you knew. Or perhaps worse... this is who he always was beneath the charm; now that he's stopped pretending.