ā” ghost of you āā
ąŖāā“ a sae itoshi oneshot. 5.1k words
warning: contains elements like grief, loss, trauma, miscarriage, and more. recommended for 18+. if you feel uncomfortable, please read away ā not for the lighthearted
synopsis: in which sae itoshi is haunted not by loss, but by erasureāforced to remember a girl the universe has already decided he doesnāt deserve to keep.
instead of dying in a single moment, you begin to disappear from saeās life slowly, piece by piece,
at first, your texts go unanswered. then your voice fades from the voicemails. photos lose your face. his memories blurāwhat color your eyes were, how your laughter sounded, the way you said his nameāuntil all thatās left is an aching void where you once lived.
itās not death.
itās erasure.
and sae is the only one who remembers you.
he tries to chase the truthādesperate, furious, breakingābut no one believes you ever existed. not rin. not your friends. not even your name brings results when searched.
but somewhere in his apartment, under a loose floorboard, he finds a pageāyour handwriting.
āif one day you forget me, i hope it hurts. i hope you feel it in your bones.ā
because it wasnāt the world that forgot you.
it was him.
and the universe is giving him what he deserves:
a lifetime remembering the girl he let fall apart while he was too proud to love you right.
it started with a silence,
not the kind sae likedāthe comfortable, empty sort that filled his apartment after a long game, where nothing was expected and nothing was given. no, this was thick. unsettling. like the air had forgotten how to carry your voice.
he noticed it in the smallest way: a missing message.
you used to text him every time he flew out. just three words.
ācome back safe.ā
simple. stupid. sweet. he never replied. didnāt need to. you always said you didnāt mind.
but this time, there was nothing.
he sat in the back of a black car rolling through tokyo rain, phone in hand, screen blank. no notification. no missed call. he scrolled through their threadāit was still there. heād never deleted it, even after those fights, even after he told you to stop being āso fucking needy.ā
he didnāt know what he expected.
maybe some part of him thought youād be waiting when he walked into the flat. arms crossed, eyes wet, pretending you didnāt care even though you always did.
but when the lock clicked and the door creaked open, he stepped into darkness.
no light. no music.
your shoes werenāt by the door.
your coat was gone.
his throat tightened.
he checked every room like a man searching for a ghostābedroom, kitchen, bathroom, terrace. empty. but clean. too clean. like you had been erased with intention.
he collapsed on the edge of the bed.
there was a note.
just a yellow sticky, clinging to the mirror like a dying leaf.
donāt come looking for me. i know you wonāt anyway . i just needed you to know i waited. i waited as long as i could. āy/n
he stared at the writing until the letters blurred, the words twisting into shapes he no longer recognized. then, with a trembling hand, he tore the paper down and threw it into the trash. he told himself youād be back. you always came back. you were just dramatic, just hurt, just trying to punish him for something you chose to feel.
but for the first time, a small, awful part of him whisperedā
what if you donāt?
the next day, he called you.
voicemail.
he called again.
still nothing.
he texted.
no response.
he tried a third time, a fourth, until the line didnāt even ring anymore.
disconnected.
three days later, he called rin.
āhey, do you know where y/n is?ā
there was a pause.
āwho?ā
āy/n.ā
āi donāt know a y/n,ā rin replied blankly.
āyou met y/n three times, at least. you came to dinner with us. that cafĆ© near shibuyaāā
āi think youāre confusing me with someone else,ā rin said. āyou donātā¦ date.ā
sae stared at the screen. the call ended. he checked his contacts. no y/n. searched for your number. blank.
your messages? gone.
photos? erased.
his camera roll was full of game highlights, food, old travel shotsābut no trace of you.
his hands began to shake.
no. no, he knew you.
he remembered the way you used to hum while brushing your teeth. how you always chose the pink chopsticks even though you said they were ātoo childish.ā how you cried when the two of you watched grave of the fireflies together and he pretended not to be watching you more than the movie.
he remembered the way you kissed him.
soft. careful. like he might break.
he remembered fighting with you in the kitchenāscreaming things he didnāt mean, stonewalling you with that deadpan look.
he remembered everything.
so why couldnāt he find proof?
he grabbed his coat. tore through the apartment. overturned drawers. ripped open closets. scanned every dusty corner.
no clothes. no photos. no perfume.
only a single sock caught in the dryer.
pink.
with pink hydrangeas.
the only thing you left.
two weeks later, itoshi sae stopped sleeping.
he didnāt toss in bed or drift in and out of half-dreams; he simply didnāt lie down anymore. the mattress remained untouched; its sheets still folded from the last time you made the bedāthe day before you disappeared. the couch became his orbit, the walls his confession booth, and the darkness his only witness. he stopped answering his phone, ignoring calls from his brother, his agent, and coaches screaming about his āunstable behavior.ā they didnāt understand. no one did.
the first night, he just whispered your name into the silence.
y/nā¦
the second night, he shouted it.
āy/n. please. come back. iāll do better. i swear to god, iāll do better.ā
the fifth night, he began hearing your voice ā not memories, not echoes ā but fresh. clear. like you were standing behind him, just out of reach.
āyou never listened.ā
he spun around. nothing.
he clawed at his scalp. punched the wall until his knuckles cracked open and bled down his wrists like penance.
he dug out the sweater you left behind ā the one you used to wear when you curled up beside him, when your world still revolved around him. he held it to his face and screamed into it.
āiām sorry.ā the words were salt in his mouth.
āi know i was cruel. i know i shut you out. i thought that if i let you in, youād see how hollow i really was. and youād leave.ā
he started laughing. it was high-pitched. borderline hysterical.
ābut you left anyway, didnāt you? not because you stopped loving me, but because i never said it back. not when it mattered.ā
he stood, stumbling into the kitchen. he pulled open the drawer, his hands trembling as they hovered over the knives. not yet.
instead, he staggered to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror until the world warped.
āthis is what you leftā, he whispered.
a ghost in the shape of a man.
the tenth night, he wrapped your sweater around his face and pressed a pillow over it. laid on the floor. hands gripping tight.
he tried to suffocate himself with the last thing that smelled like you.
ālet me go where you areā
he said it like a wish. like a secret. like a cowardās final prayer.
but his body betrayed him. his lungs gave in. he gasped, sobbing, choking on your name.
āi canāt live in a world where you donāt exist.ā
he curled into himself. rocked back and forth like a child abandoned.
āi made you leave. i pushed until your heart had nowhere left to live.ā
silence.
always silence.
he crawled to the box of memories you left behind. letters. photographs. the sock you used to wear on rainy days because he teased you for how mismatched it was.
he clutched it like a lifeline.
like a noose.
āi deserve thisā, he whispered. āall of it. the silence. the emptiness. the never knowing.ā
he tried to sleep for the first time that night on the cold tile. then, the dream cameābut it was different this time. it didnāt begin with your presence; instead, it began with a smell.
sterile. metallic. cold.
he stood in their old apartment, but everything wasā¦ wrong. dim. silent. the air smelled like hospital sheets and dried blood.
the clock on the wall blinked 3:07 a.m., frozen.
then he heard it ā the sound of something falling.
a glass? a bottle?
then a muffled gasp.
he followed it down the hall. each step grew heavier, like the floor was swallowing his feet.
when he reached the bathroom, the door was open just enough for him to see you ā crumpled on the floor. blood soaked the back of your thighs.
your hands were trembling, red-stained. clutching her stomach like she could hold something in.
you were crying, but not loudly.
no. that would have been mercy.
you were sobbing into a towel, trying to muffle yourself. because he was asleep in the next room. because you didnāt want to bother him.
āitās okay,ā you whispered to yourself.
āitās okay. itās okay. iāll clean it up. iāllā¦ iāll fix it. he doesnāt need to know. heās got practice.ā
and then you vomited from the pain. he tried to move. to run to you. to scream. but he was locked in place. just a ghost in his own guilt.
thenāflash. the scene shifted.
you were at the doctorās office. alone. your hands were fidgeting with your sleeves. the nurse tried to hand you a clipboard, and your fingers were shaking too hard to hold the pen.
āis the father not coming?ā the nurse asked gently.
you smiled, that brittle kind of smile that breaks you if you look too long.
āheās busy,ā you replied. āheā¦ he has a match today.ā
cut again.
now you were home. staring at the ultrasound photo on the kitchen counter. crumpled. useless now. you stared at it for a long time before finally whispering,
āi wanted to tell you so many times. you kept saying you werenāt ready. that love made you weak. that it was ābad timing.āā
you wiped your eyes and laughedālaughed, but it sounded like it hurt.
āso i waited for the right moment. i thought if i held onto it long enough, maybe youād hold it with me.ā
then you looked upāstraight at him. even though it was a dream. even though it couldnāt be real.
ābut you never even saw me, sae.ā
the walls around them bled into another memory.
he was standing by the front door, duffel bag in hand. you held the miscarriage report like it weighed as much as a planet.
āi lost it,ā you had said again. your voice didnāt even break this time.
he watched himself nod. not look at you. say nothing.
āiām bleeding, sae.ā
still nothing.
āi havenāt slept. i feel like iām dying.ā
silence.
ācanāt you justācanāt you just hold me? for a second?ā
then, dream-saeāthe one who didnāt know what he was destroyingāmuttered,
āi canāt deal with this right now.ā
you sat down on the floor like your knees gave out.
āokay,ā you whispered. āokay.ā
he watched himself leave. the door shut. and you curled into yourself like you wanted to disappear.
he curled into himself on the floor of the bathroom.
āi remember,ā he whispered. āi remember it all.ā
the tiles were cold against his cheek. his knuckles bled from punching the wall. he didnāt care.
he had no tears left. just the echo of a name. a name heād never speak aloud again without it tasting like rust. for three nights, he didnāt sleep. he didnāt eat. he didnāt breathe properly.
because now, every time he closed his eyesā¦
he saw you in pain. on the floor. in a clinic. alone.
he saw the pieces of your life that he had stepped over like shattered glass. he had called it loveāloveāwhile you bled in silence and begged for warmth he never offered.
and now?
now all he had were the words he never said:
iām sorry. i shouldāve held you. i shouldāve come home sooner. i shouldāve asked. i shouldāve listened. i shouldāve stayed.
each sentence pressed into his skull like a branding iron. each breath a punishment.
then came the eleventh night.
he stood in front of the mirror and whispered, āsheās not gone.ā
it wasnāt denial. it wasnāt hope.
it was certainty.
because someone like you couldnāt just vanish. not without the universe cracking in half.
āshe didnāt disappear,ā he said to the empty apartment. āi just wasnāt looking.ā
so he started looking.
he tore his place apart first. found your old socks under the couch. one earring beneath the sink. a sticky note on the back of a photo frame that read:
ābuy toothpaste. and tell sae heās being mean again.ā
he stared at it until the ink blurred. then he went into the city. train stations. bakeries. bookstores. that little cafĆ© near shibuya that you used to love ā the one with the over-sweet pastries and piano music in the mornings. he asked every barista. showed them a photo. well, not a photo.
a drawing.
he drew your face from memory; dozens of versions. dozens of scraps. eventually one stuck, and he printed itāposted it on community boards.
missing person y/n. age 22. last seen in minato. please call if youāve seen her. (favorite color is dusk.)
he didnāt list a phone number. just an email.
he couldnāt stomach the sound of a strangerās voice asking, "was she yours?"
strangers gave him pitying looks.
a teenager asked if it was for a school project. a man in a suit told him it was unhealthy to hold onto āghosts.ā
but one old woman, pausing outside a shrine, read the paper and touched his arm.
āshe mustāve really meant a lot to you.ā
he nodded slowlyāvoice rough and hollow.
āshe did.ā
but the truth, the ugly, unforgivable truth, was that he hadnāt realized how much until the moment he lost you. and now?
he would scour every alley, every whisper, every corner of the city. because some part of him believed you were still there.
just around a corner. just beyond his reach.
and maybe, if he looked hard enough, broke himself open wide enough ā he could finally say the words when it mattered.
a month later on, he visited a therapist.
they told him it might be stress. grief manifesting as delusion. a product of burnout.
āyou travel a lot. your schedule is brutal. itās not uncommon to invent comfort.ā
āi didnāt invent her,ā he snapped.
he stormed out.
but not before he saw it: a note tucked under his wallet when he got home. the handwriting was different. slanted, softer, familiar in a way that made his stomach drop.
your handwriting.
if one day you forget me, i hope it hurts. i hope you feel it in your bones.
he dropped the note like it burned him. and for the first time, he started to wonderā
maybe this wasnāt griefāmaybe this was punishment after all.
sae stopped playing for a while.
he told his coach it was a groin injuryāsomething about overextension and tight muscles. they nodded without question. after all, he was itoshi sae. no one dared to ask more. but the truth was far darker: every time he stepped onto the pitch, your voice haunted him.
āyou always look loneliest right after you score.ā
heād never understood why you said that before. now, it carved through him like a knife. the field felt hollow, stripped of its noise and cheers, because you werenāt in the stands.
his life, too, was silentāexcept this silence was no longer peaceful, no longer a quiet refuge he craved. it was a low, constant hum of absence, a gnawing rot beneath every surface, spreading and eroding everything he once held dear.
that emptiness consumed him, spiraled into obsession. he scoured surveillance footage from convenience stores near their old apartment, scanning for any glimpse of you. he lurked through internet forums, desperate for a scrap of information. he tracked down the cafƩ manager you adored, asked for receipts, loyalty card points, your usual order.
the answers were always the same: apologetic, confused looks, and the words that tore at his sanityā
āno record of anyone named y/n.āāno one ever sat at that table for two.ā
it was as if you had never existed. his mind frayed at the edges.
he wasnāt sure if he was losing himselfāor if he had already vanished inside the shadows of his grief. he even tried to return to the national team as a distraction. he flew to the next friendly, stood stiffly in the tunnel while rin passed by with a cold, cutting nod.
āstill chasing your imaginary girlfriend?ā
rin spat, the bitterness in his voice like acid.
saeās fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
ādonāt say that,ā he hissed, but rin didnāt relent.
āshe never existed, nii-chan.ā
saeās voice cracked, a desperate tremor breaking through.
āshe did. i laughed with her. i ate her cooking. i told her she was the only reason you werenāt completely insufferable.ā rinās eyes flickered with something close to pity.
rinās eyes flickered with something close to pity.
āi think you need help.ā
sae didnāt step onto the pitch that day.
one night, his phone rang.
unknown number.
he picked up, heart stuttering.
āhello?ā static.
thenāyour voice.
āi kept trying, sae. i really did.ā
his blood turned to ice.
āy/n?ā
ābut you were never really there.ā
click. silence. he redialed again, heart pounding, but no answer came through the void. desperation drove him to check his call logāonly to find no trace of the call, as if it had never happened. he replayed the moment over and over in his mind, until the memory stretched thin, fragile as a whisper on cracked glass, slipping further and further from reality.
thenāthree months ināhe found it.
a floorboard in the bedroom was loose.
beneath it: a box.
not large. just enough to hide the things the world had forgotten.
inside had: ā a necklace you used to wear. ā a crumpled movie stub. ā a polaroid of the two of you laughing on the balcony. ā a note.
written in ink smudged with tears.
if youāre reading this, it means i finally did it. i finally left. i wanted to wait until you changed. but people donāt change unless they lose something they thought they could always take for granted. you always thought iād be there. you said love made you soft, and you didnāt want to be soft. you wore your cruelty like armor. but i was never trying to break you. i was just trying to hold your hand. and you wouldnāt let me. so i made a deal. i asked the world to forget meā¦ except for you. because i wanted you to feel it. the full weight of what you threw away. a thousand lifetimes of it. i hope you remember me even when no one else does. i hope i haunt you like your own name. and i hope, one day, when you reach for me in a dreamāyou wake up alone. goodbye, sae.
he didnāt cry. he just sat on the floor, shaking, for hours.
from then on, everything became about youāshadows lurking in every reflection, half-formed whispers chasing him through crowded streets, the faint, haunting scent of your conditioner clinging to the elevator air. sleep abandoned him completely. the nights stretched endlessly, hollow and cruel. doctors handed him sedatives with hopeful eyes, but he flushed each pill down the sink without a second thought. forgetting you would be mercyāand mercy was a grace he believed he had long since forfeited.
then he started writing letters. he wrote thousands of them;
in the dark,
in the silence, because silence was all he ever gave to you. he didnāt write for you as if you were still there, able to read his words and respond. instead, he wrote for your Ā ghostāthe lingering presence that haunted every corner of his mind and heart.
dear y/n, you told me you were scared, and i told you to be quietālike your fear was something i could simply ignore. you came to me crying, desperate for comfort, and i told you to wait until after training. i was cruel beyond words. that night, when you bled and whispered, āi think i lost it,ā i asked if it was even mine. iāll never forgive myself for that question. you begged me not to leave for spain, but i left you thereācrying in the hallway, clutching the ultrasound photoāand i never once looked at it. you asked if i still loved you, and i called it childish. but the truth is, i did love you. i just couldnāt bring myself to say it. i heard you sobbing in the shower and turned the tv up louder to drown out your pain. you made dinner and waited for me, and i ate in silence without a single word of thanks. you reached for my hand in bed, and i flinchedānot because i didnāt want you, but because i couldnāt bear the fact that you still wanted me. when you left, you didnāt slam doors or scream. you simply vanishedāknowing i wouldnāt chase after you. i thought i had more time. i thought youād wait. i thought love could survive neglect. but it canāt. you were real. i treated you like a shadow, like something that could be ignored and forgotten. if i had held your face that night you said you were tiredāmaybe you wouldāve stayed. if i had said, āiām scared too,ā instead of, āyouāre being dramaticāāmaybe our baby wouldāve had a name. i want to believe youāre out there somewhere. but deep down, i know youāre gone. the girl i loved would never have let go unless she had to. and i was the one who made her have to. i speak to your empty chair every night and say, āi miss you,ā even though it means nothing now. i love you. i love you. i love you. i only wish i had said it while your hands were still warm.
he stopped writing only when the ink ran out. then he tried writing in blood.
one day, weighed down by everything he couldnāt undo, he found himself by the riverāthe very place you once whispered about:
āif i ever disappear, this is where iād go. like fog over water.ā
he stood there, watching the currents swallow the light, until night fell like a shroud around him.
clutching a white hydrangea.
then two.
then seven.
he dropped them into the river one by one.
he dropped the flowers into the river not because it eased the pain, but because the hurt was the only thing that still felt real, raw and undeniable in a world that had otherwise gone numb.
the third year was the cruelest.
sae moved through life like a ghost himself; playing games, giving interviews, signing jerseys, but none of it belonged to him anymore. his smiles were thin masks; his eyes held no warmth. every victory felt even emptier, every cheer a lie.
he carried a small box under his pillow, fragile proof of her existence. each night, heād pull out the worn letter, trace the faded ink, memorize the trembling curve of her handwriting.
he used to cry. now, he only stared. hollow.
and then, on a rainy evening, as he walked through a quiet town far from tokyo, the rain was relentless, drowning the city in cold gray. sae barely noticed. his world had been drowning for years.
and thenā
you were there.
not a dream. not a memory.
it was you.
you stood under a flickering streetlight, drenched and fragile, the groceries slipping from your hands.
his heart shattered in the silence before he called out your name.
āy/n.ā
your eyes met hisāempty, distantābut still you.
āyou shouldnāt be here.ā the words fell like knives.
āwhy not?ā his voice cracked, desperate and raw. āwhy did you leave me? why did you disappear without a word?ā
you shook your head, voice trembling.
āi didnāt leave. i was lost. i chose to vanish.ā
āvanished? you think that makes this easier? you think i stopped searching? you think i stopped needing you?ā
swallowing hard, you looked away.
āi wanted you to forget me. to move on. to heal.ā
and suddenly, sae laughedāit was bitter, humorless.
āmove on? heal? iāve been bleeding, y/n. every day without you is a wound that wonāt close.ā
āi asked them. i begged them to erase me from your world.ā
āwho? who did this to you? tell me!ā
shooking your head again, tears spilling down.
āsome things are meant to stay buried.ā
ādonāt do this. donāt shut me out. iām here. iām brokenābut iām here.ā
you took a step closer, voice cracking with sorrow.
āyou were already gone when i left. you never saw me. not really.ā
āi was scared,ā he whispered. āscared that if i let you in, iād lose myself. so i built walls. so high, you couldnāt climb.ā
you looked at himāpain and love tangled in her gaze.
āand i waited. i waited for you to break them down. but you never did.ā
his hands trembled as he reached for yours.
āi was a coward. i thought needing you made me weak. but i see now that without you, i was nothing.ā
you squeezed his hand gently.
ālove isnāt always enough, sae. sometimes, itās the cruelest kind of poison.ā
he swallowed the lump in his throat.
āiād take that poison a thousand times if it meant holding you once more.ā
your eyes searched his, filled with memories of a love that never got to bloom.
ādo you know why i asked to be forgotten?ā
he shook his head.
ābecause every time i looked at you, i saw the man you could be without me dragging you down.ā
āi wanted to be betterāfor you. but i was too broken to try.ā
āyou broke me too,ā she said softly.
he closed his eyes, the weight of those words crushing him.
āif i could rewrite everything, i would. iād tell you i love you. iād fight for you. iād never let go.ā
ābut you didnātāand now itās too late.ā you stepped back, voice barely a whisper.
āāgoodbye, sae.ā
he lunged forward, desperate.
āno! donāt leave me again. please.ā
your figure blurred, fading like smoke in the storm.
he screamed your name until his throat bled, but only the rain answered. sae collapsed on the cold pavement, clutching the spot where you had stoodāas if holding it could somehow bring you back. he screamed again, the sound raw and empty, echoing off the indifferent walls of the city.
but there was no reply. no figure rounding the corner. no warm hands never gonna pulling him up. just silence engulfing himāthick, suffocating, and endless.
when he returned home, drenched and shaking, he burned the box you had meant to left behind. all the memories he couldnāt bearāphotos, letters, the hoodie that still smelled like your shampoo. he watched it all turn to ash, hoping the fire would consume the ache, the guilt, the impossible longing. but even as the last flame flickered out, the emptiness remained.
but he kept one thing. a single, soaked sock. pink hydrangeas ā the last piece of what used to be a life shared.
no one knew the hollow man on the field.
no one understood the man who whispered to empty rooms.
every year, on a rainy november night, sae stood on that rooftop, staring at the city lights, whispering:
ācome back to me.ā
months later, sae vanished.
no goodbyes. no trace.
some say heās still out thereāchasing ghosts. others say heās trapped on that rooftop, waiting for a love that was already gone.
and in the dark between heartbeats, the only truth left is the cruel weight of a love
that came too late.
āsome ghosts donāt haunt from hate. they linger in silence. in love. a love too heavy to carry. a love lost before it could be found.ā
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