Stories

"Fuck... my head hurts," Satoru grunts, his head throbbing. The light streaming into his room feels like a flashbang, practically burning his eyes as he struggles to open them.

He indulged far too much after work. The nightmares cling like a second skin—blood under his nails, shattered glass on the floor, her screams burned into his mind. He drowns it in whiskey, again. Sometimes, she visits his dreams whole: the press of her hip against his as they cooked, the way she’d hum off-key.

But mornings are cruel— the weight of her hand fades first, then her voice. By noon, her scent is gone and his ears start ringing. That’s when the shaking starts.

She held warmth, love. She would always bask in the morning sun while cooking him his favorite breakfast. That thought made Satoru’s vision blur. He reaches for the salt. Forgets she always stole it first, hid it just to hear him grumble. His fingers close over empty air. The plate shatters on the floor. He doesn’t clean it up for days.

'No. Not this early in the goddamn morning,' He curses himself out, barely awake. He stumbles out of bed, nearly falling on his way to the bathroom. He finds it harder to bear the sight of himself now; same face and body. But the eyes. They’re dead, dull, lifeless; masked by those signature black shades.

He prods at his reflection like a bruise. No creases by his eyes, or at the ends of his lips. No ghost of her thumb tracing them. Just skin—smooth, empty. A face that no longer knows her.

The water hits like a punch—sharp, stinging, necessary. His lungs lock, but the ache in his chest isn’t grief; it’s the absence of it. Just numbness. Just the mirror’s verdict: You’re alive. She’s not. He makes the shower scalding. If he can’t feel her, he wants to feel anything.

Satoru curses beneath his breath as he dodges through the crowd, running late to work for the umpteenth time this week. Of course, Kento is gonna be on his ass about it again after he gives another stupid excuse to get away from punishment from work. Though at this point, even a blind person can tell that Satoru is far from well... or even sane. Soon, he arrives at the office clutching his bag with his signature smirk. He can't let them see him like that, all depressed and shit. Even now, he maintains his usual cheerfulness. It's a carefully crafted façade, perfected and polished until one can barely tell that he's about to snap underneath. Unless it's someone like Shoko or Suguru, then they can see right through him.

Suguru’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder—familiar, mocking. "Three more seconds and Kento would’ve skinned you alive. Again." A pause. "You look like shit, by the way."

Satoru’s grin is all teeth. "Early, actually. Write that down. ‘Satoru: professional, punctual, devastatingly handsome—"

"—And full of shit," Suguru finishes, flicking his forehead. "Your eyes are bloodshot."

The day goes by, but he was more than ready to sprint home once the clock ticked seven. But of course, before he could even stand, Kento calls his name. Satoru let out a soft sigh, his muttered curse barely audible before turning back with a big grin on his face.

His pulse hiked, his grip tightening ever-so slightly on the arm of his chair as he manages to speak.

”Missed me that much?”

Kento doesn’t blink. “My office. Now.”

The ‘or else’ hangs, unspoken, but felt in the way he clicked his pen in agitation.

The chatter died down, even the interns froze, fingers hovering over keyboard. Satoru’s smile doesn’t slip, but his molars grind hard enough to crack enamel. Kento’s officer smelled like ink and fine sake—disgustingly pristine. Simple, but powerful. Just like the man himself. Satoru’s fingers twitch; he wants a drink. To scream. Not to see the file on Kento’s desk stamped PERSONNEL: URGENT.

The stamp gleamed like a fresh scar. The same crimson as the ‘DECEASED’ on her file—the one Kento personally slid across his desk six months ago.

The air felt thick as Satoru studied a scuff on his left boot—the one she’d teased him for never polishing. The grandfather clock’s ticking swelled like a failing heartbeat.

Tick. Kento’s wedding band tapped steel.

Tock. Satoru’s jaw locked.

Tick. Her laugh begins to fill his mind.

At first, just the echo—that bright, snorting chuckle she hated about herself. Then the scent of her shampoo cuts through the sake-stale officer air. Vanilla. Almond. Wrong. Because she was never in this room.

“—stress level assessment results came in,” Kento says, but her voice sounds louder, giggling as he felt the phantom pressure of her playfully smacks on his arm: “You’re an idiot—“

The man narrows his eyes, tapping his pen sharply on the desk. The sound cracks like ice. Her voice dissolved like sugar in tea—too sweet, too gone. The aftertaste stays: the warmth of her hand. Satoru’s eyes flick to Kento’s.

The office snaps back into focus. The file. The clock. Kento’s concern and disappointment. All sharper, all worse, now that she isn’t there to blue the edges. He gulps, realizing that Kento repeated himself; and his knuckles have gone bone-white around the pen.

“Where are you?” Kento’s question isn’t sharp—it’s hollow. Like he already knows. Like he’s been counting every time Satoru’s eyes glaze over for six months.

“Her file was purple, wasn’t it?”

The world tilts. Purple. Of course. The exact shade of that stupid hair clip she always stole from Shoko. The one still tangled in Satoru’s desk drawer.

Kento’s voice drops to a murmur, “They’re recommending medical leave.”

A beat. “I’m denying it.”

Because they both know— Satoru would die if he stopped moving. Kento pokes the side of his cheek, his pen tapping repeatedly on the desk.

“The form requires a checkbox,” his pen hovers over the paper. “‘Stress.’ ‘Burnout.’ ‘Other.’” A pause. “Not ‘Drowning.’ Not ‘Grieving.’”

For a heartbeat, Kento’s finger brushes the denial stamp— gently, almost reverently. Kento sets the stamp down with deliberate care. The sound echoes like a judge's gavel.

"Go home, Satoru." A pause. The ice in his whiskey cracks - once, sharply. "Or..." His thumb brushes the edge of the denied form. "...if home will make it worse, there's whiskey in my bottom drawer. And paperwork that won't file itself."

He doesn't look up as he says it. Doesn't need to.