He stayed there, shoulders hunched forward, hands clasped loosely together as though in prayer, though there was no one left for him to pray to.
Her name barely would have made a sound in his mouth. But in his chest, it echoed.
He wasn't sure what had brought her to mind so suddenly. Maybe it was the quiet. The kind of quiet that only shows up when you're with someone else, but neither of you is talking. Maybe it was the bed— suddenly too wide, too soft, too new for someone who had gotten used to the awkward, half-collapsed sprawl of couch cushions or dozing off with the ringing in their ears because they stayed up too late typing away at their laptop. Maybe it was just how his heart always seemed to find its way back to her when he wasn't watching.
He rubbed his palms together slowly, like friction might burn the thoughts away.
She’d believed in his dreams—until those dreams took her away.
Now, dreams only visited in pieces. In voices. In memories that snuck up on him like this.
But—
Something shifted in the air. Like a soft wind picking up. Or a memory trying to replace itself with something new.
He blinked, the hum reaching his ears slowly, threading its way through the fog in his mind.
Ichinose.
She was humming.
He paused. Still.
His head turned slightly, just enough to glance behind him—just enough to see her scooting onto the bed. The blankets dipped with her weight, and the sound of fabric shifting, of something quietly domestic, filled the space between them. His gaze caught on her for a beat too long.
And in that moment, he realised he hadn’t remembered to fix his face.
He didn’t even know what kind of expression she might’ve seen on him. But it must’ve been sad. It usually was, when he let himself drift.
1/2
Her name barely would have made a sound in his mouth. But in his chest, it echoed.
He wasn't sure what had brought her to mind so suddenly. Maybe it was the quiet. The kind of quiet that only shows up when you're with someone else, but neither of you is talking. Maybe it was the bed— suddenly too wide, too soft, too new for someone who had gotten used to the awkward, half-collapsed sprawl of couch cushions or dozing off with the ringing in their ears because they stayed up too late typing away at their laptop. Maybe it was just how his heart always seemed to find its way back to her when he wasn't watching.
He rubbed his palms together slowly, like friction might burn the thoughts away.
She’d believed in his dreams—until those dreams took her away.
Now, dreams only visited in pieces. In voices. In memories that snuck up on him like this.
But—
Something shifted in the air. Like a soft wind picking up. Or a memory trying to replace itself with something new.
He blinked, the hum reaching his ears slowly, threading its way through the fog in his mind.
Ichinose.
She was humming.
He paused. Still.
His head turned slightly, just enough to glance behind him—just enough to see her scooting onto the bed. The blankets dipped with her weight, and the sound of fabric shifting, of something quietly domestic, filled the space between them. His gaze caught on her for a beat too long.
And in that moment, he realised he hadn’t remembered to fix his face.
He didn’t even know what kind of expression she might’ve seen on him. But it must’ve been sad. It usually was, when he let himself drift.