PAIRING: Surfer!Satoru X F!reader
CW: ANGST, summer love, fluff, angst mild comfort, strangers to lovers, bittersweet, water related accident, slow burn, longing,
SUMMARY!! You weren’t supposed to fall in love in Rio. Not with a stranger. Not with a boy who laughed like salt spray and kissed like the tide might steal him back. Satoru wasn’t from Brazil. He was just passing through—like you. But some people feel like home even when you’ve only just met. And some love stories end before they ever begin.
You touched down in Rio de Janeiro with summer already wrapping its arms around your skin. The airplane window framed the city like a postcard—sapphire waves biting at the shoreline, the distant green folds of mountains, favelas spilling down like stories etched in concrete and red tile. Somewhere far above, the statue of Christ watched with open arms, but to you, he felt more like a warning than a welcome.
This was supposed to be a trip of distraction. A summer to forget routines and responsibilities. You arrived with five friends, a mess of tangled headphones, rolling suitcases, and group selfies, all drunk on the promise of youth and freedom. But beneath your sunglasses, your eyes felt heavy. And even as Lila wrapped her arm around your shoulder with her usual buzzed smile, something inside you whispered that this wasn’t just a vacation.
You stayed in Santa Teresa—a hilltop neighborhood woven with cobblestone streets, colonial mansions turned guesthouses, and street murals that burst in color like stained glass. The hostel was bohemian in the loudest sense. Ceiling fans, open windows, thin mattresses, a roof deck with hammocks, and a bartender who mixed caipirinhas that tasted like melted limes and sugar.
That first night bled into the second. Music poured into the streets like smoke. Every corner vibrated with drums, clinking glasses, and the occasional distant shout of joy or heartbreak. Your friends dove headfirst into the rhythm of the city—hookups, bar crawls, samba lessons in alleyways, beach bonfires.
You followed. You smiled. You danced. But in truth, you were drifting—feet in the sand, mind somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. For what, you didn’t know.
You woke up early on the third morning, disoriented from too much noise and too little sleep. Your friends were still passed out, tangled in hostel sheets, and the room smelled like sunscreen, salt, and sweat. So you slipped out. No plans. Just your sandals and a linen shirt over your swimsuit, a tote bag slung over your shoulder.
You tried to get to Ipanema, but the bus you took went too far. You ended up somewhere quieter—Barra da Tijuca maybe, or some stretch of beach unnamed on your map. The tourists hadn’t arrived yet. The sand was wide, hot, and nearly empty. The wind tangled your hair and pushed the scent of ocean straight into your lungs.
And that’s when you saw him.
He stood at the edge of the surf, holding a longboard like it was an extension of his body. His skin was sun-warmed but not native, hair so white it looked unreal beneath the sun, and his eyes—when they flicked in your direction—were a blue so clear it felt like being seen all at once.
You were still staring when he noticed.
“Didn’t expect company this early,” he called, his voice rich and easy, touched with an accent you couldn’t place—maybe American, maybe not.
You blinked, flustered. “Sorry, I thought this beach was... public?”
He laughed and began walking toward you. “It is. Just quiet. Locals usually sleep in after carnival weekends.”
“God, no,” he said, grinning as he dropped the board into the sand beside him. “I’m staying in Rio for the month. Solo trip. Japan originally, but I’ve been everywhere lately.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere?”
He shrugged. “When you keep moving, no place becomes home long enough to disappoint you.”
You didn’t know why that line struck you the way it did. But it did.
“Y/N,” you offered after a beat.
“Satoru,” he replied, his hand brushing sand off the edge of his board. “Nice to meet a fellow wanderer.”
It started with small things.
He asked if you’d ever surfed before. You said no, not unless falling off a boogie board counted. He offered to show you, and you declined—until he added, “I promise I’ll laugh politely when you wipe out.”
That first lesson wasn’t a lesson at all. He let you try to stand on the board on dry land, corrected your stance with light hands on your shoulders, and when you both fell backward into the sand, laughing, you realized you hadn’t thought about anything else—not your life back home, not the things you came here to forget—in over an hour.
You sat under the sun together after that, sharing a coconut and stories that didn’t dig too deep. You told him about your friends, your job you needed a break from, your parents who worried too much. He told you he was taking a break from everything too—surf competitions, pressure, expectations.
“No one really tells you what happens after your dream becomes a job,” he said quietly, pulling a towel over his shoulders. “I used to love the ocean. Now I’m trying to fall in love with it again.”
You looked at him, watched the way he stared at the waves like they held the answer to some private riddle.
And just like that, the current began to shift.
You didn’t exchange phone numbers. He walked you back to the road, told you the best bus to take, and paused like he wasn’t sure if he should hug you or wave.
“You’ll be at the same beach tomorrow?” you asked, feeling a tug you didn’t expect.
He tilted his head, smiling. “Only if the tide’s good. And if you’re bringing better balance.”
You laughed. “No promises.”
When you turned to go, your heart pulled like a tide—out, and then sharply back in.
You didn’t tell your friends about him that night. You kept Satoru like a secret tucked into your chest, just for yourself.
And in your bunk, above the noise and late-night chatter of the hostel, you thought about the way he stood in the water—like it had chosen him. You didn’t know yet that something already had.
The next morning, you didn’t wait for your friends to wake.
The hostel room was a mess of tangled limbs and muffled snoring. Someone had left the balcony door open, letting in the sound of birds and the faint beat of drums from somewhere down the hill. You rose with the sun, slipped into your swimsuit and a linen cover-up, and let the door close behind you with a click that felt louder than it should.
You didn’t even need to think about it—your feet knew where to go. Back to the wrong beach. Back to him.
Satoru was already there.
He was waist-deep in the water, hair slicked back, his board cutting through the surface like a knife through silk. You stood barefoot at the edge of the sand, watching the way his body moved with the rhythm of the waves, unhurried and unafraid. He spotted you before you called out, paddling toward shore with a crooked smile.
“You came back,” he said, hopping off the board as the water lapped around his calves.
“I told you I might,” you replied, shielding your eyes from the glare.
“I thought you were bluffing. Tourists love promises in the sun.”
You smiled. “What if I’m not just a tourist?”
He arched an eyebrow, walking his board back up the beach. “You planning to stay in Brazil forever?”
You shrugged, settling beside him in the sand. “I didn’t say I wasn’t lost.”
He sat down next to you, arms loosely resting on his knees. “Good. I like people who admit they’re running from something. It makes them honest.”
You looked at him then, close enough to see the thin scar above his left eyebrow, the salt caught in his lashes, the faded string around his wrist—a bracelet that looked handmade, worn soft by sun and time.
“What about you?” you asked softly. “What are you running from?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the wax in his bag, began rubbing it over the board in slow circles.
“When you win too young,” he said eventually, “people stop asking if you like it. They just expect more wins.”
You tilted your head. “Surfing?”
“So... you’re famous or something?”
He gave a small laugh, almost shy. “Not really. In the Pacific circuit, maybe. A few sponsors. My face on an energy drink once. But the real surfers... the lifers... they’re different. They love the ocean no matter what. I started to feel like I didn’t.”
Your fingers curled into the sand.
“Is that why you came here?”
“And maybe to disappear for a little while.”
He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Today you’re getting in the water.”
You hesitated. “What if I fall again?”
“You will,” he said, grinning. “Falling’s the point.”
The lessons were slow, patient. He had a way of touching without hesitation but never without permission—guiding your shoulders, nudging your knees, lifting your chin. The first few times you tried to stand, you crashed hard into the water. Satoru didn’t laugh. He swam beside you, helped you up, and tried again.
“Relax,” he said once, brushing wet hair out of your face. “You’re fighting it too much.”
“It’s trying to drown me,” you muttered.
“No,” he said gently, “it’s just testing you. The ocean doesn’t want obedience—it wants respect.”
“Wow,” you said. “Was that a surfboard fortune cookie quote?”
He laughed—a bright, boyish sound that caught you off guard.
“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”
The sun climbed higher. You fell and rose again, laughing louder each time, salt stinging your eyes, heart swelling each time Satoru reached for your hand without hesitation.
When you finally caught a wave—even just for three seconds—he whooped loud enough for the lifeguards to glance over.
“You did it!” he shouted.
You tumbled off the board into the surf and came up grinning.
“Doesn’t matter. You were part of it.”
You looked at him, standing in the water, the sun catching the sea around him like light caught in crystal. Your smile faded, just a little. That moment—fleeting, glittering, full—was already starting to hurt. Because you knew, even then, that nothing like this could last.
That evening, he walked you to a spot above the beach, a small rise where the cliffs met an old weather-beaten shack and a bench carved with names. He said he came here every night he stayed in Rio. To think. To watch. To listen.
You sat beside him, silent at first. The sky exploded in watercolor—pinks, golds, blues bleeding into purple. The sea caught every color like it was reflecting memory itself.
He leaned back on his palms.
“I like the silence,” he said after a while. “It’s honest.”
You glanced sideways. “Is everything with you about honesty?”
“My friends think I’m here for the adventure. What they don’t know is that I wasn’t sure I’d even come until the morning we left.”
“I’ve been... stuck,” you confessed. “With my life. My choices. Who I am when no one’s looking.”
He nodded, like he understood more than you could explain.
“I used to be scared of that version of myself,” he said. “The one who couldn’t perform. Who didn’t win. Who just... existed. Now I think maybe he’s the one I want to know better.”
The sky turned darker. Lights began to blink on down the beach. People laughed somewhere far below. A lone gull cried out.
You turned to him. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like the space between you was shifting.
“Yeah,” he said. “You will.”
The next morning, you woke with his voice still echoing in your ears.
You told your friends you had plans. Vague ones. No one pried. They were too wrapped up in their own hazy flings and hangovers to care that you kept slipping away, pulled by something they hadn’t noticed yet. And maybe you liked it that way.
You bought two cold açai bowls from a vendor on the walk. One topped with bananas and honey. The other with strawberries and coconut shavings. You didn’t even ask what Satoru liked—you just guessed.
When he saw you approaching the same beach, your usual tote on your shoulder, he jogged up barefoot through the sand and took the container from your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Banana,” he said, opening the lid. “How did you know?”
He grinned. “Guess again tomorrow.”
You didn’t surf that day. He didn’t suggest it. Instead, he asked if you wanted to walk the length of the boardwalk that curved past the beach. You said yes.
You walked in slow rhythm, stopping to watch old men playing cards, kids doing handstands in the sand, lovers on towels whispering into one another’s necks.
He bought you coconut water in a shell and drank his with lime.
“Have you ever been in love?” you asked, surprising yourself.
He sipped slowly. “Yes. Once.”
You didn’t press. He looked at you then, like he could feel the weight of the question hanging between you.
You hesitated. “I thought I was. He was more in love with the version of me I pretended to be.”
Satoru nodded like he understood.
“I think sometimes we get good at wearing masks,” he said. “Especially when we want to be loved more than we want to be known.”
That silence again. But now it wasn’t awkward. It was full.
Later, he took you to his rental—an apartment tucked into the hillside above the neighborhood, quiet and sun-washed, with an open rooftop lined in string lights. It was sparse: a single hammock, a speaker, two wooden chairs, and a fridge full of coconut water and beer.
“Do you bring people up here?” you asked.
He turned toward you, blue eyes softening. “Because you don’t need noise to fill silence.”
That night, you sat on the rooftop under the stars, barefoot, knees curled toward your chest. The sounds of Rio buzzed beneath you—music, car horns, laughter—and you let it all fade into the background as Satoru put on soft, instrumental music.
He didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t touch you unless it was to pass another bottle or brush a curl from your shoulder.
Instead, he asked, “If you could disappear into any moment and stay there, what would it be?”
You thought for a long time.
He looked at you then—really looked—and didn’t say a word. Just nodded slowly.
Before you left, he picked up a small, beat-up film camera from his side bag.
“Let me take a photo of you,” he said.
You almost said no. You hated photos. You hated the way they made you feel frozen, too visible, too performed. But something about the way he said it—soft, reverent—made you nod.
You sat on the ledge, hair wind-swept, city behind you. He crouched low, adjusted the focus with steady hands.
“Don’t smile,” he said. “Just be.”
And it felt like something permanent had been made.
walked you halfway back to your hostel. The streets were quiet now, the stars dimming as morning threatened to rise.
Outside the gate, he paused. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Maybe earlier,” you said.
He leaned down just a little—close enough to smell the salt still caught in his shirt, the clean scent of his skin.
For a moment, the kiss almost happened. It hovered there in the air between you, heavy with promise and something unnamed.
But you both pulled back. Not yet. You watched him go. His figure shrinking into the quiet street, board under one arm, camera slung across his back.
You didn’t know it then, but that photo would become the last full memory he’d leave behind.
For a while, it became a rhythm. Quiet, easy, real.
You’d wake up with the sun creeping past the hostel’s balcony curtains, your friends still wrapped in bedsheets and sleep. And somehow—without texting, without confirming—he’d already be there. At the beach. In the water. Or sitting on the edge of his board, watching the horizon like he was waiting for something only the sea could give back.
Always alone. Always with one extra açai bowl in hand, just in case.
One afternoon, instead of the beach, Satoru met you outside your hostel with two helmets in hand.
“You ride?” he asked, nodding toward a rented motorbike waiting at the curb.
“No,” you answered, pulling your sunglasses down, “but I trust you.”
That made him pause. His eyes flicked up to yours. “You shouldn’t.”
He smirked, fastening your helmet. “Because I don’t know where we’re going either.”
You rode through Lapa first—the arches, the staircases painted in endless mosaics, children racing with kites, street vendors yelling in three languages. Then up into Santa Teresa again, where old colonial homes spilled over the hills like quiet ghosts.
At one point, you leaned your chin into his shoulder, just to rest. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you felt his fingers tighten just a little on the handlebars.
That night, you ate grilled cheese on sweet bread from a vendor in Glória. He made you try pão de queijo until you moaned with approval. You tried to guess the story behind each of his tattoos (wrong every time). He asked you what your middle name was, then said it sounded too pretty to be real.
You ended up back on his rooftop, barefoot again, sharing a mango and the same bottle of water like it was sacred.
He told you that day had been the best he’d felt in months. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.
The next morning, he taught you how to paddle out properly—really paddle. How to read the break in the tide. When to sit. When to chase. When to let go.
Every time your arms shook, he was there beside you, grinning like he was proud anyway.
“You’re not supposed to be this patient,” you told him.
“I don’t do this for anyone,” he replied.
You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened when he said that. But later, as the two of you floated quietly past the breakers, boards side by side in the gentle lull of the sea, he said something else that stayed even longer.
“You feel like calm water.”
He didn’t answer. Just reached over, trailing his fingers down the length of your forearm, slow, barely there. A shiver ran under your skin. His hand stayed, resting against your wrist.
“It means I don’t want this to end.”
And you didn’t ask what “this” was. Because you didn’t want to define it yet.
You just wanted it to last.
That night, you brought a bottle of wine to his rooftop.
You drank barefoot, legs dangling off the ledge. He showed you the stars he remembered from home, even though the smog blurred most of them. You showed him the scar on your ankle from childhood. He traced it with his thumb, so lightly you almost didn’t feel it.
The wine made everything warmer. At some point, the conversation dipped quiet again, and he turned toward you.
“Are you scared of leaving?”
“No.” A pause. “This. Us.”
You swallowed, feeling the words slip down into something that hurt.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I’ve never had something that felt like it could vanish before I even touched it.”
He leaned in. You didn’t kiss. Not yet.
But your foreheads touched. And your hands found each other again. His fingers slipped between yours like he belonged there.
You fell asleep like that—still fully dressed, heads tilted toward each other on the rooftop. A breeze moving softly through his hair. Your legs tangled.
When you woke in the blue haze of dawn, he was still holding your hand.
You never talked about what you were. He didn’t ask. You didn’t push. And it was almost better that way—like the minute you said it out loud, it would crumble.
But in all the ways that mattered, he was becoming the center of your summer. And you were becoming his anchor.
It was one of those days where everything felt too quiet to be real.
The hostel had emptied out—your friends were gone on some boat tour up the coast, their laughter already fading in the distance as you closed the door behind you. You hadn’t told them you weren’t going. You just didn’t show.
Some things didn’t need announcing. You found him already waiting. No words. No plans.
Just the understanding: today is just ours.
This wasn’t the tourist beach. Not the one where your hostel sat near caipirinha carts and endless volleyball matches.
No, he took you further west—down a path of cracked pavement and tall green scrub until the city fell away and there was only sand and sea and sky. A place where the water whispered instead of roared, and the only sounds were birds and breeze and breath.
He laid out his towel. You laid beside him. No music. No sunscreen. Just silence and sun.
At first you talked. A little. About everything and nothing. He told you about his hometown again, a place by the sea where the water was colder and the waves had teeth. You told him about your childhood summers and how you’d always pretended to like the beach but secretly feared the way the tide pulled.
“I get that,” he said. “The ocean’s a little like people.”
“Some pull you under. And some carry you back to shore.”
Your chest tightened. But you didn’t speak. You rolled onto your side, your knees brushing his. He didn’t pull away.
At one point, you reached for your necklace—a small, thin thing you’d worn since you were sixteen—and fumbled with the clasp. It had twisted. He reached over instinctively.
His fingers brushed the back of your neck. Light, unhurried. Not possessive. Not bold.
And something in you cracked quietly open, like a shell in gentle hands.
His fingers lingered just a little too long after fixing it. And when he looked at you, his eyes didn’t hold that playful glint anymore. They held something heavier. Something warm and unsure and real.
You leaned into his touch.
You walked into the sea together later, slow steps through the gentle break. He held your wrist without thinking, guiding you forward until the water reached your waist, then your ribs. You floated beside him, half-turned to the sky, your hair fanned out like seaweed in the tide.
“Breathe,” he said softly. “Just listen to it.”
You closed your eyes and did. The rhythm of the ocean. The sound of his breath.
The closeness of your bodies—not quite touching, but tethered, somehow, by gravity or want or fate.
The ocean curled softly around you, warm and endless. You floated beside him, the salt drying on your lips, your fingertips brushing occasionally with the gentle roll of the tide. Every time your skin touched his, it was like a spark that didn’t burn—just glowed, quietly, inside your ribs.
He was watching you again. And this time, you let him.
You turned toward him slowly, your chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea, the hush between waves thickening into something suspended. His expression had changed. No teasing now, no amusement or flirtation. Just something raw. Vulnerable.
Like if he looked away, he might lose this moment forever.
The space between your faces narrowed. Just a breath. One inhale. One choice.
Then his hand found the side of your neck—fingertips tentative, almost afraid. As if he didn’t want to shatter whatever it was blooming between you. His thumb brushed your jaw, a motion so light it made you shiver.
You leaned in. So did he. And then—you kissed. At first, it was just a press. Lips to lips. Barely there.
But even that soft contact sent something crashing through you—an ache and a warmth, like your entire body had been waiting for this exact moment without ever knowing it.
His lips parted slightly, like a question. Yours answered.
He kissed you with the kind of patience that made time slow. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to claim anything—he just wanted to feel it. Savor it. Understand it.
There was no battle. No dominance. Just this shared, sacred gravity pulling your mouths together, again and again. The taste of him—salt and sun and something clean—filled your senses, and the rest of the world blurred into white noise.
The kiss deepened slowly.
One of his hands slid from your neck to your waist, anchoring you as the tide swayed you both. Your own hands lifted to his chest, fingers fisting in the wet fabric of his shirt like you were holding on for dear life—because in that moment, it felt like he might float away if you let go.
His nose brushed yours. His lips moved against yours with more surety now—still gentle, still soft, but searching. Like he was learning your shape by heart, memorizing how to fit himself into your spaces.
The ocean moved around you, steady and wide, and he kissed you like you were the only person left in it.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched. Both of you breathless. Your lips still tingled. So did your skin.
You opened your eyes, unsure what you’d see.
But his were already on you. Quiet. Blue. Wide open. And for a second, it felt like he wanted to say something.
Instead, he just kissed your forehead—softly, slowly—as if sealing something between you. A promise. A pause. Something that couldn’t be named, only felt.
“Still scared of the tide?” he whispered.
But you would be. Just not yet.
You stayed in the water a while after that.
Not kissing. Not speaking. Just existing—drifting side by side, the sun slipping down behind the hills, the sky painted in gold and lavender. The kind of color that never shows up in photos. The kind you have to remember by feel.
When you left the water, his hand found yours without needing to look. And when you laid back down on the towel, curled into him, your head resting on his chest—you could hear his heartbeat like a drum under your ear.
Steady. Real. His lips pressed to your forehead once. That was all.
The morning didn’t feel right.
Not in the obvious way—not storm clouds or shattered glass. But in that quiet, invisible kind of way. The way the sky looked too still. The way the sun seemed too golden. The way you couldn’t quite keep your smile on your face, even as he kissed your cheek and handed you half of his papaya with honey.
He still wore that easy grin. Still looked like the same boy who kissed you in the sea the night before.
But something in his eyes… it wasn’t the same.
You sat on the rooftop ledge with your legs hanging off, a shared thermos of strong Brazilian coffee between you.
He asked you what your friends were doing today. You said you weren’t sure—you hadn’t checked your phone. He laughed, said maybe he’d finally show you how to actually surf. You rolled your eyes and promised to try.
It was all normal. But it wasn’t.
His touch was still gentle, but there was a new tension behind it. Like he was aware of the moment passing as it happened. Like he was trying to memorize it in real time.
You said his name once. Just softly.
He turned to you with a look that made your stomach pull.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said, teasing. Light.
But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Later, while walking down toward the beach, you told him something—something you didn’t think would matter.
You told him your return flight had been moved up a few days. That your parents wanted you home early. That your friends were booking their transport out of Rio.
“We’ll still have tomorrow,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker in his face.
He stopped walking. You didn’t mean to make it heavy. But he just stood there, silent, eyes on the water like it had called him suddenly.
“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s not goodbye yet.”
But he didn’t answer. He kissed your forehead. And then, without warning, he turned and started running—down the sand, toward the water, board under his arm.
You watched him paddle out fast, past the soft waves you were used to, past the calm shallows where the other surfers lingered. He went deeper. Farther.
You waited. At first, it was just him being dramatic. You told yourself that. But then the waves shifted.
The ocean wasn’t storming—not yet—but the rhythm had changed. The breakers were harder now, crashing sharper against the reef, pulling faster on the tide. You could see him out there, slicing across the water like it was something he needed to fight. Again and again.
You walked down to the edge of the water. He caught a wave. And fell.
It didn’t look bad at first—he disappeared under the foam like always. You waited for the board to bob up. For his white hair to break the surface, laughing. But seconds passed. Then more. Your heart began to pound.
“Satoru!” you shouted, uselessly.
The ocean roared back. Then the board surfaced—without him.
You ran into the water. So did another surfer.
You don’t remember how long it took. How many minutes passed between screaming and freezing. All you remember is the sick, cold numbness in your chest as you stood waist-deep, scanning the horizon for the face you’d memorized.
Then— Someone yelling. Movement in the water. A man dragging a limp body toward the sand. And that white hair, soaked red with blood from his temple, tangled in seaweed and foam.
The hospital smelled like cold metal and bleach and fear. You didn’t remember the ride there.
You didn’t remember who called the ambulance, or how your legs carried you up the sand, or when your hands started shaking. You only remembered the moment they took him away from you—took him, like something stolen. Rolling him through double doors on a stretcher, wires and monitors already clinging to his body like second skin.
And how they didn’t let you follow.
You sat in plastic chairs that made your skin stick to the seat. Someone handed you a paper cup of water you didn’t drink. Your phone buzzed again and again—your friends, calling, texting, asking where you were, if it was true.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Your eyes were locked on the hallway doors at the end of the corridor, like if you stared hard enough, he’d walk through them—drenched and alive and smiling that cocky smile, already making some joke about the nurses. But the doors stayed shut.
An hour passed. Then two. A woman in scrubs finally emerged, and you stood so fast the world tilted.
“He’s stable,” she said gently. “But unconscious. There was a strong impact to the back of the skull. He swallowed a lot of water. We managed to resuscitate him on the beach… but it was close.”
Close. That word hit you like a slap.
You nodded, trying to hold your voice together. “Can I see him?”
She hesitated. “Just a few minutes. He won’t respond. But sometimes patients can hear.”
You didn’t care what he could or couldn’t do. You just needed to be near him.
The beeping was the first thing you heard. Rhythmic. Constant. Fragile.
Satoru lay there in a white bed too big for him, pale against the linens, his silver lashes damp against his cheeks. His face looked softer in the fluorescent light. Younger.
The bruising around his temple had bloomed into something dark and terrible.
But he was still breathing. You pulled a chair close and sat beside him. He didn’t move. You reached for his hand. It was cold. So you held it tighter.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for today to feel like a goodbye.”
The monitor beeped back at you. Steady. Unmoved.
“You idiot,” you said softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You said I was calm water. But you’re the one who made everything feel like summer.”
His hand twitched faintly. Maybe. Maybe not.
Your thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of it.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “But don’t you dare leave me wondering what could’ve happened if we had more time.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.
“You said not to fall in love with you.”
You leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his.
“But I think it’s too late.”
The hospital room was still dark when you returned the next morning. He hadn’t moved. Same wires. Same bruises. Same deep, unmoving sleep.
You stood at the door for a long time, your suitcase still warm from the cab’s trunk. The wheels didn’t roll quietly, and the sound echoed too loud in the sterile silence. You felt clumsy, wrong. Like you were trespassing in your own goodbye. You had thirty minutes before the airport van came. You sat beside him one last time.
He looked a little better that morning. Color had returned to his lips. His chest rose more steadily. The monitors didn’t beep quite as angrily as they had the night before.
But his eyes never opened. And that silence—that awful, bone-deep silence between you—grew louder with every second.
You wanted to believe he was just asleep. That he was dreaming something vivid and sweet. Maybe about the kiss, or the papaya with honey, or the way the sun hit your shoulders when you laughed.
But you didn’t believe it. Not really.
You didn’t plan to write it. But the words came out anyway.
You borrowed a pen from the nurse’s station and scribbled onto the back of an old flyer from your backpack—a hostel event that had already passed.
The handwriting was messy. A little smudged. But true.
I know you might never read this. I know I might never see you again.
But thank you—for showing me that something could feel real, even if it doesn’t last forever.
You made me feel warm again.
If you wake up… I’ll be wishing I could be there.
Don’t forget the ocean. Or me.
You folded it in half and slid it into his palm. Your fingers lingered there.
Then you leaned down and pressed a kiss—gentle and quiet—into his hairline. It was softer than your first kiss. It hurt more than anything.
You didn’t cry until you were in the van.
The city blurred outside the window as you left the hospital behind. And the ocean—your ocean—came into view one last time, sparkling under the summer sun like it didn’t know what it had taken. You pressed your hand to the glass. You didn’t say goodbye out loud. But inside, you whispered it.
“Come back to me. Even if I’m not there.”
The machines beeped softly. The light outside the hospital window was golden again—another warm morning that didn’t know what it had waited for.
Satoru stirred. It was slight at first. A twitch of fingers. A shift of breath. Then a quiet groan as his brow knit and his eyes fluttered open for the first time in days.
His vision blurred in and out. White walls. A ceiling fan. The sting of saline in his nose.
And then—something in his hand. Crumpled paper. His fingers clutched it without knowing why. When he finally blinked enough to see clearly, he turned his head, slowly, painfully—and saw it.
Unfolded by trembling fingers. He read it once. Then again. And again. Until his lips, chapped and dry, finally whispered:
Back in a bedroom that felt too clean. Too untouched. The kind of space that made you question whether the past few weeks even happened—whether the boy with the white hair and salt-kissed laugh had been real at all. Your friends had stopped asking. They assumed it was a summer thing—a fling that burned quick and bright before fading out.
But you couldn’t stop checking your email. The hospital line never rang. No number with a Brazilian country code ever appeared.
You tried to forget. But every time the wind picked up, every time you heard the ocean in a shell or passed the surfboard rentals at the beach back home—he came rushing back.
And the note… the one you left behind? You didn’t know if he ever read it.
It arrived three weeks later. Plain. No return address. But it smelled faintly of sunscreen and sea salt.
Taken by a nurse, maybe. It was blurry—but unmistakable. Satoru, half-sitting in a hospital bed. Bruised but smiling. One eye bandaged. A peace sign lifted toward the camera.
In his lap: your note. And beneath the photo, in the corner of the envelope—barely legible scrawl:
“You didn’t forget the ocean.and I didn’t forget you.”
Your hands shook. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled.
