If you were sober (part 3)
You spend two weeks avoiding Satoru because you're in love with him.
Satoru spends those same two weeks convinced you're avoiding him because you've finally realized he's in love with you —and you are disgusted by it
CW: the level of miscommunication in this fic is honestly embarrasing for everyone involved lmao, I can't help but laugh
The rain against the window of your apartment was a steady, rhythmic tapping that usually helped you focus, but tonight, it only sounded like a cry.
Kyo was standing by the bookshelf, his back to you, looking at a framed photo of you and Satoru from an escapade two summers ago. The silence in the room was thin and heavily charged with the things you had been avoiding for months.
"You weren't there, Kyo," you said, your voice steady, surprisingly calm. "Again."
He didn't turn around. His shoulders were tense, a sharp line against his sweater. "I told you, something came up. Work doesn't just stop because you want to go to some stupid party."
"It wasn't just the party," you replied, crossing your arms over your chest. "It’s been months. You're physically present maybe thirty percent of the time, and mentally? You’ve been gone. You cancel plans, you forget anniversaries, and when you are here, you're constantly checking out of conversations before they even start."
Kyo finally turned. His eyes were hard, devoid of the warmth they used to have—or maybe you were just tired of pretending they did. "And you? Are you really going to stand there and play the victim?" He started pacing toward you, the small space of the living room suddenly feeling claustrophobic. "Let's drop the act, shall we?"
"What act?" you asked, though you felt a sinking sensation in your gut.
Kyo let out a sharp, bitter laugh, stepping closer until he was invading your space. He walked over to the coffee table, leaning down to stare at you. "You act like this is all about my 'negligence,'" he said. "But you’re always waiting for someone else, aren't you?" He pointed to the bookshelf. "Even when I’m right in front of you, your head is somewhere else. It’s always him. It’s always about what he’s doing, where he is."
"Don't lie," he spat, seeing your hesitation. "I see the way you look at your phone when his name pops up. I see how you practically light up when he’s in the room. You’ve been in love with him for as long as I’ve known you. Maybe even longer. But you’re too much of a coward to admit it. I was just the placeholder, wasn't I? The guy you settled for so you wouldn't have to face the fact that your best friend doesn't want you."
Every word was a slap. It hurt not because of the words themselves, but because he was painfully, undeniably right. The realization had been simmering beneath the surface—a quiet pressure you had learned to ignore—but hearing it out loud turned it into something suffocating. You didn’t have time to feel bad because something else surfaced: anger. He wasn't saying it because he cared; he was saying it to hurt you, to make sure that even as he walked out, he took a piece of your peace with him. He had neglected you for months, prioritized everything over you, and now he was blaming his failure on your feelings for someone else to absolve himself of his own indifference.
“Get out,” you said, your voice low and dangerous.
"You think this changes anything?" he scoffed, his posture still arrogant, still refusing to take a single ounce of responsibility for the wreckage you both had caused. "You’re his best friend. That’s the box he put you in years ago, and he’s never, ever going to take you out of it. You’re the person he tells everything to, the one he trusts, the one he relies on—but you will never be the one he desires. He’s going to keep doing exactly what he’s always done: charming everyone, taking what he wants, and leaving. Go ahead. Chase him. Maybe you’ll get one pity fuck at least."
"I said get out," you repeated, your voice shaking, though this time with a mixture of cold rage and the sharp, jagged fear that he might be right.
He let out a dry, humorless chuckle—the laugh of a man who needed to feel superior in his defeat. He didn't look back as he walked out, slamming the door shut, the sound echoing through the apartment like a final verdict.
The silence that followed was absolute. You stood there for a long time, the words ringing in your ears, sharp and stinging.
You didn't reach for your phone. You didn't want to talk to anyone.
You sank onto the couch, the apartment feeling suddenly vast and empty.
The two weeks that followed weren’t just silence. They were avoidance disguised as caution. For you, the silence was a shield. Every time your phone lit up with Satoru’s name, your chest constricted, the memory of Kyo’s words—the box he put you in—playing like a broken record. If you answered, if you let him into your space, you couldn't bear to see that look of pity or polite confusion on his face when you finally told him the truth. The truth you were still trying—and failing—not to name.
The thought buried itself somewhere deep inside you and refused to leave. The problem was that once it was there, everything started looking different.
You would be halfway through answering emails at work when your brain suddenly dragged you back three years to some random afternoon spent with Satoru. Then four years. Then six.
You started noticing things you had never questioned before.
How he was always the first person you wanted to call when something good happened, how his voice would make a terrible day better. How you knew the exact shape of his laugh, the way he’d roll his eyes when Suguru scolded him making you laugh,
The realization was slow and horrifying. Because none of those things felt normal anymore. Not after Kyo had said it out loud.
Fuck, nothing was normal after that night. Not after waking up in Satoru’s shirt with the memory of his skin beneath your fingertips.
The worst part was that the more you examined it, the painful the ache in your chest was. Because Satoru had never given you a reason to think he felt the same.
Every time your thoughts drifted somewhere dangerous, your brain immediately supplied evidence against you.
Girls hanging off his arm at parties.
Satoru flirting without effort.
Satoru treating romance like something complicated.
And through all of it, you. His best friend.
The pattern felt impossible to ignore once you saw it. Which was exactly why you started avoiding him.
Every time your phone lit up with his name, your chest tightened.
At first, you answered. A few hours late, then the next day. Then sometimes not at all.
“Busy, sorry” you’d text back
“Can’t. Working late.” you’d say, even as you sat on your kitchen floor, staring at a wall.
You’d stare at that message for nearly five minutes before typing: “Just tired”
You weren’t tired. You were terrified. Terrified that one conversation would be enough for him to look at you and know. Terrified that years of carefully maintained friendship would collapse the second he realized how hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with him you are. How you broke up with your boyfriend because of him.
On the other side of the city, Satoru was slowly losing his mind. The first three days, he had been annoyance masking as concern. “Lightweight, you alive?” he’d sent, followed by a dumb meme of a cat. He convinced himself you were busy. Then came the short replies, then the unanswered texts.
By the end of the first week, dread had settled deep beneath his ribs. The kind that sat beside him while he stared at his phone at two in the morning. He replayed that night constantly. The more he replayed it, the worse it got.
Because now, with the benefit of hindsight, he could see every mistake.
Every moment his composure had cracked. Every moment he had looked at you a little too long. A little too obviously. The way his hand had trembled on the wheel. The way he had stood there, frozen, when you touched his cheek.
The thought came more often every day.
She finally figured it out.
The distance suddenly made perfect sense.
You were escaping. Escaping him. You were distancing yourself because you were horrified. You had realized that your best friend was a man secretly nursing a pathetic, years-long obsession with you, and now you were looking for a way to phase him out of your life without a messy confrontation.
Suguru asked him what was wrong twice, and both times Satoru had nearly snapped his head off. He couldn't talk about it. If he said it out loud, it meant it was real. It meant he had finally lost you.
By the second week he stopped texting, because every unanswered message felt like another confirmation. Another reminder that you didn’t want him there.
So he gave you the space you were clearly demanding, waiting for the final text that would tell him to stay away for good.
By the fourteenth night, the silence in Satoru’s apartment felt heavy enough to crush him. He couldn’t sit still. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick with the ghost of your absence. He needed the noise, the chaos, the mindless distraction of a crowded room where he didn’t have to think about why his phone hadn’t buzzed with the custom ringtone he set for you in two weeks.
He ended up at a dimly lit, upscale bar in the heart of the city. He didn’t want the alcohol; he just wanted to drown out the voice in his head that kept telling him he’d finally pushed you too far.
He leaned against the bar counter, swirling his drink, his gaze fixed on the reflection of the crowd in the mirror behind the bar.
"Well, if it isn’t the main event himself."
The voice cut through the low hum of the bar. Satoru didn't need to turn around to recognize the sharp, irritating cadence. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his bourbon before turning his head just enough to acknowledge the man standing a few feet away, a bitter, lopsided smirk playing on Kyo’s lips.
Satoru’s eyes went dead. He had zero patience for this tonight. "Kyo. Shouldn't you be out disappointing someone else?"
Kyo let out a dry laugh, taking a step closer. “You mean her? Is that what you’re looking for?" Kyo smirked, his eyes glassy with resentment. "It must be satisfying, finally getting exactly what you wanted."
A cold, heavy dread settled in Satoru’s stomach. "Speak clearly, or get out of my sight."
“Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all along?” he asked, studying Satoru’s face. “That she finally broke up with me?”
Satoru didn’t react. At least, not the way Kyo expected. There was no satisfaction, no relief. Only confusion.
Satoru felt the world tilt. His heart slammed against his ribs, not with triumph, but with a sickening jolt of alarm. She cut him off? When? Why didn't she tell me?
Kyo, realizing that Satoru truly hadn’t known, scoffed. “Of course she didn’t tell you. That would mean having to face the sad truth.” He paused, his gaze darkening. “That she’s miserable. And it’s entirely because of you.”
Something inside Satoru snapped. He didn't think; he just moved. In a blur of motion, he grabbed Kyo by the collar, slamming him back against the bar with enough force to make the glasses rattle. The bar went deathly silent.
"You are going to wash your mouth out before you speak about her again, you pathetic piece of shit," Satoru hissed, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that made Kyo’s eyes widen "You don't get to comment on her, and you certainly don't get to drag her name through the mud because you couldn't handle being a man. If I ever hear you utter her name with that filthy tongue of yours again, I will make sure you regret it."
He tightened his grip for a heartbeat before shoving him away with such force that Kyo stumbled back, hitting the floor hard.
As he turned to leave, the adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror that hit him harder than a physical blow. He didn't even process the implication of what Kyo said—his brain was stuck on a loop of she’s hurting and she didn’t tell me.
You broke up with your boyfriend.
You spent two weeks suffering through it.
And you hadn't reached out to him. Not once.
He didn't finish his drink. He threw some cash on the counter and headed for the exit, his movements sharp and panicked.
The drive to your apartment had been a blur of white-knuckled frustration. Satoru hadn’t bothered with speed limits or traffic lights; his entire reality had narrowed down to the suffocating silence of your two-week absence. When he reached your building, he took the stairs two at a time, his chest heaving, his mind racing through a thousand catastrophic scenarios, yet entirely unprepared for the one that was about to unfold.
He pounded on your door, his knuckles striking the wood with a desperate, frantic rhythm.
"Open up," he commanded, his voice raw, stripped of its usual melodic playfulness. "Now."
When you finally opened the door, the air in the hallway seemed to vanish. You looked pale, eyes rimmed with the exhaustion of long, sleepless nights. Your hair was pulled back in a careless, messy bun, and for a moment, Satoru just stared, his heart stuttering at the sight of you.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into the apartment, the space instantly shrinking under the sheer weight of his presence, and clicked the door shut behind him.
You froze, the breath catching in your throat as your hands instinctively gripped the hem of your sleeves.
“I had to hear it from him,” he said, his gaze searching your face for an explanation he wasn’t ready to hear “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you reach out to me?” He asked, but deep inside, his own insecurities whispered the answer: Because she’s disgusted by the idea of you being in love with her
Your stomach dropped. Kyo told him. Of course he did—he’d left you with the wreckage, and now he was ensuring the debris hit the people who actually mattered. For two weeks, you’d been dreading this exact moment. You looked at the bookshelf, the walls, the floor—anywhere but his eyes.
“I didn’t know how,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment.
Across from you, Satoru’s expression tightened. Of course. You didn’t know how to tell him you’d realized the truth.
“I know it makes you feel,” Satoru said, his voice dropping, heavy with his own internal agony. “But did you have to cut me off like this?”
You let out a jagged, shaky breath. “What was I supposed to do? I thought it was for the best. I wanted to avoid this exact conversation.”
The answer sounded painfully obvious to him. How were you supposed to look at your best friend after realizing he was hopelessly in love with you? Meanwhile, your own brain was arriving at a completely different conclusion: how were you supposed to look at him when you finally let yourself acknowledge the terrifying, all-consuming ache you’d been harboring for him all this time?
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Neither of you realized you were having entirely different conversations, both of you trapped in the solitary confinement of your own assumptions.
“You should’ve talked with me” Satoru said quietly, his eyes searching for yours with a hurt so deep it made your own chest ache.
You swallowed hard, the tears finally pricking at your eyes. “Would it have changed anything?”
The question lodged directly in his chest. For him, it sounded like: Would it have changed the fact that you’re in love with me? For you, it meant: Would it have changed the fact that you don’t love me back?
"No," he admitted, his voice hollow.
The answer settled heavily between you. For two weeks, some stupid, desperate part of you had kept searching for loopholes. Tiny cracks in reality where Kyo had been wrong. Where the way Satoru looked at you sometimes meant something. Where waking up in his shirt had meant something. Where the memory of his frozen expression after that stupid childish kiss wasn’t something you’d imagined because you wanted it to be.
But reality has always been simpler than that. It hurt so much that your body seemed to have given up trying to fight it.
Your gaze dropped to the floor. For a moment, you wondered how many times you’d replay this conversation in your head afterward. How many times you’d think about what would’ve happened if you’d just kept your mouth shut and pretended none of this existed.
Maybe you could’ve kept him. Maybe you could’ve stayed his best friend. Maybe that would’ve been enough.
Your throat tightened, the air in the room turning thin.
“I’m sorry,” you said, forcing yourself to finally meet his eyes. The guarded distance in his gaze made your skin crawl with shame. “I ruined everything.” The words hurt less once they were out in the open, but the finality of them made you want to vanish. “I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore.”
Satoru stared at you like you’d suddenly switched languages halfway through the conversation.
“What?” he frowned “What are you talking about?”
You looked away. Humiliation burned hot beneath your skin. God, this was pathetic.
“You don’t have to do this, Satoru”
“Pretend you don’t know.”
Satoru blinked. His brow furrowing deeper. “Pretend I don’t know what?”
You closed your eyes “Please,” your voice cracked, the sound humiliating you instantly. “Please don’t make me say it.”
For the first time, Satoru’s frustration melted into genuine concern. “Say what?”
You laughed—a miserable, jagged sound that scraped your throat. Something inside you finally snapped under the weight of the last two weeks.
“Fine,” you said, wiping angrily at the tears spilling over your lashes. “You want me to say it?”
Satoru froze, his posture rigid. Your chest heaved, every breath hitching.
“I broke up with Kyo because every time I looked at him, I was thinking about you,” you confessed, the words pouring out like blood from a wound. “I spent years pretending, Satoru. And then Kyo said it out loud, and suddenly I couldn’t stop seeing it. I couldn't deny it anymore.”
Satoru didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. You barely noticed. The words had been trapped for too long, and now they were spilling out whether you wanted them to or not. This was the cliff. The point of no return. You closed your eyes, took a breath, and let it out.
“I’m in love with you,” your voice shook, trembling with the force of the admission. “So there. Congratulations. Now you don’t have to wonder why I’ve been avoiding you.”
Satoru went deathly still. He simply stared at you, like his brain had stopped processing information altogether. You watched the color drain from his face.
One hand came up to his forehead, fingers splayed, and he dragged them slowly down his face in a gesture of pure disbelief.
“I don’t think I drank enough for this,” he muttered to the empty air.
He took a shaky step back, his eyes never leaving yours, his movements uncoordinated. “I think I’m hallucinating.”
For a second, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Then, the last of your restraint shattered.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you shouted, your voice raw.
Satoru blinked, startled out of his trance.
“Is this a joke to you?” you demanded, the hurt in your voice hitting him like a physical slap.
“No?” A bitter, hysterical laugh escaped you. “I just told you I blew up my entire life because I’m in love with you, and your response is that you’re hallucinating?”
Satoru opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The silence stretched, and somehow, that made everything a thousand times worse. Finally, he whispered, “Oh my God.”
the next chapter will be the last one ❤️
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