The apartment was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—just the empty, humming kind that made every small sound feel loud. The fridge clicked on in the kitchen. A car passed below the window, headlights sliding in a brief streak across the wall. Somewhere, a neighbor's TV murmured through plaster.
Ryuzí sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between them. Dr. Kudo's words still clung to him like damp cloth.
Tell Suki one small truth this week.
It sounded so simple in the office. Sterile air, soft chair, someone patient asking questions.
It felt impossible here, where the truth lived in his throat like broken glass.
His phone lay on the blanket beside him, screen dark. Every few seconds, he glanced at it, as if looking alone might force something to appear.
He probably went to sleep already, Ryuzí told himself.
Or maybe he was still awake, lying on his back, staring at his own ceiling, wondering why his boyfriend was getting harder to reach.
The word boyfriend made his stomach twist and warm at the same time.
He checked the time. 9:42 PM.
He considered texting: I'm home.He considered texting: Therapy was… okay.He considered texting: I'm trying.
He typed none of them.
His fingers hovered above the screen, then curled into a fist.
The vibration, when it came, startled him.
A call.
Suki flashed on his screen, his contact name decorated with a tiny sun emoji Suki insisted on adding himself.
Ryuzí stared.
The phone buzzed in his hand, a small, insistent tremor. His thumb hovered over "accept."
He didn't move.
If I pick up, he thought, I'll have to either lie or say something real. If I lie, I'll hurt him. If I say something real, I might break something.
The vibration stopped.
His chest tightened.
A second later, a message pinged in.
Suki:heyi'm outside your place
Ryuzí blinked, stood so fast the bed creaked.
Another message:
Suki:i know it's latebut i…please can we talk?
The last line hit harder than it should have. He didn't even stop to think this time; he shoved his phone in his pocket and crossed the small living room in three long strides.
His footsteps sounded strange in the empty space.
He opened the door.
Suki stood just beyond the threshold, beneath the dim porch light. His hoodie was zipped up to his chin; his fringe stuck out messily, like he'd run his hands through it too many times on the walk over. His cheeks were pink from the cold.
And his eyes—
His eyes looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"Hey," Suki said, trying for a grin that didn't quite land. "Surprise?"
Ryuzí swallowed. "You… walked here?"
"It's not that far." Suki shrugged, trying to play it off. "And my brain was doing cartwheels, so… figured I might as well point them in your direction."
"You should've texted first."
"I did," Suki said softly. "You just opened the door before answering."
That shut him up.
They stood there for a heartbeat, the night air cool on Ryuzí's back, the warmer apartment light pooling behind him.
"Can I come in?" Suki asked, voice gentle, careful. Too careful.
"Yeah," Ryuzí said quickly, stepping aside. "Of course. Sorry."
Suki slipped off his shoes and padded into the entryway, fingers tugging at his sleeves. He glanced around like he always did, taking in the same details he'd seen a dozen times before: the neatly folded blanket on the couch, the mug abandoned near the sink, the umbrella by the door.
Something in his expression flickered—like he was checking to make sure this was still the same place he'd been welcome in.
"You ate?" Suki asked, nodding at the untouched plate on the table.
"No."
"Didn't feel like it?"
Ryuzí shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."
Suki hummed, quiet and pensive. "Yeah. Me too."
It was a lie; Ryuzí could hear it. Suki always sounded different when he lied—too even, too small.
He gestured awkwardly toward the living room. "You can sit."
Suki didn't go to the couch.
He stopped in the middle of the room instead, turning to face Ryuzí directly, hands knitted together in front of him like he needed to hold onto something.
"Okay," he exhaled. "I'm just gonna… say the thing, because if I don't, my brain will eat itself."
Ryuzí tensed. "You don't have to—"
"I do," Suki cut in, not sharply, but firmly. "Because I feel like… like I'm guessing wrong all the time. And I hate guessing. So—I need you to help me understand."
Ryuzí fell silent.
Suki licked his lips, nerves obvious. "Did I… do something? At the trip? After? Did I cross a line? Because you've been… different. And I keep replaying stuff trying to figure out when I messed up."
"You didn't mess up," Ryuzí said immediately.
"Then what is it?" Suki whispered. "Because it feels like you're slipping away, and I don't know what I'm supposed to be apologizing for."
He laughed, but it came out short and choked. "Like, did I send too many texts? Did I flirt too loudly? Did I touch you too much in front of people? Did I talk about you too often? Because I can—" He swallowed. "I can dial it down. If that's what you need. If… I'm too much."
"You're not too much," Ryuzí said, the words almost hurting on the way out. "You're—you."
"Then why does it feel like you're trying not to be here when you're standing right in front of me?"
The question landed like a blow.
"I'm not trying to—" Ryuzí started, then stopped, jaw clenching.
Suki watched him, eyes searching his face for answers that refused to appear.
"You won't hold my hand," Suki said quietly. "Not like you used to."
Ryuzí flinched.
"In the hallway today," Suki went on, voice steady but thin. "I reached for you, you know? And you… stuffed your hands in your pockets. Like touching me would burn." He laughed faintly. "I can't believe I noticed something that small, but I did. I notice everything with you. It's annoying."
Ryuzí looked away. "I didn't mean—"
"And when we were walking home the other day," Suki continued, as if afraid he'd lose his courage if he stopped, "I tried to talk about the future. About stupid things, like matching hoodies and taking more trips and what kind of apartment you'd want someday. And you shut down. Like I said something dangerous."
"It's not—"
"And the texts," Suki said, voice cracking now. "You reply. You do. But… shorter. Colder. Like you're… fulfilling a requirement. Like you're answering a class group chat, not your boyfriend."
The word boyfriend hurt this time.
"Every time I say 'I miss you,'" Suki whispered, "I'm terrified you'll say 'okay' instead of 'me too.'"
The room seemed to tilt around them, the lamplight suddenly too intimate.
"I'm not asking you to be me," Suki said. "I know I'm loud. I know I'm clingy. I know I attach myself like a koala and never shut up. I'm not asking you to turn into a golden retriever or something. I just… need to know you're here. That you want to be here. That you're not staying out of obligation or pity."
"That's not why I'm staying," Ryuzí said, panic threading through his words now. "I want—"
"Then show me," Suki almost pleaded. "Because right now, it feels like I'm holding on with both hands and you're just… letting me."
He stepped closer—slowly, like he didn't want to spook him.
"Ryuzí," he said, the name soft and shaky. "Talk to me. Please. Tell me what's going on in your head. Even if it's ugly. Even if it's scary. I'd rather hear the worst truth than keep comforting myself with maybes."
Ryuzí opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The words were there—I'm scared. I'm broken. I don't know how to be loved without flinching. But his throat locked around them.
A lifetime of "don't bother anyone with your mess" pushed against the new fragile lesson of "one small truth."
Suki watched the struggle play out across his face.
"You're doing it again," he said quietly.
"Doing what?" Ryuzí asked, even though he knew.
"Leaving," Suki whispered. "Right in front of me."
He lifted a hand, carefully, almost hesitantly, like he'd learned some new caution in the last few weeks. His fingers hovered for a second before moving toward Ryuzí's forearm, as if he were about to hold on like he always did when things felt heavy—like physical touch might anchor them both.
Ryuzí's body reacted before his brain could catch up.
His hand came up in a small, reflexive motion—brushing Suki's fingers away.
It was barely anything.
Not a slap. Not harsh. Just a light smack, a reflexive swat of contact—like shooing something that startled him.
But the sound—the soft tap of skin against skin—echoed in the small room.
Suki froze.
He stared down at his own hand, fingers still half-curled in the empty air where Ryuzí's arm should have been.
The sting wasn't physical.
It was worse.
For a second, there's only the sound of the heater and the far-off rumble of a passing car.
Then Suki laughed.
It was a wrong laugh. Too bright. Too thin. The kind of laugh he used when the ground beneath his feet felt unstable.
"Ouch," he said lightly. "Okay. Message received."
Ryuzí's stomach dropped. "Suki—"
"No, it's fine," Suki said quickly, shaking his head as if he could shake the hurt off too. His eyes shone under the lamplight. "You don't have to— you made it pretty clear."
"That wasn't— I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to," Suki repeated, smile wobbling. "Yeah. I know. You never mean to. That's the worst part."
The words landed like sharp stones.
Suki's voice softened, but the softness cut deeper than anger ever could.
"I keep telling myself it's just in my head," he murmured. "That I'm overthinking. That you're just tired. That therapy's draining you. That you just need time. I keep making excuses for you because I love you and because I don't want to be the clingy boyfriend who can't take a hint."
His hands were shaking now.
"But that—" He swallowed, eyes flicking to where their hands had almost met. "That was pretty loud, Ryuzí. Even for a 'quiet' guy."
"I'm sorry," Ryuzí whispered. "It was a reflex. I just… I panicked."
"I know you panicked," Suki said, voice breaking. "And I know you're scared. I'm not stupid, Ryu. I know you're fighting a lot in there." He tapped two fingers lightly over his own heart. "I never expected you to be perfect. I just… didn't expect to feel like this, either."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm begging for scraps," Suki said, the words raw and naked. "Like I'm standing in front of a door yelling 'let me in' and you're leaving notes under it instead."
Ryuzí's lungs refused to cooperate.
"I'm trying," he said, desperate now. "I am trying. I went to therapy. I'm trying to figure out my head. I just—I don't know how to do this without… messing it up."
"Then let me mess it up with you," Suki whispered. "I don't need you healed. I just need you honest."
Silence hung heavy between them.
Ryuzí knew, on some level, that this was it. That this was where he could choose: one small truth, or the same old defense.
His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.
"I'm scared," he forced out. "Of needing you. Of leaning on you. Of you seeing… everything. And deciding it's too much."
Suki blinked, tears finally spilling over. "Ryuzí…"
"And I hate that you're hurting because of me," he added, voice cracking. "I hate that. I hate it so much I—" He cut off, fists clenching. "So I pull back. Because it feels safer to hurt you… less. From far away. Like… like if I make you used to distance, it won't hurt as much when I break."
Suki stared at him, tears tracking silently down his cheeks now.
"That's twisted," he whispered. "And… really, really sad."
"I know," Ryuzí rasped.
"You think you're making it hurt less." Suki's lip trembled. "But all you're doing is making me feel like I don't matter. Like I'm… optional. Like I'm just… background noise in your life you can mute when it's too loud."
His hands lifted and then dropped helplessly to his sides.
"I keep telling everyone you're gentle," Suki whispered. "That you're careful. That you're kind. And you are. But you're also… hurting me without looking. And that's starting to feel worse than if you yelled at me."
Ryuzí's eyes burned. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Then stop treating me like I'm someone you'll inevitably break," Suki said thickly. "I'm not glass. I'm not a ticking bomb. I'm a person who loves you. And I'm tired of feeling like that's something you're… enduring instead of wanting."
The words hit something deep and tender inside Ryuzí—a place that wanted to reach out, to cling, to confess everything and lay it at Suki's feet.
But fear was faster.
"I don't know how to fix this," he whispered.
"I don't either," Suki admitted. "But I know one thing."
He took a step back.
Ryuzí's heart lurched. "Don't—"
Suki shook his head, smile finally giving up and crumbling at the edges. "I can't keep being the only one running towards you. It… hurts too much when you keep stepping away."
"That's not what I—"
"So… fine," Suki said, voice trembling even as he forced the words out. "If you need distance that badly, if that's what makes you feel safe, then I'll… I'll give it to you."
Ryuzí's blood ran cold. "What?"
"I'll just… match you," Suki said, each word like it was scraping his throat on the way out. "You pull away? I'll pull away. You stop reaching for me? I'll stop reaching too. You answer with short, stiff texts? I'll do the same. You avoid my hand? I'll pretend I didn't even try."
His eyes shone, but he didn't wipe the tears away this time.
"I'll stop chasing you," he whispered. "Because chasing someone who keeps stepping back feels like begging. And I don't want to beg you to love me."
The sentence split something inside Ryuzí wide open.
"I do love you," Ryuzí said, panic bleeding into his tone. "Suki, I—"
"Then show me," Suki managed, voice cracking. "Because right now, everything in your body says 'no' when I try to get close. And I… can't keep pretending I don't notice."
He lifted his hand one more time, very slowly, almost giving Ryuzí a chance to do something different.
His fingers drifted toward Ryuzí's again.
Ryuzí's instinct roared—fear, shame, panic—and before he could strangle it, his body reacted the same way.
A small motion. A small smack.His fingertips knocked Suki's hand aside.
The sound felt louder this time. Maybe because they were listening for it.
Suki's hand fell back to his side, fingers curling in on themselves.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, the sound shuddering.
"…Got it," he whispered. "Message… really received this time."
"Suki—" Ryuzí stepped forward, horrified at himself. "Wait—"
Suki took a step back, not dramatically, not storming out, just… retreating. Protecting.
His eyes searched Ryuzí's face one last time, looking for something he could hold onto.
Whatever he saw—or didn't see—made his shoulders sink.
"Fine," he said, voice small but steady, the kind of steady you only get when you've finally hit the point of giving up on arguing. His smile twisted, brittle. "If this is what you want, I'll just… do what you do."
Ryuzí's chest clenched painfully. "That's not—"
"I'll keep my feelings quiet," Suki went on, as if he weren't even hearing Ryuzí anymore. "I'll stop saying 'I miss you' first. I'll stop sending you dumb photos at midnight. I'll stop waiting at the gate like a puppy. I'll stop—trying to hold your hand unless you hold mine first."
He swallowed hard.
"I'll just… learn how to be distant too," he whispered. "Maybe then it won't hurt so much when you… drift away."
The last words wobbled.
He glanced toward the door.
"I should go," he said.
"Suki—please," Ryuzí said, stepping after him. "Don't—"
Suki reached for the doorknob.
Ryuzí reached for his wrist.
Their fingers brushed.
Suki flinched, just a little.
Not a big, theatrical recoil.
Just a small, instinctive pull away—the same kind of reflex that had lived in Ryuzí until now.
It hurt like hell.
He didn't look back when he said, very softly:
"If distance is what you're giving me, Ryuzí… then I'll give it back."
He opened the door.
"I'll… keep my distance too."
And before Ryuzí could find any words that didn't feel too late, Suki stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him with a soft, final click.
The echo of that sound lingered longer than any shout.