Im sorry that things arent going so well for you rn :<
Here s a hug to make u feel bettterrr😻
It gets better luv <3❤️
It’s alright bae dw bout me.
If ur talking about last night, it ended up being strep. I also had a high grade fever and that’s why I felt like I did. I ended up sweating it off last night 🙏
I’m literally so sick rn. I got work tmr and I have strep but I gotta finish training. I can’t drive, so my mother is supposed to come get me and it’s been like 2 hours since she said she’d be on her way. Chat I’m cooked
you can't remember your last kiss with nanami kento. no matter how much you try, you just can't.
was it this morning? when he woke you up, newborn daughter in-hand? no, that couldn't have been it. because, after, he kissed you again, chaste, as he moved past you to get to the dishwasher.
and then again, when he set your breakfast on the table. another time after, too. when he settled on the couch with you and his baby girl.
but was that the last one? or, was there more after?
you can't remember. in your defense, you didn't have a reason to keep track. there shouldn't have been. the second you told him you were pregnant, he dropped the world of jujutsu. it was over, or it should have been.
speaking of, your pregnancy, it wasn't ever anything you really wanted. it was something he did. kids. it was his dream, you're pretty sure, the whole white-picket-fence fantasy.
and you? you didn't care, not much. as long as you had nanami, you were okay with anything. besides, he'd been so happy when you broke the news. it's not like you guys had been actively trying, which is why you were surprised to see his reaction.
but again, for him, you'd do anything. what did it matter, anyways? it was just a kid, right? and he'd be there every step of the way, right?
wrong.
it was another sunday, the three of you had been snuggled up in bed, just when he got the call.
"they want me to come in," he explained, softly.
"what?" you knew the answer.
"i won't go if you don't want me to. but, darling, i doubt they'd have called me in, if it hadn't been urgent."
you inhaled, watching him gently rock his daughter in his arms. "does- does that mean it's bad, then?"
"well, i'm sure it's nothing i can't handle," he informed you, paired with a soft smile.
"i don't know, na'mi. you said you weren't gonna go back." there was hesitance in your voice, one that trembled.
"honey, that's why i said it's up to you, okay?" nanami pressed his lips to your forehead.
if people really needed him, who were you to not let him go? what were you supposed to do? say no, let those people die? guilt gnawed at you. slowly, you nodded, looking up to meet his gaze.
so, you stood there at the door, watching him kiss his baby what should've been a temporary goodbye.
you can't remember if he kissed you goodbye, too. he probably did, but you can't remember.
"promise you'll come back to me?" you'd buried your face into the crook of his neck.
"of course, baby. i promise."
fucking liar.
oh, god, and when they told you there wasn't even a body to recover?
too much. all too much.
you think that you would've followed him, had there not have been his baby stopping you.
kiss, kiss, kiss; why can't you remember? why?
the cries of his baby, the baby that yearns for her father, they are etched into your head. you can't get her to stop. you don't blame her. you can't stop, either.
you aren't her mother. she isn't your daughter.
she's nanami's, but he's gone.
the only thing he left you with is a child you never wanted, a living, breathing reminder of his absence, of his broken promise, of the kiss you can't remember — the kiss that might as well have never happened.
A/N: this is fucking sad as hell, it was a weird dream i had and i woke up crying? So here. I was gonna do this for every character but i wasn't feeling it so yuh
warnings: angst, pain and suffering, hurt no comfort, mention of death, sad sad shit. Enjoy.
Living with Nanami Kento had been a dream wrapped in warm vanilla and slow Sunday mornings.
He always woke before you. Always. Slipping out of bed with the quiet grace of someone who had mastered the art of not waking you, even when you whined, reaching for him in half-conscious protest.
You would wake to the soft, rhythmic sounds of him in the kitchen—the scrape of a knife against a cutting board, the bubbling simmer of a pot on the stove, the muffled clink of porcelain.
And then, inevitably, his voice would call for you, warm and steady and so very patient.
“My love?”
You would stretch, burying your face into the pillow, savoring the last remnants of sleep before stumbling into the kitchen. He would glance at you over his shoulder, his expression softening at the sight of you, hair mussed, sleeves hanging past your hands because you always stole his shirts.
“Good morning,” he would say, like the words themselves carried a weight only you were allowed to share.
“Good morning,” you would echo, pressing yourself into his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He always smelled like coffee and warmth, like home.
Then, his hands, dusted in flour, would reach for yours, fingers threading together as he pulled you gently to his side.
“Try this,” he’d murmur, lifting a spoon to your lips. “Tell me what you think.”
It was never a question of whether you liked it—because you always did. It was a ritual, an unspoken love language.
And then one morning, it was the last time.
And you didn’t know.
“My love?”
“Hmm?”
“I won’t be home Thursday evening. I have a mission.”
Your brows furrowed as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Curse stuff?”
“Yes.”
You turned to him, leaning against the counter, studying the way he was kneading dough with methodical precision. You hated when he had missions. Hated the way your stomach twisted with the knowledge that he was walking into something dangerous. Hated how you had to pretend you weren’t terrified every time he left.
“Just be careful, alright?”
He paused, turning to face you fully, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Always.”
He kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate, his hands lingering on your waist just a moment longer than usual.
And then he was gone.
*-*
A year later, you sat at the dinner table, staring at the plate in front of you.
The last thing he ever made.
You had kept it frozen, untouched, preserved like some fragile artifact of the life you lost. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you thought keeping it meant keeping him, in some small, ridiculous way. Maybe you thought if you left it alone, time would stop moving. That you wouldn’t have to accept that he was gone, that he wasn’t coming home, that there would be no more mornings filled with soft humming and the scent of warm bread.
The plate trembled slightly as you set it down.
Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing into skin.
It was just food.
It was just food, and yet looking at it made something inside you collapse.
Your throat burned as you picked up the fork, your hands shaking so badly that you nearly dropped it.
The first bite was slow, tentative. The taste hit you all at once—deep, rich, layered with flavors he had perfected over years. It was warm. Familiar.
It tasted like love.
It tasted like him.
And suddenly, you were back there.
Wednesday evening.
The kitchen was bathed in golden light, the soft clatter of utensils filling the space. He was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, his face serene as he stirred the sauce. You had leaned against the counter, watching him with a small, contented smile, memorizing the way he moved.
"Almost done?" you had teased, poking at the bowl of freshly chopped herbs.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
"Patience, my love. A dish like this takes time."
You had rolled your eyes, but when he turned to you, spoon in hand, his expression was so full of something unspoken that your breath caught. He lifted the spoon to your lips, waiting.
“Try this,” he murmured.
And you had. The warmth of it, the depth of flavor—it was perfect. Just like everything he made.
Just like him.
Now, that same bite sat heavy in your mouth.
The second bite was harder.
Your stomach twisted as you swallowed, as if your body itself rejected the finality of it all. Your mind screamed at you to stop—to put the plate away, to leave just one last piece of him untouched.
But you couldn’t.
Because if you didn’t eat it now, it would go bad.
It would rot.
And wasn’t that so fitting? Wasn’t that the cruelest part? That time would take even this from you?
By the third bite, your vision blurred.
Your chest ached. A sob tore its way out of your throat before you could stop it, the sound breaking the quiet, shattering the illusion that for just a moment, he was still here.
Tears dripped onto the plate, mixing with the sauce, staining the tablecloth. Your body trembled as you set the fork down, burying your face in your hands.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that he was gone, and you were still here, and the last piece of him that you had left was this—the last meal he had ever made for you.
Well, I’ll tell you! I’ve been very busy trying to work and earn enough to save my cat. That and depression has been kicking my ass and I’ve only rlly had motivation to write that stupid fanfic.
But; I will try my best to come back and be better than ever!
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