AN1M3L0V3R

Just scribbles — 2006 baby /Currently missing/

[an1m320v3r]

Blue Lock ---- >

Haikyuu ---- >

My Hero Academia ---- >

Gachiakuta ---- >

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!<3]

I am also willing to write for:

Naruto

Jujutsu Kaisen

Kuroko's Basketball

Horimiya

Wolf's rain

Yuri on ice

Dandadan

Frieren

Hell's Paradise

(Request if interested)

About me

Under construction!

Things might be missing or out of place.

[an1m320v3r]

"Nobody would put your birthdate on their jersey."

But they would <3<3<3 08/08

Geuss whose officially not a teenager anymore, haha. Also Happy birthday Bachira <3<3<3

[an1m320v3r]

i know you made it in 2025 but like...can I PUHLEASEEEE request a pt2 for Loki "lost in translation"? Easily within my top 10 faves of fanfics, literally need more. If you can't, its understandable. But like, its so hard to find such a fluffy actual romance without smut these days...so that was a masterpiece in my eyes. Had me giggling and kicking my feet

I mean, I wouldn't mind writing a part two, but I usually don't for this series. So, is there anything specific you might like to see?

(This is open to everyone, as these ideas could apply to future part twos for any of the characters.)

[an1m320v3r]

hey... run.

Well hello.

Do you want the full essay? 0.0

[an1m320v3r]

Moving to Spain had sounded much more romantic when you were still sitting in your bedroom halfway across the world.

New country. New university. New life. The fact that you spoke approximately zero Spanish had seemed like a problem for Future You.

Present You was currently surviving through a highly sophisticated strategy: Smile. Nod. Pretend.

Somehow, it had worked for three whole months. Professors spoke too quickly? Smile and nod. Cashiers asked questions? Smile and nod. Random strangers gave directions? Smile and nod.

You had no idea what was happening ninety percent of the time, but life continued moving forward, which felt like proof enough that your system was flawless. Until it wasn't.

[an1m320v3r]

So I found my English book from the tenth grade 😂

[an1m320v3r]

that till drabble was so good .. 🥺 do u have anything for luka ..? and ivan?

Thank you!! And I'd love to! Any Ideas?

[an1m320v3r]

I don't need therapy. I need a few uninterrupted hours, a dark room, and a ceiling to stare at while I run the same scenario through my head 47 times until it's perfect.

But apparently that's "odd."

My roommate sees a person staring blankly into space, from their perspective I'm just silently decomposing.

[an1m320v3r]

The first time Till kissed you, it wasn't romantic. You were both bleeding.

The aliens had thought it would be funny. A punishment. A spectacle. Two contestants locked in a room after a failed rehearsal. No food. No water. No windows.

Just concrete walls and cameras. So many cameras. Tiny black lenses embedded in every corner of the room, little red lights blinking steadily. Watching. Waiting.

The room smelled like sweat and old blood.

Till sat against one wall with his knees pulled to his chest.

You sat against the opposite one.

The distance between you wasn't large. It still felt impossible to cross.

Hours passed. Then more. Nobody spoke.

The cameras hummed. Sometimes one rotated. Sometimes an automated voice crackled through hidden speakers just to remind you someone was listening.

By the second day your head felt stuffed with cotton. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Every bruise hurt. Every breath hurt. Everything hurt.

Till looked worse. His split knuckles had crusted over with dried blood. There was a purple mark spreading across one side of his face. His eyes looked sunken. Empty. Like he'd already left and forgotten to take his body with him.

Then you started laughing. A tiny sound at first. A breath. A choke.

Till glanced up.

You covered your mouth. The laughter came harder. Your shoulders shook. A smile stretched across your face despite yourself. Nothing was funny. Nothing at all.

The room blurred. The cameras stared. The laughter spilled out anyway.

Till's stomach twisted. He knew that sound. He'd heard it before.

People cracked in different ways. Some screamed. Some went quiet. Some begged. Some laughed.

The laughter got louder. Then tears started running down your face. Then you were crying. Then laughing again. The sounds tangled together until neither of you could tell which was which.

"Stop."

Your laughter hitched. Then continued.

"Stop it."

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. A broken noise escaped your throat.

The room felt too small. Too loud. Too hot.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't stop.

Your head hit the wall. A dull crack. The pain barely registered.

You did it again. Harder.

The third time never landed.

Because suddenly someone was there.

Till had crossed the room and his hand was wrapped around your jaw.

His fingers dug into your cheeks. Hard. Too hard.

The laughter stopped. Silence crashed down.

Your eyes were wide.

His breathing sounded ragged.

Neither of you moved.

Above you the cameras continued their soft mechanical whirring. Watching.

His stomach turned.

You looked awful. Eyes bloodshot. Face wet. Lip split. A bruise blooming along your temple from where you'd hit the wall.

You looked exactly how he felt.

Your voice came out small. Barely audible.

"I'm tired."

Something inside him folded in on itself. Not snapped. Just... gave up.

Because everyone was tired. The contestants. The children. The people dragged onto stages and dressed up and made to sing while strangers voted on whether they deserved to keep breathing. Everyone.

Nobody was allowed to say it. Nobody was allowed to admit they were drowning.

His grip loosened. But he didn't let go.

Your face remained trapped between his hands. Warm. Human. Alive.

The realization hit him with sudden, nauseating force. Alive.

For now. Tomorrow maybe not. Maybe one of you would be dead next week. Maybe both. The cameras would keep recording either way.

Your eyes met his. There was no comfort in them. No hope. Just exhaustion. Raw and ugly. The kind that hollowed people out.

Till couldn't stand looking at it. Because it looked exactly like his own.

Then he kissed you. Not gently. It was almost violent. An act of desperation more than affection. A collision.

His mouth crashed into yours before either of you could think. Your teeth knocked together painfully. Someone made a startled noise.

Till tasted blood immediately. His split lip reopened. Warm copper flooded his mouth.

You jerked in surprise. For a second it seemed like you might shove him away.

Instead, your hand grabbed his shirt. Wrinkled fabric twisting in your fist.

The kiss stayed clumsy. Wrong. Two people who didn't know what they were looking for trying to find it anyway.

Your noses bumped.

His breathing hitched.

Blood smeared between your mouths. The metallic taste got stronger.

Till hated it. Hated that the only comfort he'd found in months was happening directly beneath a dozen recording lenses.

You made a small sound. A wounded sound.

The sound went straight through him. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck. Holding on. Not wanting. Holding.

Like if he let go, something terrible would happen. Like you’d disappear. Like he would.

The kiss deepened for a second only because neither of you knew how to stop. Your foreheads bumped. Breaths tangled.

Someone's tears ended up on the others face.

The room spun. The hunger. The thirst. The exhaustion. Everything blurred together.

You weren't kissing because you wanted each other. You were kissing because you were trapped. Because you were scared. Because the universe had become so unbearably cruel that touching another living person felt like the only thing left.

When it finally broke apart neither of you moved. Your faces stayed inches apart. Both breathing hard. Both staring.

Till could see the horror settling into your expression. What had just happened. His own stomach twisted. He looked away first.

Hours later the aliens would replay the footage.

Days later it would circulate. A funny clip.

Two damaged pets locked in a box. Starving. Breaking.

Finding comfort in each other like frightened animals.

How cute. How tragic. How human.

I don't know :)

[an1m320v3r]

I haven't picked up this pen since last year.

Not the best, but enjoy <3

Took 8 hours :)

[littleb33-n0-m0r3]

WAHHH 8 HOURS!!??! IT'S AMAZING QUEENNNN!!!

[an1m320v3r]

Thank youu<3

It felt like more time though 😵‍💫

[an1m320v3r]

I'm starving for Marc snuffy hcs pls I love your lavinho, pls make one for snuffy 🥺❤️

Terreno Stabile

Steady ground

Blue Lock! Marc Snuffy x Reader

Warnings: Fluff; NOT PROOFREAD!!!

[Google translate was used, Italian readers you have been warned.]

You met him in Italy, but not on a pitch.

It was a quiet café near a training facility in Turin—one of those places that smelled like espresso and toasted bread. You were there first, laptop open, clearly stressed. He asked, very politely, if the chair across from you was taken.

“È libero?” Is it free? he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

He thanked you, sat, and didn’t say another word for a solid ten minutes. Comfortable silence. That was the first thing you noticed.

The friendship started because neither of you tried too hard.

You dropped your pen. He picked it up without a word and slid it back to you.

“Grazie,” you said automatically.

He smiled faintly. “Prego.” You’re welcome.

Later, when you muttered about deadlines and burnout, he didn’t interrupt—just listened.

“Il lavoro ti sta mangiando viva,” Your job is eating you alive. he said calmly.

It wasn’t judgmental. Just observant.

You didn’t know he was that Marc Snuffy at first.

He introduced himself as “Marc.” Nothing more. No ego.

When you casually complained about modern soccer players being treated like machines, he stirred his coffee and replied,

“Il problema non è lo sport. È dimenticare che siamo persone.” The problem isn’t the sport. It’s forgetting we’re people.

You paused. Looked at him. “You sound like you’ve thought about that a lot.”

He shrugged. “Abbastanza.” Enough.

Your conversations became routine.

Same café. Same time. No planning.

You talked about work, stress, expectations—never dreams, never romance, never anything dramatic.

One morning you joked, “You’re weirdly calm all the time.”

He smiled behind his cup.

“Non sempre. Solo quando serve.” Not always. Only when it matters.

The truth came out accidentally.

A TV behind the counter showed a sports segment. His face appeared on screen.

You blinked. Looked at him. Looked back at the TV.

“…That’s you.”

He sighed, like someone caught forgetting to lock the door.

“Sì.” Yes.

You laughed once. “You could’ve mentioned you’re one of the best soccer players in the world.”

He tilted his head.

“Me l’hai chiesto?” Did you ask?

After that, nothing changed—and that mattered.

You didn’t ask for stories. You didn’t fan out.

One day he said quietly,

“Apprezzo che tu non mi guardi diversamente.” I appreciate that you don’t look at me differently.

You replied, “You’re still just the guy who steals my sugar packets.”

He smirked. “E continuerò.” And I will continue.

He respected your boundaries instinctively.

When you were exhausted, he didn’t push conversation.

When you were angry, he didn’t try to fix it.

“Vuoi parlare o stare in silenzio?” Do you want to talk or stay quiet? he asked once.

You chose silence. He stayed anyway.

He never treated you like a distraction—never like an escape.

Just a person.

One evening, as you packed up to leave, he said,

“Domani potrei non venire. Allenamento lungo.” I might not come tomorrow. Long training.

You nodded. “That’s fine.”

He hesitated, then added,

“mi piace parlare con te.” I like talking to you.

Your friendship settled into something steady and unspoken.

No expectations. No labels.

Just coffee, conversation, and a man who believed—quietly, firmly—that before soccer, before success, before anything else…people mattered.

He realized that he liked you on a day that felt painfully ordinary.

You were late. Fifteen minutes, then twenty.

He told himself it didn’t matter—training ran long all the time. People had lives.

Still, he kept glancing at the café door.

When you finally rushed in, breathless and apologetic, you said, “Sorry—work exploded.”

He felt the tension leave his chest so fast it startled him.

He thought, Ah.

Then, quieter and more alarming: Questo non è normale. This isn’t normal.

Liking you didn’t arrive as excitement. It arrived as concern—and stayed.

The confirmation came when he caught himself planning around you.

He turned down an optional sponsor dinner without hesitation.

Later, when a teammate asked why, Snuffy answered flatly, “Avevo un impegno.” I had an appointment.

That night, sitting across from you, he watched you talk with your hands, animated and alive, and realized:

He wasn’t protecting his schedule.

He was protecting this.

“Sei importante per me,” he almost said—then stopped himself. You’re important to me.

He needed to be sure.

It took him longer than most people would expect to ask you out.

Not weeks.

Months.

He treated liking you the same way he treated soccer strategy—carefully, responsibly.

He asked himself hard questions in silence:

Can I be honest? Can I be stable? Can I walk away if this hurts you?

One evening, after you laughed at something small and stupid, he decided:

“Non voglio essere un rischio per lei.” I don’t want to be a risk to her.

Only then did he allow himself to want you openly.

The moment he chose came after a loss.

Not on the pitch—but personal.

You told him you were considering leaving Italy for work. Not dramatic. Just factual.

“It’s probably nothing,” you said.

He went quiet. Too quiet.

Later that night, alone, he admitted the truth:

The idea of you not being in his life didn’t feel professional.

It felt unbearable.

“Basta,” Enough he murmured to himself. .

He asked you out the way he did everything else—directly, calmly, without games.

Same café. Same table. No bandana today.

“Posso dirti una cosa senza rovinare quello che abbiamo?” Can I tell you something without ruining what we have? he asked.

You nodded, cautious.

He met your eyes, steady and serious.

“Mi piaci. Non come amica.” I like you. Not as a friend.

He gave you an exit immediately—because he respected you too much not to.

“Se non è lo stesso per te, va bene,” If it’s not the same for you, that’s fine. he continued.

“Non cambierò il modo in cui ti tratto.” It won’t change how I treat you.

You stared at him. “Is this you asking me out?”

A small smile. Nervous, rare.

“Sì. Con calma. Se vuoi.” Yes. Slowly. If you want.

When you said yes, he didn’t celebrate. He exhaled.

Like a man who’d been holding his breath for months.

“Allora,” he said softly, standing and offering his hand,

“andiamo a fare una passeggiata.”

(Then… let’s go for a walk.)

No grand gesture. No rush.

Just two people stepping forward—deliberately, honestly, together.

Your first kiss didn’t happen when either of you expected it to.

Not on the first date. Not even the second.

It happened after a long walk that turned into sitting on a low stone wall near the river, shoulders almost touching, the city quieting around you.

He noticed the silence first—and didn’t rush to fill it.

You swung your feet lightly, staring at the water.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you said.

He huffed a small laugh.

“Colpa mia.” My fault.

There was a pause where he clearly decided something.

He turned slightly toward you, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Posso chiederti una cosa?” Can I ask you something?

You nodded.

“Se ti bacio… vuoi che sia adesso?” If I kiss you… do you want it to be now?

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Now’s good.”

He didn’t touch you immediately.

That was the most him part of it.

He searched your face one last time, like checking the field before a pass.

“Dimmi se cambio idea,” Tell me if you change your mind. he murmured.

When he leaned in, it was slow—deliberate.

One hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, thumb resting just below your ear.

The kiss itself was gentle, almost restrained, like he was proving to himself that he could stop if needed.

You were the one who closed the distance fully.

You leaned in, pressing closer, and he made a quiet sound against your lips—surprised, not upset.

The kiss deepened, still calm, still controlled, but unmistakably real.

He pulled back first. Not abruptly—carefully.

Foreheads touching, breath warm.

“Così va bene?” Is this okay? he asked softly.

You smiled. “More than okay.”

He smiled too—small, genuine, a little dazed.

“Bene,” Good. he said, exhaling.

Then, almost amused at himself:

“Ho aspettato troppo.” I waited too long.

You shook your head. “No. You waited right.”

He took your hand as you stood to leave, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Not possessive. Just present.

As you walked, he said quietly,

“Non dimenticherò questo.” I won’t forget this.

Dating him feels calm in a way that’s almost disorienting at first.

No emotional whiplash. No guessing games.

He texts when he says he will. He shows up early.

“La coerenza è rispetto,” Consistency is respect. he says once.

Being with him feels like standing on solid ground.

He treats you like an equal, not an accessory.

He asks your opinion—on tactics, on life, on stupid things like which restaurant is overrated.

When you disagree, he listens without interrupting.

“Continua,” Go on. he says, hand lifted gently.

You never feel talked over. Ever.

Affection is quiet but constant.

A hand at your lower back in crowds.

Fingers brushing yours when he passes behind you.

He doesn’t perform love—he maintains it.

“Non devo dimostrarlo agli altri,” he murmurs once. (I don’t need to prove it to others.)

He is protective without being possessive.

If someone crosses a line, he steps in calmly.

No raised voice. Just presence.

“Va bene così,” That’s enough. he says firmly, ending conversations.

People listen.

When he gets jealous, it’s subtle—and rare.

He doesn’t snap or accuse.

He goes quiet. Observant.

Later, alone, he admits it plainly.

“Non mi piace come ti guardava,” I didn’t like how he looked at you. he says.

Then, immediately: “Ma è un mio problema, non tuo.” But that’s my issue, not yours.

Jealousy makes him more attentive, not controlling.

He checks in more.

Sits closer.

Asks, “Tutto bene?” Everything okay? with a softness that means more than suspicion.

He never makes you responsible for his insecurity.

Your fights are quiet—and heavy.

No shouting. No insults.

The tension sits between you like a weight.

He struggles most when he feels you’re minimizing yourself.

“Perché ti sminuisci?” Why do you downplay yourself? he asks, frustrated.

That’s when his composure cracks.

The biggest arguments come from opposite coping styles.

You want to talk things through immediately.

He wants time to think.

“Fammi ordinare i pensieri,” Let me organize my thoughts. he insists.

Waiting frustrates you. Rushing overwhelms him.

When he’s hurt, he withdraws—not to punish, but to protect.

Silence is his shield.

But he always comes back. Always.

“Scusa per prima,” Sorry about earlier. he says, meeting your eyes.

He never lets pride win.

Making up is intentional.

He doesn’t smooth things over—he resolves them.

“Cosa possiamo fare meglio?” What can we do better? he asks.

The fight becomes a lesson, not a scar.

Being with him teaches you something unexpected:

Love doesn’t have to be loud to be unshakeable.

Sometimes, it’s steady hands, honest words, and a man who chooses you— every day, on purpose.

He decides he wants to marry you long before he says the word out loud.

It happens quietly, during an unremarkable evening.

You’re both tired. Dinner is simple. You’re talking about something practical—insurance, work schedules, the future in a very unromantic way.

He watches you explain your thoughts carefully, making room for his opinion without shrinking yourself.

Something settles in his chest.

Questa è la persona con cui posso fallire. This is the person I can fail with.

For Marc Snuffy, that certainty is everything.

The moment it becomes non-negotiable is when he imagines life after soccer—and you’re already there.

Not as a question. Not as a hope.

As fact.

One night he says, almost absentmindedly,

“Quando smetterò di giocare…” When I stop playing…

And then pauses, frowns, and corrects himself.

“No. Quando smetteremo di costruire la nostra routine.” No. When we stop building our routine.

He realizes he’s already planning forever.

He doesn’t rush the proposal.

He prepares the same way he prepares for a match—with intention.

He considers timing, pressure, your mental state.

“Deve essere una scelta, non una sorpresa forzata,” It has to be a choice, not a forced surprise. he tells himself.

He asks you to marry him without spectacle.

No crowd. No cameras.

It’s on a walk—your walk—one you’ve taken dozens of times.

He stops, turns to face you fully. Takes both your hands.

“Voglio essere chiaro,” I want to be clear. he says.

His voice is steady, but his thumbs move against your knuckles. Nervous.

“Ti scelgo. Ogni giorno. Anche quando sarà difficile.” I choose you. Every day. Even when it’s hard.

He doesn’t kneel immediately.

He waits until you’re looking at him, fully present.

“Vuoi costruire la tua vita con me?” Do you want to build your life with me?

Only then does he reach into his pocket. Simple ring. Thoughtful. Practical. Perfect.

“Vuoi sposarmi?” Will you marry me?

When you say yes, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Grazie per avermi scelto,” Thank you for choosing me. he murmurs.

Your wedding is intentional, warm, and grounded.

No excess. No obligation invites.

People who matter. People who know you.

Italy, of course—but somewhere quiet.

Sunlight. Stone. Olive trees.

He wears his bandana tucked into his jacket pocket, not on his head.

He’s calm the entire day—until he sees you.

Then his composure finally cracks.

His eyes soften. His jaw tightens.

“Sei bellissima,” You’re beautiful. he whispers when you reach him.

It’s the only moment he forgets everything else.

His vows are simple and devastatingly sincere.

“Prometto di non fuggire dal silenzio.” I promise not to run from silence.

“Prometto di proteggere la tua vita, non solo i tuoi sogni.” I promise to protect your life, not just your dreams.

At the reception, he stays close.

Hand on your back. Fingers laced with yours.

No speeches about legacy or glory.

Just gratitude.

“Sono fortunato,” I’m lucky. he tells anyone who listens.

That night, when it’s finally just the two of you, he smiles—soft, satisfied.

Not like a man who’s won something—but like a man who’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Married life with him is steady, grounding, and quietly intimate.

There’s no dramatic shift after the wedding—just a deepening.

You wake up beside him and feel, very clearly, this is home.

He treats marriage like a partnership, not a finish line.

Shared calendars. Shared decisions. Shared responsibility.

“Siamo una squadra,” We’re a team. he says easily.

Mornings are soft and practical.

He wakes earlier than you most days.

Coffee is already made. Your mug is always the same one.

If you’re still half-asleep, he presses a kiss to your temple instead of waking you.

“Dormi,” Sleep. he murmurs.

He’s more affectionate in private than he ever was in public.

Arms around you while you cook.

Forehead kisses when he passes by.

His hand settles at your waist like it’s muscle memory—because it is.

He doesn’t announce love. He practices it.

Communication becomes even more intentional.

He checks in, especially after hard days.

“Come stai davvero?” How are you really?

He waits for the real answer. He always has time for it.

Disagreements still happen—but they’re handled with care.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

When things get heavy, he suggests pauses instead of distance.

“Torniamo a parlarne tra un’ora,” Let’s come back to this in an hour. he says.

And he means it.

He’s deeply respectful of your independence.

Marriage doesn’t make him clingy.

If anything, it makes him more trusting.

“So chi sei,” I know who you are. he tells you simply.

Jealousy fades into protectiveness.

Not control—awareness.

He stands a little closer in crowds.

Listens a little sharper when someone crosses a line.

You never have to ask him to notice.

He plans for the future constantly—but never alone.

Finances. Health. Life after soccer.

You’re part of every conversation.

“Dimmi cosa vuoi,” Tell me what you want. he says.

And he listens without correcting.

At night, he unwinds with you.

No phone. No noise.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t.

His arm around you, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns.

Silence with him feels safe.

On difficult nights, when old scars resurface, he’s honest instead of shutting down.

“Oggi è stato difficile,” Today was hard. he admits.

He leans into you instead of away.

Marriage gives him permission to be human.

Loving him as his wife means being chosen—daily, deliberately, without spectacle.

He doesn’t promise forever loudly.

He shows it, in a thousand small, unbreakable ways.

You tell him your pregnant on an ordinary evening—because that’s how your life together works.

Dinner dishes are still on the counter. He’s reading something on the couch, glasses low on his nose.

You sit beside him, closer than usual.

“Marc,” you say, voice steady but soft.

He looks up immediately. “Dimmi.” Tell me.

You place the test in his hand without ceremony.

“Sono incinta.” I’m pregnant.

His first reaction is silence.

It’s processing.

He stares at the test, then at you, then back again, like confirming a formation on the field.

His jaw tightens. His eyes shine.

“…Davvero?” Really?

When you nod, his breath breaks on the exhale.

He sits the test down carefully, like it’s something sacred.

He pulls you into him—slow, firm, grounding.

One hand cradles the back of your head.

“Grazie,” Thank you. he murmurs into your hair.

Not shock. Not panic. Gratitude.

The emotion hits him in layers.

Pride first.

Awe second.

Fear last—and he doesn’t hide it.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Ho paura,” I’m scared. he admits quietly.

Then, immediately:

“Ma ci sono. Sempre.” But I’m here. Always.

From that moment on, he shifts into care mode—deliberately.

Not hovering. Not overwhelming.

Intentional.

“Cosa ti serve adesso?” What do you need right now? he asks.

And he waits for your answer.

He becomes obsessively attentive to your well-being.

He researches quietly. Doctors. Nutrition. Rest.

He doesn’t bombard you—he filters information first.

“Questo è utile,” he says, handing you one article.

“Questo no.” This isn’t.

Physically, he’s gentle in a way that’s new even for him.

He walks on the street side of the sidewalk.

Keeps a hand on your back on stairs.

If you wince even slightly, he notices.

“Dimmi dove,” Tell me where. he says instantly.

Emotionally, he anchors you.

On days you feel sick, tired, or overwhelmed, he never minimizes it.

“Il tuo corpo sta lavorando più del mio,” Your body is working harder than mine. he reminds you.

Rest is never framed as weakness.

He talks to the baby before you do.

Late at night. Quietly.

His hand resting on your stomach.

“Ti stiamo aspettando,” We’re waiting for you. he murmurs.

You pretend to be asleep. He knows you’re not.

When anxiety creeps in—for either of you—he names it.

“Non dobbiamo essere perfetti,” We don’t have to be perfect. he says.

Then, softer:

“Solo onesti. E insieme.” Just honest. And together.

Loving you while you’re pregnant looks like this:

Meals adjusted to what you can stomach.

Appointments never missed.

A man who kneels in front of you to tie your shoes without comment.

A hand that never lets go when things feel uncertain.

To him, this isn’t a disruption to his life.

It’s a continuation.

A new role—one he chooses with the same quiet certainty as everything else.

“Prima di tutto,” First and foremost, he says one night, holding you close,

“sei tu. Poi il nostro bambino.” it’s you. Then our child.

[REQUESTS OPEN!!!]

Who's next?

Noel Noa

Chris Prince

Julien Loki

Voting ended onJan 2

•Masterlist•

©an1m320v3r

[shayinstarlight]

Hands you the perfect Krabby Patty for making this piece of art:

[an1m320v3r]

OMG! Thank youuuuu

And it came with a Krabby Patty.

Dreams really do come true.

[an1m320v3r]

I am the anon who said I'm going to steal your toes. I have not read the other characters yet. But the ending angst hurt. Bc how is he ever gonna find out he has a child??? I read Reos and that was amazing. But my little strawberry boy. 🥺. I should read Ness and kaisers. It's pain after pain with chigiri ending 🥲

You came back!👀 Hiiii

Your first message had me cackling! And when I saw this one I nearly choked on my coffee (Not necessarily from what you said, but the fact that you came back)

But if your coming for my toes after the Chigiri fic— then I don't want to know what's going to happen after you read the rest.🫣 Personally I thought that Chigiri's fic was bittersweet and not that angsty.

Your going to have to stay tuned to so how or if he ever meets his child.

But go read the rest and lmk what you thought!

[an1m320v3r]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSxwCpbL5/

Chigiriiii <3

[an1m320v3r]

My next fic:

Pick! :)

Hyoma Chigari - You Have My Eyes Pt. 2

Reo Mikage - You Have My Eyes Pt. 4

Micheal Kaiser -You Have My Eyes Pt. 3

Oliver Aiku - You Have My Eyes - Spin off piece

Yoichi Isagi - Lost In Translation

Bunny Iglesias - Lost In Translation

Eita Otoya - Her Dad, My Heart

Charles Chevalier - In Every Version Of Us Pt. 3

Voting ended onJun 3

I've been jumping between most of these, which one should I give more attention too?

[an1m320v3r]

hola!! are there any updates for part 3 of You Have My Eyes - Michael Kaiser? thank you 🥲👉👈 it was sooo nice & i rlly loved it!

Uhmmm...

My planning for the fic is mostly done, so currently, I'm still in the writing process.

But the other day, I talked to the boyfriend about the fic to ask for his opinions and such. Let's just say he helped me realize new possibilities and the fact that not all my fics have to end the same way.

Do what you will with that information✌️

[an1m320v3r]

Hii i just read the, "You have my eyes" with chigiri. And all i can say is. If u dont make a part two with a happy ending at some point. I'm going to come for ur doorknob, and your toes.

MY TOES?! 😭 And here I thought Chigiri’s fic was sunshine and rainbows compared to the others. Have you read the ones I wrote for Alexis Ness and Michael Kaiser?

[an1m320v3r]

Could you write another 'You have my eyes' but with Hyoma and a little girl please? If you can - love your writing lovey! 💞😽

You Have My Eyes

The first time you met Hyoma Chigiri, he almost ran you over. Not with a car. With himself.

It had been one of those evenings where the air still carried the warmth of the day, the sun hanging low enough to paint everything gold. You were cutting through the public athletics track on your way home, taking the shortcut you always took when you couldn't be bothered to walk around the sports grounds.

Your earbuds were in. Music humming softly. Your attention split between the path ahead and the messages on your phone. The track wasn't particularly busy. A few joggers. A couple of teenagers kicking a football near the fence. The distant whistle of a coach somewhere beyond the bleachers. Normal. Quiet. Then suddenly—

Something moved. Fast. A flash of red. No, pink?

Before your brain could properly register it, a powerful gust of wind rushed past your shoulder. You startled so violently your foot caught against the edge of the pavement.

"What the—" The words barely left your mouth.

The blur had already disappeared halfway down the track. For a moment you simply stood there, staring. Then the figure slowed. One lap farther ahead, he gradually came to a stop near the bend. Hands braced against his hips. Chest rising and falling steadily. Even from a distance, he didn't look exhausted. Just warming up.

The setting sun caught against his hair first. Long strands of reddish-pink swayed behind him, escaping from a loose tie. The colour looked almost unreal beneath the evening light, vibrant enough to stand out against the muted tones of the track. Then he turned. And you forgot entirely about nearly getting flattened. Because the guy was unfairly attractive. Sharp enough to catch your attention. Soft enough to keep it. Long lashes framed striking pink eyes. His features were delicate in a way that should have made him look gentle, yet there was something undeniably athletic about him. Every movement carried confidence. Like he belonged exactly where he was. Like running that fast was the most natural thing in the world.

You realized you were staring. Unfortunately, so did he. His gaze met yours across the track. Then, to your horror, he pointed directly at you.

"You looked terrified."

You blinked. "What?"

He laughed. The sound carried surprisingly well across the distance.

"You." He gestured again. "You looked terrified."

You scoffed. "I thought a sports car just passed me."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his smile widened. And that smile—That smile changed everything. The intimidating athlete vanished. In his place was someone mischievous. Someone entirely too aware of his own charm. "Oh?" he said, walking closer. "Then my training must be paying off."

You stared at him. He stared right back. Neither of you looked away. Up close, he was even worse. Beautiful, really. The kind of beautiful that felt rude. You hated that your first thought was wow.

"You're insane."

His grin only widened. "I get that a lot."

"I almost died."

"You did not."

"You appeared out of nowhere."

"I've been running laps for twenty minutes."

"Well excuse me for not expecting a human bullet."

That earned another laugh. One that seemed genuine. Easy. Like laughing came naturally to him. For some reason, that surprised you more than his speed.

The conversation should have ended there. Normally it would have. A stranger. A few jokes. Then both of you move on with your lives. Instead, you found yourself standing there talking. About running. About the track. About why anyone would willingly sprint for fun. He informed you that your opinion on athletics was offensive. You informed him that willingly suffering wasn't a hobby. He informed you that sitting around reading books wasn't exactly thrilling either. You demanded to know how he knew you read books. He pointed at the novel sticking out of your bag. You called him annoying. He looked entirely too pleased by that.

Eventually your phone buzzed. Reality returned. You had somewhere to be. He had training to finish. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started. You learned his name. Hyoma. Just Hyoma. He learned yours. And somehow that felt sufficient. No more information exchanged. No promises to meet again. Just a casual wave before he jogged back toward the track. You genuinely assumed that was the end of it.

Then the next evening, he was there again. This time he spotted you first.

"There you are." As if he had been expecting you. As if seeing each other again was the most natural thing in the world. You ended up talking for ten minutes. The evening after that became twenty. Then thirty.

You would cut through the athletics grounds. Hyoma would be finishing training. One of you would start a conversation. The other would stay.

The track became familiar. The smell of rubber and fresh-cut grass. The rhythmic pounding of runners' feet. The orange glow of sunset spilling across empty lanes. You learned that Hyoma was competitive about everything. You learned he was sarcastic. That he rolled his eyes constantly. That he could go from completely relaxed to intensely focused in a heartbeat. That despite appearing effortless, he worked harder than anyone you'd ever met.

One evening you found yourselves sitting on the bleachers after practice. A convenience-store bag rested between you. You had bought drinks. He had bought snacks.

Without discussion, everything became communal. The sky overhead glowed with streaks of gold and pink. The track below sat mostly empty now. The world felt quieter. Smaller. Comfortable.

Hyoma leaned back against the metal bench, long legs stretched out in front of him. You stole one of his snacks. He complained. Then immediately stole yours. The argument lasted all of thirty seconds.

When it ended, neither of you could stop smiling. The next—

"I'm leaving at the end of the month."

You nearly choked on your drink. "What?"

Hyoma didn't even look up from where he was unwrapping a piece of candy. "I'm only here temporarily." His tone remained maddeningly calm. Matter-of-fact. As though he'd just informed you that tomorrow's weather forecast predicted rain.

You stared. The words took a moment to settle. Leaving? The end of the month? That was only a few weeks away. For some reason, you hadn't considered that possibility. You didn't know much about Hyoma, if you were being honest. Not really. But somehow, despite knowing so little, you'd unconsciously started assuming he'd simply... continue being there. Apparently not.

Hyoma stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back against the metal bench. "I've got overseas training after this."

The breeze shifted, stirring loose strands of reddish-pink hair around his shoulders. The setting sun caught against them, turning them almost copper. You hated how unfairly pretty he looked while casually dropping this information.

"Overseas?" you repeated.

"Mm."

"And you're just saying this now?"

"I am."

You stared harder. He stared right back. Completely unbothered. Honestly, it was impressive.

"Do you tell everyone this immediately?"

One corner of his mouth lifted.

"No."

"Then why tell me?"

His gaze shifted toward the track for a moment. Runners moved below, their footsteps echoing faintly through the cooling evening air. Then he looked back.

"Because I plan on spending time with you."

Your heart immediately betrayed you. A single stupid flutter. You hated it. You hated it even more because he wasn't flirting. Hyoma wasn't the type to play games. Everything about him was painfully straightforward. If he wanted something, he said it. If he thought something, he said that too.

You quickly looked away. Trying—and failing—to ignore the warmth suddenly spreading across your face.

"That's a weird thing to say."

"It isn't."

"It kind of is."

"It isn't."

"You sound very confident about that."

"I am."

Of course he was. You rolled your eyes dramatically.

"You're impossible."

"I've heard that before."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You glanced over. Unfortunately, Hyoma looked completely sincere. Not teasing. Not smirking. Just watching you with that calm certainty that seemed to define everything he did. The same certainty that probably let him sprint toward impossible goals without questioning whether he'd succeed. The same certainty that made him look at a future overseas and simply accept it. Like there was never another option. You looked away first. Again.

"Well," you said, trying for casual and failing miserably, "what if I decide you're annoying and stop hanging out with you next week?"

A laugh escaped him. Soft. Amused. Hyoma shook his head. "You won't."

You immediately frowned. "The confidence is unbelievable."

"It isn't confidence."

"Then what is it?"

His smile appeared slowly. "I know you."

The answer landed somewhere directly beneath your ribs. Because somehow, despite only knowing him for a bit more than a week... He kind of did. And the worst part? The absolutely infuriating part? You knew he was right. Next week would come. And you'd still take the shortcut through the athletics grounds. You'd still glance toward the track. You'd still look for a flash of pink hair racing around the bend.

Because somewhere between almost getting run over and sharing convenience-store snacks beneath sunset skies, Hyoma Chigiri had quietly become someone you looked forward to seeing.

The agreement formed naturally. A quiet understanding. A month. That's all this was. A handful of sunsets. Then Hyoma would leave. And life would continue. Simple. Reasonable. Safe. No promises. No expectations. No plans for what came after. You wouldn't ask him to stay. He wouldn't ask you to wait. The finish line already existed.

Maybe that's why neither of you were afraid to keep showing up. Because there was an expiration date attached to everything.

At first it felt harmless. Maybe because neither of you were treating it like something important. Just two people with time to kill. The city became your playground.

One day it was street food stalls tucked between crowded alleyways, both of you arguing over which vendor made the best skewers. Another day it was wandering through night markets lit by strings of warm lights, weaving through crowds while Hyoma somehow managed to attract attention everywhere he went without trying. Or maybe he was trying. You never could figured that out.

There were bookstores. Tiny cafés. A second-hand record shop neither of you knew anything about. You spent nearly forty minutes inside anyway. Hyoma picked up random albums and judged them entirely based on cover art. You informed him that wasn't how music worked. He informed you that if people didn't want to be judged by the cover, they should have made a better cover. You left before the store owner could kick him out.

Slowly, you learned things about him. Little things. The important things. Like how he loved novels and always carried one in his bag. How he got strangely passionate during arguments. How he could be incredibly laid-back right until competition entered the picture. Then all common sense disappeared.

One evening, while wandering through an arcade, you challenged him to a game of air hockey. Mostly because you thought it would be funny. It was. Just not for the reason you expected. You won. Barely. The puck slipped past his defense during the final seconds. The machine flashed your victory. You cheered. Hyoma stared at the scoreboard. Silent. Motionless. Then he pointed at the table. "Again."

You laughed. "No way."

"Again."

"You lost."

"It was luck."

"It was skill."

"It was luck."

"It was skill."

His eyes narrowed. "Again." So you played again. And won. Again. This time by two points. Hyoma looked so offended.

The third game somehow went even worse. You beat him again. By then he was standing with his sleeves pushed up and the intensity of someone preparing for a championship match.

Across the table, children were winning stuffed animals and couples were taking photos in photobooths. Meanwhile Hyoma looked ready to declare war.

"One more."

"You said that last time."

"This one counts."

"They all counted."

"They clearly didn't."

You laughed so hard you nearly missed the opening shot. By the fourth game, Hyoma was glaring at the table itself. As if the machine had betrayed him.

"You are taking this way too seriously."

"I'm taking it exactly seriously enough."

"It's air hockey."

"It's competition."

The response came so quickly you almost choked. You doubled over laughing. The kind that made your stomach hurt. The kind that made tears gather in your eyes. Across from you, Hyoma looked deeply unimpressed. Which only made it worse.

"You've lost four times."

"Three."

"Four."

"The fourth game isn't over."

"You're losing by six."

His jaw tightened. "It can recover."

You laughed harder. A nearby kid laughed too. Hyoma looked genuinely wounded.

For the next ten minutes he attempted to recover what remained of his dignity. Unfortunately, every time he tried to explain why the losses didn't count, he somehow made himself sound worse. And for the first time since you'd met him, the unbeatable athlete who could outrun almost anyone looked completely, hilariously defeated. You would never let him forget it.

About eight days later.

The rooftop bar sat high above the city, tucked between office buildings and apartment towers. Music drifted softly from hidden speakers. Glasses clinked. People laughed at nearby tables. Far below, headlights flowed through the streets like rivers of light. The entire city glittered beneath the summer night.You should have been paying attention to the view.

Instead, you were watching Hyoma. Again. Across from you, he was halfway through explaining something about football. Something important. You assumed. His hands moved as he spoke. His eyes were bright. Animated. Every now and then a smile would appear when he talked about a goal he'd achieved or something he still wanted to accomplish. And that was the problem. You'd always known he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyesight knew that. But this was different. Because it wasn't his face that had your attention.

It was the way he lit up when he talked about his future. The way his entire posture changed. The certainty in his voice. The ambition. The absolute conviction that he was going to become something extraordinary. You couldn't stop watching. At some point you completely lost track of whatever he was saying. Words became background noise. You were too busy staring. Unfortunately, Hyoma was observant. Mid-sentence, he stopped. "What?"

You blinked. "What?"

His eyes narrowed. "You've been staring at me."

"No, I haven't."

"You absolutely have."

You took a sip of your drink. A terrible attempt at distraction.

"I was listening."

"Liar."

"I was."

"What did I just say?"

"..."

His eyebrow lifted.

You sighed. "I don't know."

"I know." A grin tugged at his mouth.

"You haven't heard a single word I've said for the last five minutes."

"That's not true."

"It is."

"It might be a little true."

"A little?"

You laughed. He shook his head. And suddenly something shifted. The music seemed quieter. The city lights softer. The conversation fading around the edges.

Neither of you looked away. For a moment, nobody spoke. His gaze lingered. Then his eyes flicked briefly to your mouth. Back to your eyes. A tiny movement. Your heart stumbled. The corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, Hyoma leaned forward. An invitation. A question. His movements were careful. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to pull away. You didn't.

The distance disappeared. The kiss was soft. Unexpectedly so. No urgency. Just curiosity. Warmth. The simple realization of oh. So that's what this is. The world seemed to pause for a second. Or maybe that was just your imagination. Either way, when he pulled back, neither of you spoke. The city returned gradually. You stared at each other. Breathing. Processing. Trying and failing to look unaffected.

Hyoma was the first to break. "Well."

You laughed immediately. A nervous little sound. "Well."

He rubbed the back of his neck. Something you had noticed he did whenever he felt awkward. Which wasn't often.

"We probably should've expected that."

The seriousness of his tone made it infinitely worse. You burst out laughing. Actually laughing. Head dropping forward. Across from you, Hyoma stared for exactly three seconds before he started laughing too.

The two of you sat there beneath the city lights, laughing over the most predictable first kiss in human history. Neither of you mentioned that it had only taken eight days. Neither of you mentioned that it probably should have happened sooner.

After that, everything accelerated. Like both of you had spent the past week pretending not to notice what was happening between you. And now there was no reason to pretend anymore. The affection that had been hiding beneath every conversation suddenly had somewhere to go.

There were late-night walks through streets glowing with neon signs and streetlamps. The kind where conversations drifted from serious to ridiculous without warning. One minute discussing dreams. The next arguing over whether cereal counted as soup. Your shoulders brushed. Then stayed touching.

Eventually, his hand found yours. As though it had always belonged there. Neither of you made a big deal out of it. Hyoma simply intertwined your fingers with his and kept walking. You never let go.

There were movie nights that barely qualified as movie nights. Entire films passed without either of you remembering the plot. Hyoma would make sarcastic comments throughout the first twenty minutes. You'd tell him to be quiet. He'd tell you the movie was bad anyway. Then somehow you'd both end up talking instead. By the time the credits rolled, neither of you knew what had happened on screen. Not that either of you cared.

There were mornings spent in cafés before training. Coffee warming your hands while Hyoma complained about his schedule.

"You chose this."

"I know."

"So stop acting surprised."

"I'm not surprised."

"You've been complaining for ten minutes."

"I'm expressing frustration."

"You're complaining."

"They're different."

"They're literally the same thing."

Hyoma glared into his coffee. You laughed. He stole one of your pastries in retaliation. There were afternoons where he dragged you to training facilities because apparently your hobbies weren't active enough.

"You spend too much time inside."

"I go outside."

"Walking to bookstores doesn't count."

"It counts."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you immediately go back inside another building."

"That's still outside."

"It isn't."

"It literally is."

Hyoma shook his head. The expression on his face suggested he was losing faith in humanity.

"You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

He couldn't even argue with that. The teasing never stopped. If anything, it became worse. Every conversation somehow turned into an argument. Just the kind that made both of you laugh.

"You are unbelievably dramatic."

"I'm not dramatic."

"You just spent ten minutes explaining why a football formation personally offended you."

"Because it was stupid."

"That sounds dramatic."

"It's not dramatic if I'm right."

"That's not how that works."

"It's exactly how it works."

You snorted. Across the table, Hyoma pointed at you. "You're dramatic."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes enough sense."

"No, it doesn't."

"It does to me."

"That's concerning."

He smiled. That slow, satisfied smile that always appeared when he knew he was winning. Even when he absolutely wasn't. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you stopped counting the days.

At least for a while. Because it was easy to forget. Easy to get caught up in stolen kisses, shared coffee, and endless conversations. Easy to pretend there wasn't a deadline waiting at the end of all this. Easy to look at Hyoma sitting beside you and think only about the present.

Until every now and then, you'd catch sight of a plane crossing the sky. Or hear him mention overseas training. And the reality would return. The clock was still ticking. Neither of you talked about it. But both of you heard it.

Sometimes the attraction deepened into something quieter. More private. There were evenings that ended with neither of you wanting to say goodnight. One movie becoming another. One kiss becoming several. The clock creeping past midnight unnoticed.

Eventually, one of you would glance at the time and realize neither of you had any intention of leaving. There were hotel rooms after long days exploring the city. His apartment, where football boots were somehow always in the way. Your apartment, where he constantly complained that your blankets were too small despite stealing most of them.

Doors locked. Phones ignored. The rest of the world left outside for a few precious hours. Neither of you talked much during those moments. You didn't need to. The attraction between you had stopped being something either of you could joke away. It lived in lingering touches. In the way his hand settled automatically at your waist. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. In the way every goodbye seemed to take longer than the one before. But afterward was always your favorite part. The rare moments when Hyoma stopped moving. Stopped chasing.

Tonight, he was sprawled across the bed beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. The sheets were tangled. The room was dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. His hair was a complete mess. Long reddish strands scattered across the pillow. You knew he would complain about it later. He was annoyingly particular about his hair. For now, though, he was too comfortable to care. His eyes were half-closed. His breathing slow. Sleep tugging at the edges of him.

And somehow, in moments like this, he always looked younger. Softer. Less like the athlete everyone admired. Less like the person chasing impossible dreams across countries and continents. Just a twenty-something year old who was exhausted and pretending he wasn't. You traced absent-minded circles along his forearm. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips.

For a while neither of you spoke. The silence felt comfortable. Familiar. His hand found yours beneath the blankets. Fingers intertwining lazily. The city glowed outside the window. The clock continued ticking toward the end of the month. But in that moment, with Hyoma warm beside you and his hand tangled with yours, it was easy to pretend time wasn't moving at all.

You went dancing once. Calling it dancing was generous. Neither of you knew what you were doing. Hyoma had rhythm. You had enthusiasm. Together, it somehow balanced out.

The music was loud enough to rattle your ribs, lights flashing across crowded bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. At some point, both of you gave up trying to look cool. Which was exactly when it became fun. You laughed. He laughed. You stepped on his foot. He accused you of attempted murder. You informed him that athletes healed faster. He spent the rest of the night dramatically limping whenever you looked at him.

You went to bars. Tiny places tucked down side streets. Rooftop places overlooking the city. Places neither of you remembered the names of afterward.

You shared drinks. Stole sips from each other's glasses. Talked until staff started stacking chairs around you. Conversations drifted endlessly. Books. Music. Childhood stories. Dreams. Fears. The kind of things people usually took months to share. Maybe because you both knew time was limited. Maybe because pretending felt pointless.

Some nights ended with no destination at all. Just walking. Wandering. Following whatever street looked interesting. Eventually, watching the sunrise became a habit. The city looked different before dawn. Like the world hadn't fully woken up yet.

One morning, after being awake for far too long, you somehow ended up sitting on a nearly empty beach. Neither of you could remember how. There had been a convenience store somewhere. Bad decisions. Terrible sandwiches. And now you were here. The sky glowed pale gold at the horizon. Waves rolled lazily onto shore. A cool breeze carried the scent of salt through the air.

Beside you, Hyoma sat with his knees drawn up slightly, one arm draped across them. His hair danced wildly in the wind. The rising sun painted faint gold through the reddish strands. For once, he wasn't talking. He looked exhausted. You watched him for a moment. Then nudged his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

For a while, he didn't answer. The silence stretched. Waves breaking against the shore. Seagulls calling somewhere overhead. The distant hum of a city beginning to wake. Then—

"I think I'm scared."

You turned immediately. That answer surprised you. "Of what?"

His eyes remained fixed on the ocean. The horizon. Something far beyond it. "Not making it."

The words were quiet. Barely louder than the waves. You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the uncertainty hidden beneath years of confidence. At the pressure he carried every day. The impossible standard he held himself to. The dream he had built his entire life around. It would've been easy to reassure him. Easy to tell him he'd succeed. That he was talented. That he'd be fine. Most people probably would have. But Hyoma didn't need empty comfort.

So instead you said: "Then be scared."

His head turned. "What?"

"Be scared."

He frowned. Clearly not following. You nudged his shoulder again. Gentler this time. "People who care about something are always scared." His expression softened slightly. You continued.

"If you weren't scared, it would mean you didn't care whether you succeeded." The breeze swept between you. "You want this." You looked out at the ocean too. "So of course you're terrified."

Silence settled again. Long. Comfortable. The kind that didn't need filling. Eventually, Hyoma let out a small breath. Almost a laugh. Almost not. Then he smiled. Not the teasing grin. The kind of smile that appeared when his guard slipped.

His hand found yours in the sand. Warm fingers threading through yours. Then he squeezed. Once. A silent thank you.

The sun finally broke over the horizon. Golden light spilled across the water.

By the third week, the countdown had stopped feeling theoretical. Because somewhere along the way, the arrangement stopped feeling temporary. The rules hadn't changed. Neither of you had broken the agreement. A month. No promises. No future. No expectations. But feelings didn't care about rules. They slipped through cracks.

Until suddenly they were everywhere. You noticed it first in crowds. You'd enter a room and immediately look for him. The moment you found him, something inside you relaxed. That realization terrified you.

You started noticing other things too. How easily his laugh could improve your mood. How often you reached for your phone to tell him something stupid. How every funny story became something you wanted to share with him first. And perhaps worst of all—How quiet everything felt when he wasn't there. Just... off. Like a song missing part of its melody. Like a sentence ending too early.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you. His expression unreadable. Thoughtful. Like he was trying to solve something. Like he was standing at the edge of a thought he didn't quite want to have. Whenever you noticed, he'd immediately look away. Or start talking about something else. Or make a sarcastic comment. Anything to redirect attention.

The days continued shrinking. Three weeks became two. Two became one. Suddenly there weren't endless tomorrows anymore. There were numbers.

Three days left. You found yourself counting without meaning to.

Two days. You woke up with the thought already sitting heavy in your chest.

One. One day. One last sunset. One last breakfast. One last walk. The countdown attached itself to everything. Every laugh. Every touch. Every kiss. Neither of you talked about it. You both pretended things were normal.

A tension lived beneath everything now. Like holding water in your hands and knowing it was slipping through your fingers. One moment there had been a month ahead of you. The next, there was barely any time left at all.

So you did what people often do when faced with an ending they don't want. You ignored it. You laughed harder. Held each other longer. Pretended tomorrow wasn't coming.

The night before he left felt unreal. Outside the window, the city shimmered beneath the darkness. Streetlights glowed. Cars drifted through distant roads like rivers of gold. Somewhere beyond the apartment building, music floated faintly through the warm night air. The world continued moving. People continued living. Yet everything beyond those walls felt impossibly far away. Like the rest of the city had stepped back and left the two of you alone.

Neither of you mentioned tomorrow. Neither of you acknowledged the suitcase sitting by the front door. Instead, you talked. For hours. About everything. About nothing.

Hyoma admitted he still believed he'd become one of the best players in the world. The certainty in his voice hadn't changed since the day you'd met him. You smiled. "I'd be disappointed if you believed anything less."

That earned a laugh. One of those softer laughs. The kind that only appeared when he was tired. The kind reserved for quiet moments and lowered defenses. The kind very few people got to hear.

Hours passed unnoticed. The clock continued moving. Neither of you looked at it. Neither of you wanted to know what time it was. Because every glance would only confirm the same thing. There wasn't enough of it left. Eventually, words became unnecessary.

The conversation slowed. Then faded. Until silence settled comfortably between you. You sat together on the couch. Close enough that there was no space left between your bodies. Foreheads resting together. Eyes closed. Breathing the same air. Neither of you asleep. Neither of you speaking. Holding onto something that had never belonged to either of you in the first place. The closeness felt different that night.

Because what hurt wasn't that the night was ending. What hurt was knowing there would be a tomorrow. And tomorrow would take him away anyway.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma tilted his head slightly. His nose brushed yours. A small thing. Barely noticeable. Yet your chest tightened instantly.

You opened your eyes. He was already looking at you. The city lights reflected faintly in deep pink irises. For once, there was no teasing. No sarcasm. No attempt to lighten the mood. Just him. Looking at you like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Not rushed. A continuation of every moment that had come before it.

One kiss became another. The conversation disappeared somewhere between them. Words becoming touches. Touches becoming something softer. Something more intimate. Neither of you said stay. Neither of you said don't go. But there were other ways people held on to each other. Other ways people tried to make a moment last. Other ways people said goodbye.

Hours later, the apartment had gone completely quiet. The city lights painted pale gold across the ceiling. The blankets were tangled. A discarded shirt lay abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed. Neither of you had bothered to pick it up. For a long time, you simply lay there together. The air carried the lingering warmth of shared skin. The kind of warmth that only existed after hours spent wrapped around another person.

Outside, the city continued breathing. Inside, everything felt still.

You rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. One of his arms was draped loosely around your waist. His fingers traced absent patterns against your side. Neither of you spoke. There was nothing left to say.

Eventually, you felt him shift slightly. A hand rose to your face. Your eyes opened. He was already watching you. His hair was a mess now. Long pink strands falling across his forehead and into his eyes. The carefully composed athlete had disappeared somewhere during the night.

His fingers slipped through a loose strand of your hair before tucking it carefully behind your ear. The gesture was so small. So simple. Yet it nearly broke your heart. Because it felt deliberate. Like he was trying to memorize you. Every detail. Something to carry with him when you became a memory instead of a person. Your chest tightened painfully.

For one dangerous moment, the words sat right there.

Balanced on the tip of your tongue.

Stay.

It would've been easy.

One word.

One request.

One selfish attempt to hold onto something slipping away.

You almost said it. Almost. But you didn't. Because you knew what his dream meant to him. You knew how hard he had worked for it. You knew asking him to stay would never be fair. And perhaps most importantly— You knew some things were beautiful precisely because they couldn't last. Some moments existed only for a season. Some people entered your life for a chapter instead of the whole story. And trying to force them to remain often destroyed the very thing you loved about them.

So instead, you reached for his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.

The next morning came anyway. Cruel thing. Morning always does. The sunlight arrived first. Slipping through the curtains. Turning everything gold. Making the apartment look painfully ordinary. As if it hadn't just held one of the most important months of your life.

For a few moments, neither of you moved. Eventually, reality won. It always did. The morning passed too quickly after that. Coffee. Quiet conversation. Long pauses. The strange awareness that every mundane thing was becoming a last. The last cup of coffee. The last joke. The last time hearing his laugh from across the room. Then suddenly there were no more things left to delay.

Only goodbye.

Outside the apartment building, the city was already awake. People hurried down sidewalks. Cars rolled through intersections. Life continued as if nothing important was happening.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The words felt too small. Too inadequate for everything the month had become.

Then Hyoma stepped forward. And wrapped his arms around you. You immediately held him back. Tightly. The hug lasted longer than either of you intended. Long enough that letting go started feeling impossible. You could feel his heartbeat. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Feel how reluctant he was to pull away. Just like you.

Eventually, though, he did. Slowly. Reluctantly. The space between you returned. And suddenly it felt enormous.

Hyoma looked at you for a moment. Really looked. As if committing you to memory one final time. Then he smiled. The smile from the track. The one that had appeared after he'd nearly run you over. The smile that had started everything. The smile that made him look impossible. Your chest tightened.

"Take care." His voice was steady.

Yours almost wasn't. "You too."

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Hyoma nodded once. A small gesture. Simple. Final.

And before either of you could change your minds, he turned. And walked away. No looking back. Just forward. The way he'd always done everything. Toward the next goal.

You stood there watching. Watching the familiar pink hair disappear farther into the crowd. Watching the distance grow. Watching until he became another stranger among strangers. Until eventually the city swallowed him whole. And there was nothing left to see.

Silence settled around you. For a moment, the ache arrived. Sharp. Heavy. The kind that sat directly behind your ribs. The kind that made breathing feel different. You let yourself feel it. Just for a moment. Then something unexpected happened.

You smiled. Small. Bittersweet. Because despite everything... You couldn't regret it. Not a single second. Not the track. Not the rooftop bar. Not the sunrises. Not the arguments. Not the late-night conversations. Not him.

For one impossible month, life had felt different. Brighter. Larger. Like the universe had briefly decided to be kind. And maybe that was enough. Maybe some people weren't meant to stay forever. Maybe some stories weren't meant to become lifelong romances. Maybe some chapters existed simply because they were beautiful while they lasted. A fairy tale didn't stop being magical because it ended. It became a memory. And memories, sometimes, lasted longer than anything else.

So you took one final look at the crowd. At the place where Hyoma Chigiri had disappeared. Then you turned. And walked forward too. Carrying an impossible month with you.

About six weeks later, you threw up in the parking lot of a grocery store. At first, you blamed the coffee. Then stress. Then the fact that you'd barely been sleeping properly lately.

Life had returned to normal after Hyoma left. Or at least, it had pretended to. Back to routines. Back to ordinary days.

But grief had a strange way of lingering. It settled into quiet moments. Into empty evenings. Into the instinctive urge to send someone a message before remembering they were halfway across the world.

So when the exhaustion started, you blamed grief. When your appetite changed, you blamed grief. When you started feeling nauseous in the mornings, you blamed grief. Apparently, grief wasn't the problem.

The positive test sat on the bathroom counter. Unmoving. Silent. Life-altering. You stared at it. Then stared some more. Certain it would somehow change if you looked long enough. It didn't. The small room suddenly felt too warm. Too quiet.

You sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. One hand covering your mouth. The other gripping the pregnancy test so tightly your knuckles hurt. Pregnant. The word echoed strangely inside your head. Pregnant. Not possible. Except apparently very possible.

A nervous laugh escaped you. Then another. Halfway to tears. Halfway to disbelief. Because this hadn't been part of the plan. None of this had been part of the plan. A month-long romance wasn't supposed to end like this.

You and Hyoma had existed inside a beautiful, temporary chapter. And somehow that chapter had left something behind. Your hand drifted unconsciously toward your stomach. Nothing had changed yet. But suddenly everything felt different.

A hundred thoughts crashed into each other. Fear. Shock. Confusion. Practical concerns. Questions. So many questions.

You sat there for almost an hour. Thinking. Crying a little. Laughing once because the entire situation felt absurd.

And somewhere during that hour, one thing became clear. You weren't upset. Overwhelmed? Absolutely. Terrified? A little. Maybe a lot. But upset? No.

Because Hyoma hadn't abandoned you. He hadn't lied. Hadn't made promises he couldn't keep. From the very beginning, he'd been honest. A month. Then he'd leave. That had always been the deal. And now?

Now he was chasing the dream he'd talked about every single day. The dream that lit up his entire face whenever he spoke about it. The dream he'd sacrificed years of his life for.

You could still picture it. That certainty. That determination. The absolute conviction that football was where he belonged. And you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt that. Not when he was finally living the future he'd worked so hard to reach.

Slowly, your gaze lowered to the test again. Then to your stomach. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not with fear this time. Something else. Something softer. A small smile appeared before you even realized it. Trembling. Uncertain. Because despite the shock...

Despite how impossible this was...

Despite everything...

A tiny piece of him was still here.

The month had ended. The fairy tale had ended. Hyoma had walked away and disappeared into a crowd. Yet somehow, a part of him remained. Not as a memory. Not as a photograph. Not as a message saved on your phone. Something real. Something alive.

Your smile widened slightly as tears gathered in your eyes. "Hi," you whispered quietly to the empty bathroom. Or maybe not to the empty bathroom. Your hand rested gently against your stomach.

And for the first time since he'd left, the ache in your chest felt a little different. A little less like loss. A little more like hope. You still missed him. You suspected you always would. But sitting there on the bathroom floor, staring at two pink lines that would change everything, you realized something unexpected. The fairy tale hadn't disappeared completely. It had simply left you with its most precious souvenir.

[You Have My Eyes Series] I'm loving this one. I can't believe it's already June. Taglist: @suckingsaesdihh @shorttiredasian @maryj0yy @shezuannn Lmk if I missed or if you want me to add you <3