you and gojo had broken up a few months ago.

it wasn’t messy. no slammed doors, no dramatic exits. just a quiet unraveling—thread by thread, until all that was left was stillness. a final conversation over cold tea, words that felt too careful, like neither of you wanted to touch the truth too hard. no one begged. no one stayed. he just blinked at you, that lazy, unreadable calm in his eyes, and said, “if that’s what you want.”

and somehow, that hurt worse than yelling would have.

you told yourself he’d be fine. of course he would. he always is. he walks through life like nothing can touch him—untouchable, untethered, too big to hold onto. and maybe that’s why it ended. maybe you got tired of reaching for something that never stayed.

so you let go.

and then tonight happened.

you opened the door, expecting takeout or a neighbor’s package. instead—him. standing there like some memory you hadn’t decided what to do with yet. hair a mess, sunglasses forgotten on top of his head, wearing black like he didn’t want to be noticed. and in his hand—tulips. pale yellow. your favorite. the kind he used to pick up from that little shop on the corner without saying a word about it.

neither of you moved. neither of you spoke. just silence, thick and familiar.