The tears i cry for you.
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Takizawa Seidou x fem!reader ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Word count: 7.2k ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. hurt, grief, angst, a bit of comfort at the end i guess, mention of death Warning: Spoilers from the Manga I finally finished my first Takizawa one shot. Please understand that he gained most of his sanity back in my story. I hope you all enjoy this story!!! It took me longer then exepted. Anyway dont forget to like and reblog .<3
Also omg it's Seidou week!! I almost forgot my poor baby. HAPPY TAKIZAWA SEIDOU WEEK EVERYONE!!!
“This fever’s insane…” Banjou muttered, standing beside Nishiki at the edge of the bed where Akira lies.
Both men looked deeply troubled. Takizawa stood behind them, peering over their shoulders at Mado, his expression tense and stricken with horror.
“Her condition’s not looking good…” Nishiki said under his breath, one hand resting on his hip.
Banjou nodded grimly. “Maybe something got in? An infection. Through the wounds while she was being treated…”
Sweat rolled down his forehead. But Nishiki shook his head. “It could also be a rejection reaction. Against the Rc-cells themselves.”
Takizawa’s brows furrowed, frustration prickling under his skin like static. And when Banjou added, “She’s pretty woozy, too,” it snapped something inside him.
Takizawa suddenly stepped forward, grabbing Banjou by the shoulders and shaking him violently, shouting—
“OII! CAN’T YOU DO SOMETHING?!”
Banjou’s head swayed from the force of it, visibly startled. Nishiki simply stood by and watched in silence.
But the moment was shattered when the door swung open with a loud bang, kicked wide by a sharp-heeled boot. The heads of the three men quickly turned toward the door that had been flung open.
“Hiiiii~ my dear Banjou~ Long time no see,” purred a familiar voice.
Nico stepped into the room, his voice sultry and theatrical. His sudden appearance sent a chill down all three men’s spines.
Banjou's face filled with even more horror like he just saw a ghost “Nico..? h-how in hell did you-”
In that moment Takizawa just wanted to slap his dumb face with that look, but he stopped himself and kept quiet, trying to study the situation.
Nico wrinkled his nose and tilted his head slightly, one hand gently cupping his own cheek as he continued in his erotically tone.
“I happened to pick up on our dear Roma’s little SOS signal~”
He held something up between two fingers. It looked more like a random leaf than any kind of emergency beacon.
“See~? This little Kagune thing.”
He explained casually that the object in his hand was actually a fragment of a kagune.
Nishiki just rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath about Nico’s outfit, something about how ridiculous he looked in it.
Nico ignored him and kept speaking, shifting into a more erotically voice. He said something about the Clowns being a surprise and that they should’ve waited for a better moment to escape.
“You all should know better than that, right?” he cooed, taking a step forward to Akira's bed. “Gotta keep that butthole clenched~”
Takizawa’s eyes narrowed into a cold glare, his posture stiffening.
“Get the fuck back,” he spat, voice filled with void and threatening.
“Oh my~ how scary,” Nico replied in a sarcastic voice and dramatically rolling his eyes.
Takizawa clenched his teeths, his hands curling into tight fists. His blackened fingernails slowly pressed into his pale skin like razor blades—just a little deeper, and they would draw blood. But he fought to keep the rage buried inside.
So lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed that the other two men were still talking with Nico. But the moment the words “She’s going to die” shot from the clown’s mouth, Takizawa was ripped out of his thoughts.
His eyes were wide open, and silence spread through the room like a fog. No one dared to speak—except Nico. He asked again, “Banjou, you’ve never treated a human before, have you?”
Banjou remained silent. It was quite obvious that Nico had more experience in that kind of stuff, since he spent most of his time with Yakumo Omori. The insane psychopath guy who tortured many poor souls and Kaneki himself.
He swallowed hard, parted his lips to say something… but closed them again. Nico spoke up once more.
“It’s plain as day. You were a bit rough around the edges, but she seems to be recovering… more or less.”
He chuckled lightly and posed with his arms behind his head.
“Still, you guys really need to take her to see a doctor. And—I happen to have quite a Favour for you~”
All three men stood with their mouths agape. Banjou was the first to give in to his anger. “Are you fucking—”
But he couldn’t finish the sentence—he was cut off.
“I’m serious,” came the voice of the clown, a wide grin stretched across his face.
He explained that her RC-cells had to be removed—before things got worse.
Takizawa’s face twisted in even deeper horror than before. The only thing echoing through his mind now were Nico’s words.
Doctor.
Doctor.
Doctor.
A doctor.
A doctor.
A ghoul-specialized surgeon.
A doctor.
And just like that, her face flooded his mind. He bit his lip, mumbling something to himself.
You.
Takizawa Seidou hadn’t thought of you in months. Not since the last bloodbath he created in the CCG’s building. Not since he told himself he didn’t deserve to remember anyone who once knew his name when it meant something soft, something human. You were a memory he stored in the quiet places, a memory that kept his sanity, even if he already was insane, a memory before he became a half-ghoul, before the experiments, before the torture, before he got forced to eat his own “home”, before Aogiri. When he was still just Seidou, the dorky investigator who dropped coffee in your lab once and apologized twenty times.
You’d laugh. Wiped it up. Told him he owed you another.
And he did.
That was the first time he realized how easy it would be to fall for you. The sweet laugh of you, still tickles his brain. A warm feeling spread through his body. A feeling that was long gone already, appeared again. It felt strange, unknown. Not right. He didn't deserve this.
You were his forbidden sanctuary in sterile hallways and late reports. When he looked into your eyes, so deep, the world grew quiet, fell asleep. In that stillness, calm and wide, he found a place where fear could hide.
He felt safe when he gazed into your eyes.
He never said anything, and neither did you. The silence between you both was thick, like something unsaid but understood. But there were those moments — small, subtle —where words weren’t needed.
You smiled longer than was necessary, as if the curve of your lips held a secret you both refused to speak aloud. Too scared to get the wrong idea of each other, too scared to admit your feelings, too scared to get rejected, too ruin the friendship between you both.
Your touch often lingered on his hand, just a second more than what was polite, a brush that felt like it meant everything, but was never acknowledged.
And after every meeting, when the room was supposed to empty, both of you stayed a little longer. Not quite ready to leave, not quite sure if you wanted to walk away from him yet.
It wasn’t the words that broke him.
It was the weight of all those silences, the things left unsaid but felt, all the moments that were too much to ignore, too soft to resist. And now, standing here, he wonders if it was always enough —
enough to break him.
“A doctor… Y/N… I know I know a doctor, I need to reach out. But can't… Doctor… Doctor…”
Takizawa muttered, his voice strained, as if forcing each word past a barrier in his throat. His tone wavered between desperation and denial, growing just loud enough to draw Nishiki’s attention.
Nishiki turned to him, brows furrowed in quiet confusion.
“Takizawa?” he asked, but got no answer.
Takizawa’s fingers clawed into his scalp, gripping his hair like he could physically pull the memories out — like he could stop the flood rising in his mind. But it didn’t stop. It never did and it never will.
A flicker of panic shot through him.
He couldn’t breathe. Not here. Not in front of them.
Without another word, he turned abruptly, ducking away from the group and slipping out of the room in hurried, uneven steps. The door clicked softly behind him, swallowed by the quiet that followed his exit.
The others exchanged uncertain glances.
Banjou instinctively took a step forward, concern furrowing his brow.
“I’ll go—”
But Nishiki raised a hand to stop him, his gaze still fixed on the door Takizawa had fled through.
“Let him be,” he said quietly, voice calm but knowing. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Banjou hesitated, his concern still visible, but nodded. The room settled into a heavy silence, thick with the weight of things none of them fully understood — not yet.
—
The cracked corner of the ruined stairwell offered him just enough space to breathe.
Not that it mattered, but it was the only spot he could find to hide. To steady himself.
With trembling fingers, he pulled the old phone from his pocket — an artifact from a time that felt like another life entirely. Where his life was still human.
A life long since abandoned. A life that had bled away, piece by piece, into shadows of things he’d never be again.
The phone was dirty, half-broken, battered from the violence he had to witness as a ghoul.
It felt like a relic, something too old to be in his hands back again.
The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, each one a silent reminder of all the chaos he’d left behind.
His heart beat in a quick, jagged rhythm, like it was trying to escape from his chest as he scrolled through the list of old contacts. His thumb shook, every movement hurried, as if even the act of scrolling was too much to bear.
Then, he found you.
Y/N.
He froze, staring at your name like it was a ghost standing right in front of him.
Your name, still saved in the phone that had survived the wreckage of everything he'd become.
Still there. After all this time.
His chest tightened.
His heart pounded, so loud it drowned out everything else — like a thunderstorm tearing through his ribcage.
Pathetic.
He hated himself for feeling this way. He hated the weakness flooding through him, the surge of something he hadn’t let himself feel in so long.
Pathetic. Stupid. Foolish. Fucking dense.
All he had to do was press the damn button.
Why was it so hard?
Why was this so hard?
He stared at the phone, his finger hovering above the call button. His entire being screamed for him to move — but his hand stayed frozen. Just press it, he told himself.
He hit Call.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Voicemail.
He swore under his breath — a low, ragged sound and tapped the screen again.
No more hesitation. No more running away.
His fingers flew across the cracked glass, urgent and unsure all at once,
typing out the message with the kind of desperation he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
> It’s me. Seidou. If you still have this number… I need you. We need you.
It’s urgent.
Please. I’ll explain everything afterwards… I promise. I really need you.
He stared at the message for a heartbeat. Then another. Then send it.
He didn’t expect anything.
How could he?
You had every reason to forget him.
To hate him.
He’d left you with silence and the lie of his death — a hollow absence that had probably shaped the last five years of your life.
And now, out of nowhere, here he was.
Alive…
Reaching out like the years hadn’t carved themselves into your bones. Like his silence hadn’t shaped your grief. Like none of it ever mattered.
How cruel he was. To reappear like this. God how cruel he was…
Maybe you’d cry.
Maybe you’d scream.
Maybe you'd hit him if he was in front of you.
Maybe you’d sit in silence, staring at the message until your chest ached.
Or maybe you'd never reply at all.
Because in your world,
he was dead.
Gone.
And your heart— your heart had learned to live around that absence, filling with pain like a glass under a faucet left running too long.
Spilling. Drowning.
And maybe…
just maybe,
he deserved to stay that way. Maybe he should have been dead. He surely should've have died that day. It would've been better. For everyone… for himself.
Yet he still waited.
Curled up in that cracked corner of the stairwell, the world is dim and quiet around him. His fingers inside his mouth, a habit he grew in the lab where he got tortured.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Not until the screen lit up again.
A single message. Simple. Immediate.
> Where are you?
—
You’re now standing in front of the building Takizawa told you about. Your whole body is trembling—out of anger, fear, and sorrow. Your emotions are raging like a storm, your thoughts tangled and chaotic. Once again, a world has come crashing down around you. Your stomach twisted inside, it hurt. You felt like puking every moment.
But you try to push all of it aside. Now isn’t the time to face the turmoil inside you. Now, you have to save a life—a life that matters to many people, including ghouls. The life of Mado Akira.
Apparently, she matters to Takizawa too… Maybe even more than you ever did. That thought stings. For years, he didn’t contact you. For years, he let you believe he was dead. And now—only now, when Akira needs to be saved, he reaches out.
You shake your head, trying to hold back your tears. For a moment longer, you stand there, eyes fixed on the door handle. Fear begins to creep in.
Then, you reach for your phone, pull it out of your pocket, and send Takizawa a short message, you're standing outside In front of the door.
It didn’t even take a second before the door swung open in front of you. And there he was—Takizawa Seidou.
He froze the moment he saw you, eyes wide in shock. Your gaze dropped immediately, fear gripping you too tightly to meet his eyes. Fear that all of this might just be an illusion, something your mind had conjured out of longing. That none of this was real.
Takizawa swallowed hard. He had no idea what to say. His mouth felt painfully dry, as if he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in days. His knees grew weak. He couldn’t believe it—you had really come.
“You came,” he said.
His voice was deeper now, rough, like gravel laced with regret.
Your heart skipped a beat the moment you heard it. A burning sensation welled up behind your eyes. Slowly, you lifted your head and dared to look at him.
But the man standing before you wasn’t the one you remembered.
His once short hair was now wild and shoulder-length, a stark white. His lips were darkened, and deep shadows clung beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His skin was ghostly pale, like he’d been locked away in some dark cellar.
And his eyes—they were no longer the warm hazel you once knew. They were pitch black, wide, with tiny pupils. But behind them... there was something. Tragedy. Sorrow. Shame. Fear.
“Seidou?” you whispered, your voice betraying you with a tremble—a voice of disbelief.
Your eyes widened, too.
You wanted to ask what had happened. Where had he been? Why did he look like this?
But you couldn’t. You didn’t dare to. Hoping he will explain everything to you later before confusion eats you up.
You stood there, frozen in place. Not a word left your lips, not a single step forward or back. He, too, seemed unsure of what to do. For a moment, a heavy silence hung between you—thick like fog, pressing down like lead.
Then, hesitantly, he took a few steps toward you. His hand lifted slowly, as if he feared you might shatter beneath his touch. And then—his fingers brushed against your cheek. Warm. Gentle. So achingly familiar. His thumb moved softly across your skin, as if trying not to scare you away.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment. His warmth sank deep into you—and that was exactly what made you angry.
How could you miss this touch so much?
How could it feel so right, when he had left you behind all those years ago?
His eyes began to soften, some of the shock fading from them. But they still held sadness, exhaustion. And something else—guilt.
You couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears you had tried so hard to suppress broke free. Warm and salty, they streamed down your face, unstoppable.
He reached out and gently wiped them away. Almost lovingly. And that made it worse.
You lowered your gaze, unwilling to lose yourself again in the hands that once gave you comfort—only to abandon you in the dark.
Slowly, you pushed his hand away from your cheek. Your fingers trembled.
“dont touch me…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. Then you sniffled quietly and wiped the rest of your tears away on your own.
Shame, longing, and bitter disappointment sat heavy in your chest.
You didn’t know whether you wanted to hold him or scream at him.
Takizawa froze.
That quiet whisper “Don’t touch me…” hit him harder than any blow ever could. It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t angry. It was soft. Fragile. Like something broken whispering to itself to stop hoping.
He slowly let his hand fall back to his side, fingers curling inward like they were ashamed of what they’d reached for.
His chest tightened, the sting behind his ribs spreading like fire. He hadn’t expected forgiveness—but he hadn’t expected that either. But perhaps he was still expecting too much. He surely was disgusting. How could he expect you to be alright with him touching you, comforting you. God how stupid he was. He was the reason for your pain, depression, mental break downs and him comforting you now? He could slap himself for this recklessness. You couldn’t even bear his touch.
He watched as you wiped your own tears away, shoulders trembling, your face turned slightly from him. And somehow, that hurt even more than if you'd screamed. He wished you screamed at him, yelled at him even slapping, punishing him. Anything would have been better, then the quiet pain.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Just a breath. Shaky. Hollow.
Shame clawed at him. Longing anchored him in place. And disappointment, disappointment in himself—pressed down on him like lead.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, barely audible. His voice sounded raw, scraped against the edges of something deeper.
But even to him, the words felt useless. Too late. Too light for the weight between you.
A beat of silence passed, your breath shaky, your heart loud in your ears.
Then, barely above a whisper, your voice cracked through the stillness again.
“Where’s Akira?”
Takizawa blinked, as if the question brought him back to reality. His jaw tightened, and he nodded once—silent, serious.
“This way,” he said hoarsely, and turned.
You hesitated for a second before following. The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the air heavy with dust and something else—sterile and sickly. As you walked behind him, the pain in your chest twisted tighter with each step. You had so many questions. So much to say. But none of it mattered if Akira was still hurt..
He pushed a door open, slowly.
Inside, the room was small, barely lit by a single flickering lamp in the corner. The air was stifling, and the heat hit you like a wave. On the bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, lies Mado Akira. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow. A cold cloth rested uselessly on her forehead, already warmed through.
She looked fragile, so unlike the strong, unshakable woman you remembered.
“She’s been like this for almost four days,” Takizawa murmured behind you, his voice strained. “The fever won’t break.”
You stepped closer, carefully, your eyes fixed on Akira’s unconscious form. A deep ache spread through your chest. She didn’t even stir. The pride in her posture, the sharpness in her eyes—gone. Just heat and weakness now.
You barely noticed the sound of Takizawa moving behind you, but you felt his presence, close. Too close. You hated how comforting it was.
“How long have you guys been hiding her like this?” you asked, your voice low.
“Almost three weeks,” he said. “Maybe more. After what happened... We couldn't take her to the hospital. It was too dangerous. She wouldn’t survive the CCG’s hands.”
“And you waited until now to call me?”
He didn’t answer.
You turned slightly to look at him, and he met your eyes. Whatever strength was in him earlier had dimmed.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said quietly. “Not after what I did.”
Your heart clenched. You forced yourself to look away, back at Akira.
This wasn’t the time. You had to help her first. But deep down, you knew the conversation between you and Takizawa hadn’t ended. It had just been paused. “We will talk later about it.” Is all you got out for now to push the conversation aside.
You let out a heavy sigh, the kind that weighs in your chest long after it's passed your lips. Your thoughts were already exhausted, but now they were joined by the dull, throbbing pressure of hopelessness.
“We’re going to need that drug…” you muttered, more to yourself than to anyone else, your eyes drifting to Akira’s still form. Her face was flushed with fever, her skin damp with sweat.
You knelt beside her, gently lifting the damp cloth from her forehead. It was warm now—no longer soothing, no longer helping.
You dipped it into the bowl beside the bed, cooled it again, and carefully placed it back on her skin. Your fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if the tenderness alone could anchor her to this world.
Then you stood, turning to face Takizawa. Your expression was calm, but it carried the weight of urgency.
“I need to speak to your ‘King’—Kaneki. We need RC-suppressor drugs. Without them, this…” You motioned softly toward Akira, your voice tightening, “...won’t work. It’s the only chance we’ve got right now.”
You rubbed your temple, already feeling the headache forming beneath your skull.
“The problem is... those drugs are only accessible through the CCG.”
Takizawa remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening as the implications sank in. Then he gave a slow, grim nod.
He understood.
And he knew it was only going to get harder from here.
You let out a heavy sigh, the kind that weighs in your chest long after it's passed your lips. Your thoughts were already exhausted, but now they were joined by the dull, throbbing pressure of hopelessness.
“We’re going to need that drug…” you muttered, more to yourself than to anyone else, your eyes drifting to Akira’s still form. Her face was flushed with fever, her skin damp with sweat.
You knelt beside her, gently lifting the damp cloth from her forehead. It was warm now—no longer soothing, no longer helping.
You dipped it into the bowl beside the bed, cooled it again, and carefully placed it back on her skin. Your fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, as if the tenderness alone could heal her.
Then you stood, turning to face Takizawa. Your expression was calm, but it carried the weight of urgency.
“I need to speak to your ‘King’. We need RC-suppressor drugs. Without them, this…” You motioned softly toward Akira, your voice tightening, “...won’t work. It’s the only chance we’ve got right now.”
You rubbed your temple, already feeling the headache forming beneath your skull.
“The problem is... those drugs are only accessible through the CCG lab and they surely won't hand them over to a doctor like me who isn't working for them.”
Takizawa remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening as the implications sank in. Then he gave a slow, grim nod.
He understood and he knew it was only going to get harder from here.
—
The day passed in a whirlwind of chaos and urgency. Thanks to Nico, Kaneki and the Goat organization managed to uncover more information about the RC-suppressor drug. Nico handed Banjou a plain-looking business card, on it, the name of the organisation “Great Wheel Act”.
Banjou immediately informed Kaneki and the others, and together they decided to reach out to the organization in hopes of learning more.
Later that day, Kaneki, Nishiki, and Tsukiyama met with Dr. Ogura, who agreed to assist in Akira’s medical care. After the meeting, they all gathered once again to discuss and develop a detailed plan—one that could help them obtain the desperately needed cure, which remained under strict control by the CCG.
Amid all the chaos, Y/N rarely left Akira’s side. With quiet determination, she tended to her, regularly changing the cold clothes on her forehead and carefully watching for any sign of her condition worsening.
—
The room was dimly lit, only the soft orange glow of a desk lamp cutting through the shadows and the lights of the moon piercing through the curtain. You stood by the window, arms folded tightly across your chest, eyes locked on the darkened skyline outside. The whole day you stood by Akira's bedside, gently checking her temperature here and there again and again. The fever had gone down slightly, but not enough to calm your nerves down. Your stomach twisted with anxiety. She was the only company you had the whole day. All others were busy planning everything out.
Behind you, you heard the door open and a soft shuffle of footsteps entered the room. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Behind you, Takizawa leaned against the wall, quiet for a moment. The tension between you two was heavy, unspoken. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low, almost reluctant.
“I’m going with them. To the CCG lab.”
You didn’t turn around.
Your fingers tightened around your arms. The words echoed in your head like a distant warning bell. Of course, it made sense—no one knew the CCG’s underground systems like he and Kaneki did. He had once been part of the CCG. He remembered its halls, the rooms, its blood-soaked corners. And now, he’d be walking back into that hell. But this time as their enemies.
“They’ll need me. I know the layout and the smell of the suppressor drug.” he continued. “I can lead them.”
You said nothing.
Your answer was silence, heavy, suffocating, almost unbearable. Your thoughts were racing, and yet your mind felt hollow, like it had emptied itself out just to keep from breaking. A storm raged inside you. Worry poured over you like a flood, paralyzing your limbs, squeezing the breath from your chest. You felt sick with fear, truly sick, as if your whole body was rebelling against what was about to happen.
Fear clung to you, sinking its claws in deep, dragging you down into that dark place you knew too well. That hollow, familiar place where you'd already lost him once.
You didn’t want him to go again.
You didn’t want him to fight. To disappear. Not again.
Your eyes burned. But you didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Something inside held the tears back, pride? No, not pride. You lost every pride you had. Maybe pain? Or maybe just the cruel understanding that no matter how hard you wished otherwise, this moment was already decided?
What were you supposed to say to him? Don’t go? Begging on your knees and telling him to not leave you alone in loneliness again? You knew better. Words hadn’t stopped him before. And just because you were terrified of losing him again—that wouldn’t be enough to make him stay.
So you stayed silent. Watching hopelessly outside the window.
Takizawa stepped closer, slower this time. His eyes never left your body— scanning every inch of your side face like he was memorizing it.
“Say something,” he murmured.
You took a shaky breath and finally turned your head to look at him. His face seemed calm, but his eyes betrayed him, you know his gazing orbs too well. There was conflict behind them. Guilt. Grief. Filled with sorrow. He wasn't doing this for fun, for his free will. He was joining them for a better chance, for saving Akira's life.
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words got stuck in your throat, swallowed by the heaviness in your chest. Fear had taken root in you like cold stone, and no amount of breathing could make it budge.
Your gaze dropped. “Just…” Your voice cracked. “…be careful.”
Takizawa took another small step closer. He reached out his hand carefully but hesitated for only a moment, recalling the way you recoiled from his touch before.
But then his hand reached fully out, cautious, trembling just slightly and when his fingers finally wrapped around yours, his grip tightened with an almost desperate tenderness. And before you knew it, before you could think he was pulling you into his arms. Like you were almost meant to be there, in this place, in his warmth. You belonged there, despite everything, his warmth was still your home.
“I’ll come back,” he said after a long pause. “I promise.” Your fingers clinging on his clothes, trembling against his back.
You didn’t believe in promises anymore —not after the silence, not after the vanishing. Not after the years of being alone.
And yet…
You still hoped.
—
You had long lost track of time. Minutes bled into one another like blurred watercolors.
You hadn’t slept—you couldn’t.
Every time you tried to lie down, the thoughts only grew louder. Sharper. Heavier.
You truly tried, but your mind refused to let you rest.
Your body felt drained and heavy, as if someone had pulled the life straight from your bones. And still, you couldn’t stop. Not while Takizawa was still out there. Not while you didn’t know if he would come back… whole, alive… back to you.
The only thing that kept you busy was Akira. You stayed by her bedside, changing the damp cloth on her forehead again and again, watching as it warmed far too quickly. You probably did this a thousand times now.
You watched her breathe—shallow, fevered. Watched her fingers twitch slightly in her sleep.
And each time you dipped the cloth in cold water, wrung it out, and laid it gently across her skin, it felt like you could breathe again, at least just a little. That's what you thought. Sometimes you even talked to her, knowing exactly she doesn't hear you and won't answer you.
A small moment of calm in the chaos. A fleeting second when your mind didn’t spiral into fear. A moment where hope, however small and broken, still managed to exist.
And then you finally heard footsteps. You held your breath. Please… let it be them.
The door creaked open and your head shot into the direction.
Kaneki stepped in first. His white hair was tousled from the wind and fight. The white suit he wore was pretty torn apart and dirty.
Behind him came Tsukiyama, unusually silent, cradling a sleek black case in gloved hands like it was something mystical. Your heart lurched in your chest. Your eyes searched for only one person though, you may be selfish but right now you only cared for him.
Takizawa. He was the last to enter.
You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until it finally escaped your lungs, leaving you lightheaded for a moment.
Blood stained his sleeveless turtleneck top. It was slightly torn, but he was on his feet, he was standing. He seemed out of breath and looked like hell, whatever happened, it hasn't been easy.
He sure had a hard fight against Amon, unexpected but somehow they managed to drag the big guy with them.Takizawa let the man’s body drop to the ground without a word. Then, without even thinking twice, he wiped the blood from his hands onto his already filthy shirt.
His eyes seemed irritated from the battle before, they were scanning the room, restless, until they found yours. His gaze softened when he saw you.
It felt like time stopped, the only thing you could hear was your own blood pumping into your heart.
You rose slowly from the chair you were sitting, lips parting as if were about to speak, but nothing came out.
He was alive.
He came back.
He came back to you.
Just as he promised.
Kaneki gave you a subtle nod, then turned toward Akira, who still lay pale and feverish in the bed.
“We got it,” he said quietly, firmly. “Let’s begin.”
—
You wiped the sweat from your forehead and pulled the mask off your face. Finally, Akira was stable. No more fever, no more pain. She could finally begin to recover.
The other assistants and doctors were handling the last few steps, finishing her bandages. You were no longer needed, so you stepped out of the surgery room, completely drained from the day.
You hadn’t only helped with Akira. You’d also assisted in treating Amon. The guy was completely worn out from his fight with Takizawa and Kurona.
All you wanted right now was to go home, stare blankly at the wall, and maybe cry your soul out. But you still had to talk to Takizawa, even if you aren't mentally and physically alright, you needed to. Or else you will go insane with the thoughts that are eating up your brain.
So you set out to find out where the white-haired man was. It didn’t take too long, and on your way to search for him, you found him.
He was standing outside the building where the operation had taken place.
Leaning against the wall, his head slightly lowered, the streetlights cast a dim glow that threw shadows across his face. His clothes were clean and whole again. Apparently, he had changed, wanting to appear more presentable in front of you.
Your steps slowed, and you stopped a few meters in front of him. He turned slightly, sensing your presence. His eyes met yours. Tired, heavy with deep exhaustion. For a moment, you just watched him.
You wondered if he felt the weight of it too. The five years of silence. Of absence. Of death.
Because to you, that’s what it was. He died.
And that day, a part of you died too.
Yet somehow, you had to learn how to live with it. It felt impossible.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
Both of you just stood there, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights.
Then, after a long minute, he broke the silence. With a hesitant voice, he asked quietly,
“Would you like to take a walk to the park?” And then he added, “On the way… or once we're there, we can talk about everything.”
“Okay…” was all you said.
The two of you walked side by side, silence hanging between you. The silence wasn't awkward but it wasn't comfortable either. It was terrifyingly loud. It echoed with every unanswered question, every visit to his grave, almost every night you whispered his name like a prayer and hoped it would somehow reach him wherever he was.
Even the walk to the park felt long and bleak. But eventually, you arrived. You had no idea how many minutes had passed until then. Standing now in the middle of it. No other soul was here, it felt abandoned just like you. He stopped right in front of you, taking a deep breath. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. He prepared for the worst. But then again, what could be worse than the lie you kept living on with.
He wanted to say something, but before he could, you interrupted him. “You could have contacted me, written to me, called me, or sent me a letter,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. He flinched at your words—you were right. Deep down and all the way up, you were right.
He glanced briefly at the ground, listening to your words that were tearing his soul apart. Your voice trembled as you spoke more and more. And there was the silence again that felt so deafening.
You swallowed hard, forcing down the sting in your throat.
“I visited your grave.”
Your voice was quiet, raw. “Almost every day after work. I visited your grave, I left new flowers there every week. I talked to you like an idiot… told you things, about life, about how much I missed you. I mourned you like— like you were really gone, Seidou.”
Your voice cracked at the sound of his name. You hadn’t said it out loud in so long. It tasted like rust and old pain. Your fists clenched.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat worked as if he were trying to speak, but nothing made it out. His eyes, hollow and tired, locked on yours, full of guilt.
You shook your head, bitter laughter slipping through your chest.
“I was there when they buried an empty box,” you continued. “They told me there wasn’t enough left of you to even… recognize.” Your eyes and throat were burning, tears welling up in your orbs. Blurring your vision. “And all that time, you were alive..”
The silence between you was louder than your voice, louder than any scream, heavier than any word.
“I wanted to hate you,” you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “After seeing your message… I really, really tried to hate you.”
His jaw tensed, his eyes falling to the ground like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze. Shame clung to him like a second skin. He looked like he was caught between guilt and grief, as if he’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his mind and still never found the right words.
He should’ve known what was coming next.
“But I couldn’t,” you breathed, your voice barely holding together. “I still can’t.”
That was the cruelest part of it all—wasn’t it?
Your breath hitched in your chest, sharp and unsteady. You took a step back, as if putting even an inch of space between you could make it hurt less.
“Why didn’t you reach out?” you asked, the question cracking down the middle like a bone splitting. “Not once. Not a call. Not a sign. You just… let me believe you were dead. For five years.”
Your voice broke completely at the end, the last word more like a plea than a sentence.
He stepped forward — slowly, as if each movement weighed him down, like every step was a reminder of who he used to be and what he had become.
“I wanted to,” he said at last, voice rough and scraped raw by memory. “God, I wanted to. I thought about it a thousand times. About reaching out. About seeing you again. But every time I got close…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I told myself you were better off not knowing. That letting you believe I was dead was… safer.”
His voice cracked, brittle with shame. “I wasn’t me anymore. I was—” he faltered, unable to meet your eyes. “I was a monster. I am a monster. I didn’t want you to see what I’d become. What they turned me into.”
Something inside you snapped.
“I don’t care what you became!” you shouted, your voice ringing through the night air like a siren of grief. “You think I wouldn’t have recognized you? I just wanted you back. I would’ve taken you in any form—bloody, broken, angry, whatever the hell they made you into. I never stopped loving you.”
His shoulders collapsed inward, as if your words stripped him down to his barest truth.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he murmured, softer now.
But was he?
Maybe it was protection. Maybe it was fear wrapped in good intentions. That cruel, quiet kind of fear—the one that whispers you’re too ruined to be loved, too far gone to be forgiven. Maybe he truly believed disappearing was mercy.
Or maybe it was selfishness. Maybe it was easier to disappear than to face you. Easier to become a ghost than return to the wreckage of the life he left behind. Because to come back would mean facing the pain he caused… and the love he no longer thought he deserved.
“No,” you said, stepping closer, your voice trembling but steady. “You weren’t protecting me. You were protecting yourself. From me. From what we were. From what you left behind.”
The silence that followed was thick—sharp, electric with unspoken things. You felt it all press down on your chest: the weight of five years, of unanswered questions, of a grave visited under false hope.
A breath left you—shaky, wounded. Your lungs ached from holding in so much for so long.
A choked sob tore from your throat as your hands flew to your face, the weight of everything finally crashing down — the sleepless nights, the gnawing silence, the mourning of someone who had never truly died.
You stood there, shaking, barely able to breathe under the heaviness of it all. Then, through the tremble of your voice, you whispered, “I deserved to know you were alive.”
He looked up at you and the pain etched into his face was unbearable. Not just guilt, but something deeper. A kind of mourning for all the versions of you he missed, for every day he chose silence instead of reaching for the one person who would’ve still held him.
“I know,” he said quietly and his own voice breaking. Tears filled his eyes with each second passing by.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered. And those two words seemed to break him open more and more. His voice was hoarse, like it had fought its way out from the darkest corner of him. “For all of it. For disappearing. For making you grieve someone who wasn’t even gone. For not being brave enough to come back sooner.”
You stared at him, vision blurry, heart splintering. “I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you admitted with following sobs.
He nodded slowly. “I’m not asking you to. I don’t deserve it. I just…” He swallowed. “I want to be someone who could deserve it.”
And somehow, that honesty hurt more than anything else.
Your voice broke into a crying mess. “no.. you deserve it because i still love you as much as the day you were gone.”
The confession shattered the last wall between you — and in the next moment, Takizawa stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. It wasn’t gentle. It was trembling, desperate, as if holding you was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
“I’ll spend every day with you, to make up to you. Fix the things between us.” he murmured into your hair. “If you’ll let me.”
You let yourself melt into him for a moment, closing your eyes and breathing him in. You didn’t know what this meant for the both of you—if anything had changed, if anything ever could. But for now, none of that mattered.
“I will let you..” was the last thing you whispered.
You stood there, wrapped in each other — two people broken by time and silence, holding on like the ruins between you could be rebuilt. Maybe love wasn’t always soft or simple. Maybe sometimes it survived not because it was easy, but because it was willing to return, even through the wreckage.
And for that moment, just that one, it was enough.
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16.06.2025 - sincerely your yuumakaiser <3
