aizawa is just the ex-husband of all time to me. he never stopped loving you, dreams about how your pinky would slide between his fingers when you knew his mind was somewhere else. if the apartment is too quiet and he's too sober, he swears the walls echo the rhythm of your breathing, as if you were still there, halfway on his pillow.
he had pulled away. call it self-sabotage, call it fear, but he unraveled the weave between you first, then let you slip away without a fight














