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and the door doesn’t quite close all the way.
you stare at it like it might give you answers. like maybe he’ll walk back through and explain everything.
instead, you’re standing here in the dark, alone and confused, your heart slamming against your ribs. you don’t know how long you’ve standing there until your limbs start to ache, and the guilt settles into your skin.
you weren’t supposed to read it.
but when you did, you couldn’t forget a word.
you don’t see osamu again that night. he’s gone by the time your shift ends, disappeared somewhere in the backroom, the break room, maybe even behind the store for all you know. but you don’t ask, just clock out quietly, taking the long way home.
the next few days are brutal.
osamu is distant, in the most unbearable way.
he doesn’t avoid you outright—you work to close for that. instead, he’ll shorten his words, and move efficiently. even when he’s passing you knives for prep, muttering a small “careful”, his eyes never quite meet yours. when he talks to you, it’s strictly business. he won’t even flinch when you laugh at something dumb atsumu says.
like nothing ever happened.
like you hadn’t read the letter.
or like he never wrote it, and it’s driving you insane.
because it wasn’t nothing. it’s never been nothing. not even back then, when the two of you were tangled in bed and called it casual with your mouths but not with your hands.
not when he cooked for you and stayed up until you fell asleep in his arms. not when he pressed his mouth against your collarbone, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. not when he exhaled like he didn’t know how to say goodbye.
when his hand brushes yours when he reaches for something, or when his voice goes tight while instructing you.
“new girl ‘s a fast learner, huh?” another employee—kaito, maybe? you don’t remember, says. he jokingly nudges osamu in the rib, and he merely grunts, not looking up.
“she’s cute, too,” the guy adds with a grin. “you two got history or somethin’? i mean, the way you act, even i—“
“drop it.” osamu says, voice flat.
he walks out without another word. and you? you pretend you didn’t hear it.
the tension continues to build. so does the silence.
it’s after close, nearly midnight. neither of you still there, working on some last-minute prep for the next day. you volunteered to stay, hoping he’d maybe snap.
he hasn’t said a word. just the sound of chopping, or the hum of the fridge, or the marching band in your chest.
“i’m not sorry,” you suddenly blurt out.
you look up at him, “i’m not sorry i read it.”
he pauses, before setting down his knife and facing you. “that letter wasn’t meant for you.” he narrows his eyes.
“but you wrote it to me.”
“you wrote it, osamu. you kept pictures. you still have the hoodie i left. don’t act like it didn’t mean anything!”
his eyes flash. “i never said it didn’t.”
you step forward, arms crossing like it’s the only thing that’s grounding you. “then why are you pretending like nothing happened?”
“because if i start takin’ about it, i won’t be able to stop.”
now it’s your turn to freeze.
he rakes a hand through his hair, fingers clenching in his scalp. “i really can’t afford to lose it right now, alright? you show up after months, read that goddamn letter, look at me like i’m the villain, and i’m supposed to pretend that everything’s fine?”
“i never said you were the villain.”
another beat of silence before he adds: “you disappeared.”
your heart clenches, “so did you.”
he shakes his head. “i didn’t disappear. i waited. waited for you to come back. and then i stopped.”
“..you stoped caring,” you murmur, trying to find some high ground.
he looks at you, expression pained. “no,” he says. “i stopped hoping.”
that shuts you up. not because he was wrong, but because you were hoping too. a small part of you. and you didn’t say anything, either.
it’s quiet again. osamu is the first one to look away, shoulders slumped with exhaustion—but not from lack of sleep. he picks up the towel and wipes down the counter like that conversation never happened. and just like that, the moment passes.
you both go back to work.
but something’s different now.
and even if you’re not ready to pick up the pieces yet, you know one thing for sure—that this time, you’re not running.
the kitchen is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—heavier. like the words you let slip are still echoing through the room, clinging to the walls.
you don’t speak. he doesn’t either.
you keep chopping green onions, and he’s at the sink washing something that probably doesn’t need it. the soft running of the water is the only thing grounding you to this moment. but you can still feel it.
you finish prep and rub your sore wrist, eyes catching the familiar tension in his posture again. he’s thinking—you can tell. the water shuts off, and he finally speaks up: “you should head home.”
you tilt your head, “you kicking me out?”
you wait for him to turn around, but he doesn’t.
“you just want me gone, don’t you?” you say, quieter.
finally, he glances at you over his shoulder. pained. “i don’t trust myself not to say something i’ll regret.” that makes you flinch—not because it’s harsh, but because it’s true.
you cross your arms, leaning against the counter. “so that’s it, then? we’re just gonna pretend again?”
“no,” his jaw ticks, “i’m not pretending. not anymore.”
your eyes narrow, and you push further. maybe it is a bit much, maybe it’s just enough. “then say it. whatever you’re holding back.” he opens his mouth, then closes it. “right,” you nod, pushing off the counter. “that’s what i thought.” but before you could get any farther—
you freeze, looking back. “do what?”
you scoff, “that’s rich coming from you.”
osamu takes a step forward, closing the gap between you two. “i’m trying.” he says, voice cracking like it hurts.
“i don’t need you to try, osamu.” now it’s your turn to take a step forward, “i need you to be honest.”
he glances away, then back at you. “you don’t want that.”
you’re standing close now. close enough to count every eyelash if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his breath hitches when your hand faintly grazes his. on ‘accident.’ you don’t pull away, and neither does he.
he exhales sharply, “you think i don’t feel this?”
you falter, only subtly, but he catches it.
“i feel everything, damnit. every time you walk through that door like nothin’ happened, every time you brush past me, every time you’ll say my name like it doesn’t gut me just hearin’ it.”
“because i’m scared,” he cuts you off harshly. then, quieter. “i’m scared. if i let myself want this—want you again, and you disappear like last time, i don’t know if i’ll come back from it.”
your eyes widen, “you think i’ll disappear again?”
“..i don’t know what you want, y/n.”
“neither do i.” it slips out too fast. too.. real. you both go still.
and then, his hand hesitantly lifts towards your face. he doesn’t touch you. not yet. but he wants to, god, he wants to.
you inhale shakily, “osamu..” his name sounds like a plea on your lips.
and for one, aching second, he leans in, nose brushing yours. breath mingling together. so close your lips almost meet. but he stops just short of it. “i.. shouldn’t,” he whispers, “we shouldn’t.”
but neither of you take the initiative to move.
then, footsteps. probably somewhere outside. a voice calls out, knocking on the door. it’s the delivery guy. osamu pulls away like he’s been burned, running a hand through his hair. he turns his back on you, shoulders tense. “i’ll get it,” he mutters.
you don’t follow him. just stand there, right where he left you, wondering if this were the second time you let him slip away. the door shuts behind him, and you’re still frozen where he left you.
you press two fingers to your lips. not because he kissed you, but because he didn’t. it would’ve been easier if he kissed you, right? just to get it out of his system. but instead, he pulled away. again.
and now you’re left trembling in a silent kitchen, haunted by the ghost of something that didn’t even happen.
the walk home feels like punishment. neither of you got to say goodbye. he just handed you your bag and disappeared back into the kitchen. like nothing ever almost happened.
you don’t sleep that night. just lie awake, staring at the ceiling thinking of what could've been. maybe he’s thinking the same. maybe with someone else? the thought makes your heart clench.
two days pass, and the tension doesn’t dissipate. if anything, it’s gotten worse. osamu now avoids your gaze like the plague. nut you catch him sometimes, his eyes on you when he thinks no one is looking.
they’re softer now. you think maybe he regrets pulling away that night. maybe you regret not stopping him.
it’s late again. another shift ended, another night you both stubbornly stayed close. it’s becoming a pattern now—both of you lingering longer than you should, cleaning things that don’t need any more cleaning, all while pretending there’s nothing left to say.
tonight, the tension finally snaps. it starts with a spill. then a burn. you snap. he snaps back.
you just can’t take it anymore.
“you keep acting like i walked out for fun,” you hiss, slamming your knife onto the counter. “like i got bored and just vanished.”
his eyes darken. “didn’t you?”
that stings. you stare at him, stunned. “i left because i was scared,” you admit, voice shaky. “because we weren’t supposed to fall in love.”
his lips part, “you think i didn’t?”
“i showed you. i let you take up my space in my life and my bed and in my goddamn heart.. and you acted like it didn’t mean anything.”
“i was trying to protect myself.”
he doesn’t answer. just stares at you like your face might give answers. you slowly step forward, and he watches you like you’re dangerous. and maybe you are. “that night.. why didn’t you kiss me?” you whisper.
osamu swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing. “because i didn’t want it o be a mistake.”
he says nothing, again, gazing at you like he’s weighing a hundred unsaid things behind his eyes. he is.
and then, he finally moves. but it’s careful. he’s treating each step as if he could never come back from it. he stops, just a breath away from you. “this won’t fix anything.” he says, voice hoarse.
a beat passes, then: “still want it?”
you don’t say anything, just reach for him.
the kiss isn’t gentle. it’s not perfect. but it’s messy, real, and long overdue. he kisses you like it’s the only language he remembers, one hand on your waist, the other gripping the back of your neck like you might disappear again. you kiss him back with the same intensity, with everything you’ve been holding back for months: pain and regret. so much regret.
when you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard. foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. you both don’t speak. just exist in the moment. he hasn’t let go of you, and neither have you.
and maybe this isn’t a fix.
maybe this is the beginning of something harder.
but right now, in this moment, neither of you are pretending.
part 3 ?? sorry this one’s a little lengthy lmao
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
2087
prguitarman
