✶ STARS REMIND ME OF YOU ⋆.˚ — MIYA OSAMU
cw: heavy angst, flashbacks, Samu just suffering, ex!osamu. The first part might look boring but believe me it gets better.
Osamu miya sat heavily in a folding chair on his balcony, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and bruised oranges. his large frame looking a bit too big for the seat. His apron was tossed over the railing beside him, still smelling faintly of dashi and fried oil from a long day at Onigiri Miya.
He let out a long, tired exhale, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crumpled pack, tapping it against his palm until a single cigarette slid out. He caught it between his fingers, then fished for the lighter in his other pocket.
He flicked the lighter, the orange glow illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and his silver toned hair. Before bringing it to his lips, his eyes drifted to the small ceramic dish resting on the ledge. The one that was shaped like a star, painted a deep, uneven navy blue with bright - hand painted - yellow stars scattered across the center. It was a bit clunky - a trinket you had given him years ago that he had, surprisingly, never lost.
A ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he leaned forward, pressing the edge of the paper lightly into one of the star’s points, tracing the shape of the gift you'd given him, which he remembers - reminded you of a night you both spent stargazing.
He remembered the way you’d laughed, shoving the ‘star’ into his hands and telling him it was so he’d have a piece of the sky even when he was stuck in the kitchen until midnight. Now, it was just a piece of clay holding the remains of his bad habits.
“Stupid,” he muttered, taking a drag, his voice gravelly from the long shift. He wasn't sure if he was talking about the dish, the memory, or himself for keeping it right where he could see it every single night.
He pressed the filter end firmly into the center of the largest yellow star now - the one you’d joked looked like a fried egg when you first gave it to him.
“For you,” you’d said, wiping your hands on your apron. “So when you’re tired after a double shift, you can look at the stars even if it’s cloudy. And so you stop using beer cans as ashtrays, 'Samu. It’s gross.”
He’d laughed, pulling you into a hug that smelled like damp earth and vanilla, promising he’d keep it forever.
Osamu took another heavy drag, the cherry of his cigarette glowing a fierce, angry red in the dark. That was the third one in twelve minutes. His lungs burned, but the physical sting was easier to manage than the hollow ache in his chest.
But the smoke didn't taste as good as it used to.
Osamu leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. Letting his mind travel back to you.
He could almost see you standing there on the balcony again, your hair windswept and a triumphant grin on your face. He missed it so fucking much.
If anything - osamu had loved you. very, very deeply.
Even when your friends and family were against you dating him, you still choosed him. He knew this onigiri business wouldn’t be much successful no matter how hard he tried - it’s just something he enjoys.
But you deserved so much more than that. You deserved someone with a real goal, a real job and a happy life. Someone who would give all his attention to you, remember every date, remember every small thing you once said. Something he always failed to offer you.
But you stayed. You stayed for him, waited for him. And he liked you for that.
Until he’d taken your patience for granted, assuming you’d always be the lighthouse waiting for him to come home from the fog.
Not realizing that, prioritized the shop until 'just five more minutes' turned into missed dinners, forgotten anniversaries, forgotten dates and eventually, a cold bed.
So when you finally packed your bags, his pride had kept him silent, watching you walk out because he was too tired or too arrogant to admit he was drowning without you.
“‘Samu, do you even know what today is?” your voice had been terrifyingly calm that night. devoid of the fire he was used to.
He remembered walking into the apartment at 11:54 PM, smelling of grease and triumph because the shop had hit a new record. He’d found you sitting at the small kitchen table, the lights dimmed, with two plates of stone cold dinner and a single, melted candle between them.
He’d frozen, his hand still on the doorknob. His mind raced - was it a birthday? No. An anniversary? No. “It was a long shift, Y/N. I lost track of time. Can we just—”
“It was the three-year mark of the day we moved in together,” you’d interrupted, finally looking up. Your eyes weren't angry; they were just tired “we always do something small for this every year, i even dressed up. waited. Called four times. texted, You didn't even check your phone.”
“i was busy at work and—”
“i don’t need your explanation if you’re not even going to apologize,” you intrerrupted him “it’s fine ‘samu if you suddenly just don’t have enough time for your girlfriend, it’s totally fine since you have to make some time for your pretty little ‘coworker now!” you snapped.
If osamu could - he would go back in the time and stop himself right there. Oh only if his exhaustion didn’t turn into a jagged weapon that night.
“It’s just a date, Y/N!” his voice had boomed in the small kitchen, sharp and defensive. “I’m out there breaking my back for us, and I come home to an interrogation because I didn't look at a calendar? And don’t bring her into this again.”
You had stood by the sink, your shoulders hunched, looking smaller than he’d ever seen you. “It’s not about the calendar, ‘Samu. It’s about the fact that I don’t even think you see me anymore.”
“We don’t need to celebrate every little thing!” he’d snapped back, his arrogance flared up like a match. “Moving in, first date, first kiss — it’s just time waste, We’re adults. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I don't have the energy to treat every Tuesday like it’s a national holiday.”
The look you gave him then - the way your eyes had gone from hurt to a terrifying, quiet clarity - was the moment he’d actually lost you. You hadn't argued back. You’d just wiped your hands on a towel and walked past him.
“If our life together is just ‘time waste’ to you,” you’d whispered, your voice steadier than his, “then I’ll make sure to not waste your precious time anymore.”
Osamu was stupid. Very stupid. He realized it too late though, When you finally felt like holding water in his hands, watching it slip away slowly, and the tighter he grips it, the more it slips away.
But he’d tried to fix it. God, he’d tried.
He’d shown up at your new place with your favorite onigiri, stayed outside in the rain for three hours just to see your shadow pass the window and so much more.
But the silence you returned was louder than any argument they’d ever had.
Osamu takes out another cigarette - fifth? Sixth? He lost count in the last thirty minutes as he let the thought of you linger until there's nothing else he can think of.
You’re probably out there - making another ashtray for another man now. He thinks. And that thought alone was enough to tear his heart apart.
Osamu was never afraid of showing emotions. He cries. He cries everytime he sees a star - bringing back the haunting memories of you.
So when he feels his eyes getting wet again, he lets it.
“‘samu you don’t need to hide your emotions, cry, scream, do whatever you want but let it out, let your heart feel less heavy.” you told him while his head was resting on your lap just after he lost his grandmother.
Out of many things you had taught him, this one was the most helpful. Because everytime he loses something - he lets himself cry. And it does feel less heavy.
With a flick of his wrist, he taps the ash onto the tray. He doesn't look at it now. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen light is aggressive, casting a pale, ghostly blue over his features, He doesn't check the news or his bank account. He doesn't even check the group chat where Atsumu is undoubtedly yelling about something trivial.
His thumb hovers for a second, trembling just enough to be noticed if anyone were looking. Then, he opens a search bar, it’s a ritual now, a muscle memory he hates. He types out your username.
He watches the search results populate, the same photos he’s seen a hundred times, the same status updates he’s memorized. He’s looking for a sign of grief that matches his own, or worse, a sign that you’ve stopped grieving altogether.
first photo stops him; it’s just your cat, sprawled out in a patch of sun. He remembers the weight of that cat on his own lap, the way it used to shed on his black aprons.
He scrolls. The next one is a selfie. You’re smiling - wide, genuine, and bright enough to cut through the blue light of his screen. Osamu’s expression softens completely. His thumb brushes over the glass, tracing the line of your jaw. making him smile.
“still so beautiful.” he mutters to himself.
The next photo hits him like a physical blow. It’s a group shot from a few months ago, you, Kita, and Atsumu. You’d run into them while he was stuck at the shop. You’re standing right next to his brother, flashing a playful V-pose, smiling.
Osamu stares at Atsumu’s grinning face, then back at you. His mind begins to do that cruel trick grief plays; he blurs his vision, mentally swapping Atsumu’s dyed blonde hair for his own silver. He imagines his own arm brushed against yours instead of his twin’s. He superimposes himself into the frame until the ache in his chest becomes a dull roar.
He realizes he’s been holding his breath. He exhales a long, shaky stream of smoke. Quickly closeing the app.
The cigarette is a stub now, burning close to his knuckles, but Osamu doesn’t feel the heat. His entire world has narrowed down to a single green icon, The phone app. He can’t help but let the adrenaline get him.
just millimeters above the glass. It would be so easy. One accidental tap, one moment of 'weakness,' and he’d hear the ringback tone. He imagines your voice - surprised, maybe soft.
The thought makes his heart hammer against his ribs.
He wants to ask if the cat still sleeps on the left side of the bed. He wants to ask if you saw that same tree today. He wants to know if you think of him too. He wants to know if you still like stars. He wants you to know that he still has your ashtray.
His fingers are clumsy, fueled by a sudden, jagged shot of adrenaline that overrides his common sense.
He types the number out, digit by digit, the familiar pattern burned into his brain like a recipe he’s made a thousand times.
And hits the green button.
The screen shows Calling... but there’s no dial tone. Just a hollow, pressurized quiet that makes his chest tighten until it feels like his ribs might snap. He’s suffocating on the lack of sound. He stands up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the concrete of the small back balcony.
He lunges toward the iron railing, leaning out into the cold night air, holding the phone high as if he can catch a stray signal out of the sky. His breath comes in short, visible puffs. Please, he thinks, the word a silent, pathetic prayer. Just one bar. Just let me through.
A sharp beep pierces the silence, followed by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of a connection.
His heart thrashes against his sternum.
He grips the railing so hard the cold metal bites into his palm. He’s shaking - not from the wind, but from the realization that he’s actually doing this.
The voice hits him. Like a physical blow to the stomach. It’s light, clear, and so impossibly you that he nearly drops the phone.
“Hey,” he gasps out, his voice cracking, stripped of all his usual cool composure. “Hey, it’s me. I... Im sorry i know you told me to not call you again. But please—just listen to me.” he continues.
“i saw the picture y'know, the one with 'Tsumu and Kita-san. You looked... you looked really good. I mean, you look happy.”
He waits for a second, but the line is quiet, so he rushes on, the words tumbling out in a desperate, messy heap.
“just—I keep thinking about you a lot, bout’ your cat too,” he laughs slowly. “I miss the way he used to wake me up. I miss... I’m sorry. I shouldn't have called, but I can't stop thinking about—. Are you there? Please, just tell me you’re there.”
He’s leaning so far over the railing now he’s almost off balance, his eyes squeezed shut. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy for still feeling like this. That you think about me too, it’s not that easy to move on right? We’ve been together since high scbool, at least—at least i can’t, Y/N, I need you to save me from this, okay? Just tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. Or you come here. I don't care, I just—”
He stops, his lungs burning, waiting for the sound of your breath on the other end.
“Hello?”he whispers again, his voice small. “You’re there, right?”
The air leaves Osamu’s lungs in a slow, agonizing hiss. He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the screen.
He wasn't talking to you. He was talking to a recording. He was pouring his soul into a ghost.
