the call you shouldn’t make
pairing: aki hayakawa x reader
genre: angst, emotional realism, post-breakup tension, late-night vulnerability, tragic romance, slow ache of longing
warnings: alcohol use, emotional dependency, implied depression, heartbreak, unhealthy coping mechanisms
synopsis: it’s been months since aki walked away, and you keep telling yourself you’re over him—but the truth comes spilling out when it’s late, you’re drunk, and the loneliness hits harder than it should. he shouldn’t have answered, but he did, and what follows isn’t closure.
it was well past midnight when you stumbled into your apartment, the lingering buzz of alcohol making the world sway around you. the night out with your friends had been fun, but now that you were alone, the emptiness you tried so hard to suppress crept in like an unwelcome guest.
you hated it—hated that no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you told yourself you were over him, your mind always wandered back to aki.
you kicked off your shoes haphazardly and flopped onto the couch, your phone glowing faintly on the coffee table. it mocked you, sitting there like a temptation you knew you should resist.
you told yourself you wouldn’t call him. not again. not after the last time when his sharp voice on the other end reminded you that he was the one who cut you off, not the other way around.
but the alcohol was a traitorous companion, lowering your inhibitions until you found yourself scrolling through your contacts. his name was still there, and it burned to see it. aki hayakawa. it didn’t matter that he’d walked away or that he’d probably deleted your number the second he decided to cut ties. you never had the strength to do the same.
your thumb hovered over his name, and for a fleeting moment, you considered putting the phone down and walking away. but then you pressed it, and the dial tone filled the quiet room.
---
aki was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. sleep had been elusive these days, but that wasn’t unusual for him. devil hunting wasn’t the kind of profession that let you sleep easy. the faint buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand broke the silence, and he turned his head toward it with a frown.
who the hell would be calling him at this hour? he reached for it, and his expression darkened when he saw your name lighting up the screen. he stared at it for a moment, debating whether to answer. you’d been doing this for weeks now—calling, texting, rambling in half-coherent sentences when you were drunk. he’d ignored most of them, thinking you’d eventually stop. but you hadn’t.
with a heavy sigh, he swiped to answer. “what do you want?” his voice was sharp, clipped, the same as always.
the sound of his voice hit you like a shockwave, even through the haze of alcohol. “aki,” you mumbled, your voice slurred. “i… i didn’t think you’d pick up.”
“yeah, well, i shouldn’t have,” he replied, his tone colder than you remembered. “it’s late. what do you need?”
you let out a bitter laugh, the sting of his indifference cutting deeper than you’d like to admit. “i don’t need anything,” you said, leaning back against the couch. “i just… i don’t know. i miss you.”
aki pinched the bridge of his nose, his jaw tightening. “you’re drunk,” he stated flatly.
“no shit,” you shot back, a hint of defiance creeping into your tone. “but that doesn’t mean i’m lying.”
on his end of the line, aki sat up, running a hand through his dark hair. he knew he should hang up. this wasn’t fair to either of you—keeping this tether between you when he’d made the decision to end things. but hearing your voice, even in this state, stirred something in him that he hated acknowledging.
“you shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, his voice softer but no less firm. “calling me like this. it’s not going to change anything.”
you laughed again, though it came out more like a choked sob. “yeah, i figured. you made it pretty clear where we stand.”
“then why keep doing this to yourself?” he asked, frustration bleeding into his tone. “we ended this for a reason.”
“you ended this,” you corrected him, your voice cracking. “i didn’t get a say.”
he didn’t have a response to that. he’d always told himself it was for the best, that cutting you out of his life was the only way to keep you safe. but now, hearing the pain in your voice, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done the right thing.
on your end, the silence stretched on, and it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on your chest. “you were everything to me, aki,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “i know i shouldn’t call. i know i’m pathetic. but i don’t know how to let you go.”
his grip on the phone tightened, his heart twisting at your words. “you’re not pathetic,” he said quietly. “you’re stronger than you think.”
“doesn’t feel like it,” you muttered, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your shirt.
aki closed his eyes, his mind racing. he wanted to tell you to stop calling, to move on, to forget about him. but the truth was, he didn’t know if he wanted to let you go either.
“go to bed,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “get some rest. you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“will you stay on the line?” you asked, your voice small, vulnerable.
he hesitated, the logical part of him screaming that he should say no. but instead, he found himself saying, “yeah. i’ll stay.”
and for the rest of the night, neither of you said another word, the silence between you filled with the sound of your quiet breathing. it wasn’t closure, but it was something—something you both clung to, even if it wasn’t enough.
