based on 'girlfriend' - TV girl and this ask || art creds: @/_3aem || angst, comfort. ts been sitting in my drafts for ages
you used to hum when you brushed your teeth. thatâs what suguru remembers most. that and how your hair would glow against the morning light when you sat on the kitchen counter, cross-legged, sipping your coffee and teasing him for looking so serious at 8am.
now you donât even come out of your room until noon, if at all. the house smells stale, like untouched blankets and dead flowers, and heâs started keeping the window open just to pretend the air is flowing through.
he watches you sleep a lot these days. not in a creepy way, he just doesnât know what else to do. you curl up small, shoulders tight with anxiety even in dreams, and your hands twitch like youâre fighting something invisible. he wants to reach out, to touch your face, but heâs scared of waking you. scared of the look youâll give him, blank, exhausted, that tiny flicker of guilt that always follows when you realize youâve spent another day doing nothing.
he tries, though. god, he tries. he makes you breakfast even though you never eat it, brings home flowers that wilt in their vase untouched, cracks jokes that bounce off the walls and fall flat on their face. he plays music while he cleans, hoping youâll hum along like you used to, but the only sound is the quiet shuffle of his socks on the floor.
sometimes he catches himself staring at you, wondering if you even know heâs still here. wondering if maybe thatâs the problem, that youâre too deep inside yourself to see the world outside anymore.
at night, when he lies awake, he can feel the distance between you in inches. you face the wall, and he stares at the ceiling, counting the breaths you take just to make sure youâre still there. heâs scared to sleep first, scared youâll stop breathing if he does. he doesnât tell you that, of course. he just stays awake and memorizes the rhythm of your inhale and exhale until the sun bleeds through the blinds.
you used to talk in metaphors. âif i was a season, iâd be spring,â you said once, sitting in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash. âbecause everything feels new, but itâs still cold.â he thought that was beautiful at the time. now he thinks maybe you were trying to tell him something, that the cold never really left you, that it just waited until the world went quiet enough for it to settle in.
youâve stopped wearing color. suguru noticed that first. your closet used to be a mess of prints, cute shirts, and hoodies youâd steal from him, but now itâs just greys and blacks, folded too neatly. itâs like youâre trying to disappear, piece by piece.
when he mentions it, you just shrug and say you "donât feel like dressing up anymore." he nods, even though it breaks his heart. because he gets it. because there was a time when he felt the same way, when even existing felt like dragging a body made of cement through every hour.
"honey, i know how this feels. i wish you'd just talk to me..."
"theres nothing to talk about, suguru."
thatâs the thing that hurts the most. he knows how it feels. and he hates that knowing doesnât make him any better at helping.
he calls in sick more often now. stays home to make sure youâre not spending the entire day staring at the ceiling. he coaxes you into the shower, sits outside the bathroom door while youâre in there, just listening for movement. when you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, he smiles and says, âsee? small steps.â you nod but your eyes are empty, "hmm." and he has to look away because it kills him to see you like that.
sometimes you cry out of nowhere. youâll be sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, and then suddenly your shoulders shake and your breath catches and itâs like something inside you finally cracked. he doesnât ask why. he just holds you, lets you ruin his shirt with tears, whispers that itâs okay, that youâre safe, that youâre allowed to feel whatever this is. he says it like a mantra, even when heâs not sure he believes it himself.
and when you finally stop, you always say the same thing. âiâm sorry.â
he hates that word now. sorry.
you donât owe him apologies for hurting. you donât owe anyone that. but he knows you canât help it. the guilt is just another thing depression gives you for free.
he starts writing little notes. leaves them on your nightstand, on the bathroom mirror, inside your book. things like, âyouâre still here. thatâs enough.â or âi love you, even when you think the worlds against you.â he never knows if you read them, but sometimes he finds them folded in your pocket or tucked under your pillow, so maybe you do. maybe thatâs something.
he wishes he could tell you that itâs not your fault, that he doesnât blame you for the way things are. but he also canât lie, heâs tired... he misses you. he misses you so fucking much, he misses himself too. the house used to feel like home, now it just feels like a waiting room.
one night, after youâve been asleep for hours, he goes outside for a smoke. the airâs cold enough to bite. he leans against the railing and stares at the stars, wondering if they look any different when youâre sad. he thinks about calling his old therapist, but the thought of explaining whatâs going on feels impossible. how do you say âthe girl i love is drowning and i canât swim anymoreâ without sounding pathetic?
he stays out there for a while, the glow of his cigarette the only light. when he comes back inside, youâre standing in the doorway, eyes half-open, wearing one of his shirts. you look small, fragile.
âcouldnât sleep?â you ask. your voice is soft, raw.
âyeah,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck. âjust needed some air.â
you nod, like you understand. then, after a pause, âiâm sorry.â
he steps closer, reaches out, rests a hand on your cheek. âstop saying that,â he whispers.
you lean into his touch. for the first time in a long while, you donât pull away. he feels something shift in the air, a tiny crack in the glass between you.
âi donât know whatâs wrong with me,â you say, voice shaking. âi canât feel anything, and i hate it. i hate that youâre trying so hard and i canât evenââ
âhey,â he interrupts gently. âyou donât have to fix it right now.â
âbut i want to,â you say, and thatâs when he feels the sting in his throat, the tears pressing hot behind his eyes. because thatâs the first time in months youâve said you wanted anything.
he pulls you into his chest, wraps his arms around you like he can hold you together by sheer force. your face buries against his neck, your breath trembling against his skin. he closes his eyes and breathes you in, shampoo, salt, the faint scent of smoke from outside. it feels human. alive.
âyouâre still you,â he says quietly. âeven when it doesnât feel like it. youâre still my baby, my girl.â
you donât answer, but your hand grips the back of his shirt, and thatâs enough.
the next morning, the light hits different. youâre still quiet, but when he makes coffee, you take a sip. he doesnât comment, just watches as you sit at the table, staring into the mug like itâs something sacred. thereâs a small crease between your brows, but your shoulders are less tense.
later, he finds you standing by the window, sunlight on your face. youâre wearing a pale blue sweater he hasnât seen in months. you turn to look at him, and for a split second, your lips twitch upward. itâs not a full smile, but itâs something.
âhey,â you say softly. âthanks for staying.â
he crosses the room, presses a kiss to your temple. âalways.â
and thatâs it. no dramatic ending, no miraculous recovery. just two people, still trying. the air feels lighter somehow. the silence between you doesnât hurt as much. maybe tomorrow youâll laugh again, or maybe you wonât, but for now, youâre here, and heâs here, and thatâs enough.
when night comes, he finds you already in bed, curled up on your side. he slides in next to you, close enough that your backs touch. itâs small, but itâs connection. you reach back, grab his hand, and hold it. he squeezes once, firm and steady, like a promise.
and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps before you do.
aww im gonna kms
i wrote this inbetween writing show off and it helped me keep it poignant and angsty lowkey
when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever
