✶ THE UNMADE BED THEORY.
(🎱) IN WHICH he can't figure out how to live without you—seriously, satoru isn't sure if he can even try. after the accident, he gets stuck in a cycle of denial, rage, and crazy bargaining, refusing to believe you're actually gone. what's the point of living if the person who made it all worthwhile isn't around anymore? it's a miserable, slow crawl toward accepting that the pain of losing you is the price he pays for the love you shared.
BOYF!SATORU + FEM!READER 🗝️
天使のキス. major angst. major character death. grief, and specific depictions. suicidal ideation. sad baby satobear :( bittersweet/happy ending. 5.4k words. for my baby's ( @sweethearticism ) brutal bakery event! hope you shed some tears, love <3
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✶ STAGE ONE: DENIAL.
the first thing satoru did that morning was make coffee for two.
it wasn't a choice, not a deliberate, symbolic act. it was muscle memory—the kind of autopilot routine hammered in over years of cohabitation. two scoops of grounds, two equal pours of milk, two mugs warming on the counter.
his chipped blue one, your ridiculous one shaped like a dinosaur. he only realized what he’d done when he reached for the sugar and saw both steaming cups side-by-side, casting identical shadows on the marble.
he looked at them for a long time, the steam blurring the edges of the dinosaur.
the mug was an error, an accident. that was it.
he pushed the dinosaur mug slightly to the side, then picked up his phone. six-forty-five am. no messages.
traffic must be bad, he thought, pulling out a protein shake instead of drinking the hot mistake.
you had taken the first flight out yesterday for a conference. a quick one—forty-eight hours, maybe less. it was the kind of quick trip you usually texted through, sending photos of bad airport food or complaining about the wi-fi.
he finished his shake, put on the work clothes he barely needed to wear anymore, and walked toward the bedroom.
your side of the bed was perfect. the duvet was pulled up to your pillow, smooth and cool. you were usually a restless sleeper, always kicking the sheets off. he smoothed a wrinkle from the duvet with the flat of his hand. it was the only tangible sign that you hadn't been there last night—the perfect, untouched flatness.
he checked his phone again. no missed calls.
he walked into the living room, paused by the sofa, and picked up the half-read paperback you’d left open face-down on the cushion. he didn't read the words, just carried it over to the small antique table by the window and set it down neatly. you hated folding corners; he knew you’d be annoyed if the spine broke.
he sat down at his desk. work was a blur of emails and calls about things that were massive and yet felt like dust motes. he moved files, scheduled meetings, and used every bit of his focus to ensure not one thought slipped into the gap where his attention usually drifted—the gap where he was usually thinking about your lunch plans, or what song you were listening to, or whether you had remembered your charger.
the gap stayed stubbornly, terrifyingly empty.
the police had called him late last night. a car crash. interstate 95. a semi-truck. a hospital he couldn't name.
he had hung up on them. twice.
the third time, a different officer, her voice thick and practiced, had tried to explain. satoru had looked at the floor, counting the hexagons in the rug pattern, and told her she had the wrong number. his girlfriend was on a business trip. she was fine. she just hadn't called yet because she was probably in a meeting.
it was eight-fifteen am. you would be wrapping up the first session now. you always complained that the continental breakfast at those places was stale.
he knew if he just waited another hour, you’d finally step out of the conference hall and text him: ugh, they served mini-muffins again. please bring me takeout when i land.
he closed his laptop. he couldn't focus. he couldn't risk missing the vibration of the phone on his desk.
he walked into the kitchen, picked up the dinosaur mug, and poured the cold, stale coffee down the sink. he ran a washcloth over the counter where it had sat, scrubbing the small, dark ring it had left.
the apartment was too quiet. the sun was too bright. everything was exactly where it should be, except for the one person whose presence made everything else matter.
he carried his own empty mug back to the sink, rinsed it, and put it away. he looked at the perfect, clean counter.
she’s just running late.
he was sure of it. he was just being ridiculous. he was going to sit on the sofa and wait, and when the front door finally clicked open, he was going to tell you how worried he had been, and you were going to laugh at him for being so dramatic.
he pulled the half-read paperback off the window table, walked back to the sofa, and waited. he didn't open the book. he didn't even look at the spine. he just listened to the silence, waiting for the sound of keys in the lock that would break the terrible lie.
the sun started to set. he hadn't moved. the waiting had become a kind of trance.
his phone finally buzzed—not a text, but a calendar reminder. it was a recurring event you had set up weeks ago.
6:00 pm: call someone about the leaky faucet!
satoru stared at the notification. for a moment, he allowed a ghost of a smile to flit across his face. you'd set that reminder there, he remembers, after he'd insisted he could fix it himself and only managed to make it worse. what a day that was. both you and him, soaking wet from the pipe that shot water at you, shrieking in laughter.
he felt a cold, sharp object lodge itself beneath his ribs. (terror, maybe?)
he gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white, but he didn't swipe the notification away. six pm came and went. the notification remained, a constant, glowing reproach on the screen.
suddenly, the silence of the apartment wasn't neutral anymore. it was mocking. the perfect, flat duvet on the bed was an accusation. the empty, pristine sink was an insult.
the officer's voice finally broke through the static of his thoughts—not the words she’d used, but the sound of her voice, the heavy, final tone.
the silence had once meant you were busy. now it just felt like a refusal.
satoru launched the phone across the room. it hit the wall with a sickening plastic thwack, shattering the screen, the calendar reminder disappearing into a spiderweb of broken glass.
his chest heaved. he didn't feel sadness. he didn't feel fear. he felt a sudden, blistering heat rise from his stomach, traveling up his throat.
no.
he stood up, walking rapidly to the kitchen, yanking open the utility drawer. he needed to do something. he needed to fix this wrongness. he saw the empty coffee mug stand—the spot where the dinosaur mug belonged—and he grabbed the entire metal rack, hauling it out and smashing it onto the floor.
the sound of twisting metal and breaking ceramics was deafening.
he stood in the wreckage, his whole body shaking, feeling the first, raw bloom of a terrible new emotion. it wasn't despair. it was the absolute, agonizing conviction that this was wrong. it was an injustice.
he looked at the shattered phone and whispered, the sound ripped from his throat:
“you didn’t call me back.”
it wasn't a question. it was a furious, agonizing demand. and the silence was the answer.
why didn't you call me back?
✶ STAGE TWO: ANGER.
the anger was clean, a pure, white-hot fuel that burned through the numbness. denial had been a heavy blanket; anger was a broken alarm blaring nonstop.
he walked out of the apartment the next morning, stepping over the shattered phone and the wreckage of the metal mug rack. he didn't look at it. he felt no remorse for the damage; only the cold, piercing demand for a reason.
he drove—fast, reckless, and without destination. the car was his, the engine noise was his, and the speed was a blunt instrument he used to hit back at the universe. every near miss, every blare of a horn, just intensified the furious question looping in his head: why?
his friends called. shoko. geto. they called his cell, which was broken, so they called the landline, which he hadn't disconnected yet.
he picked it up on the tenth ring.
"satoru, thank god. we heard—" shoko’s voice was shaky, laced with the careful pity he couldn't stand.
"you heard wrong," he cut her off, the sound of his own voice grating.
"satoru, stop. we know. i went to the station. i saw the report. why didn't you call us?"
"because there’s nothing to report," he snarled, planting his feet on the wooden floor. the wood creaked under his weight, protesting. "she's at a conference. i told the cop they had the wrong number. you’re interfering."
"the conference was canceled, satoru. the airline confirmed—"
"stop talking about the airline!" he roared. he slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, but the anger wasn't satisfied. he looked around the small entryway table. it was laden with neutral items: his keys, junk mail, a ceramic bowl for change. he snatched the bowl and threw it against the nearest wall. it exploded into sharp, heavy pieces.
he didn’t touch the small, crocheted coaster you had made. he wouldn't. he never would.
the next few days were a study in purposeful, contained destruction. he emptied his closet, ripping shirts and suits he hated off their hangers, balling them up, and tossing them into the middle of the floor until the pile was shoulder-high. he rearranged the living room, not gently, but shoving the heavy sofa and armchairs until the carpet bunched and the wood beneath protested with loud, satisfying scrapes.
the conflict was always the same: it wasn't supposed to happen this way.
he spent hours yelling at the empty hallway. he wasn't yelling at you, not yet. he was yelling at the truck driver. he was yelling at the inadequate guardrail. he was yelling at the indifferent, chaotic physics of the world that had dared to snatch you away like this.
you were supposed to be safe! that was a forty-minute flight! what kind of goddamn accident happens on a forty-minute flight?
he reserved his sharpest blame for the people who offered comfort.
his mother came by once. she reached for his hand. "satoru, i know how much you hurt, dear. it was awful, senseless—"
"senseless?" his voice was low, trembling with disbelief. he pulled his hand back as if her touch burned. "senseless? no. it was someone’s mistake. someone on that plane screwed up. or maybe she shouldn't have been in that car that morning. maybe she shouldn't have taken that offer! there is always a reason! don't call it senseless, you just don't want to assign blame!"
he had wanted a tearful hug, but she had offered pity and platitudes, and pity was an insult to the scale of his pain. he sent her away, locking the door and leaning his forehead against the cold wood, tasting the metallic tang of his own fury.
the anger turned inward only when he went searching for proof that you hadn't fought hard enough.
late that night, he found the car keys in a dish you used only for spare change. your keys, the ones you took everywhere, were right there. he seized them, looking at the silver chain.
you left these here.
the silence was the only reply, but in his mind, it warped into a negligent shrug.
he threw the keys. they hit the doorframe and fell to the carpet. he didn't pick them up. he just stared at the spot where they lay, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts.
“you promised,” he whispered, the rage finally directed at the source of his deepest wound. “you promised me we had time. you promised we would grow old. why did you break it? why did you leave me here?”
he didn't cry. he wasn't sad.
he was betrayed.
he drove to the site. it wasn't the accident spot, but the place they had taken the wreckage before impounding it—a vast, concrete yard behind the police depot. he bribed his way onto the perimeter, pretending to be insurance.
he saw the twisted chassis of the rental car. the metal was scraped, crumpled, and utterly ruined. it was a brutal, concrete monument to the finality of it all.
satoru stared at the damage, then at his own two hands—hands capable of snapping steel, hands that could rip the world apart. they were useless here. they couldn't rewind time. they couldn't put that metal back together.
he looked away from the car and back at a concrete barrier wall. he walked over to it, raised his fist, and slammed it straight into the unforgiving block.
the pain was immediate, sharp, and intense. it was a good feeling, a solid and real payment for the empty ache in his chest. he hit it again. and again. he didn't break the wall, but he felt a sickening snap in his own hand.
when he looked down, his knuckles were split and bleeding freely, painting the gray concrete wall in bright, vibrant red. he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, feeling the throbbing pulse of the injury.
the pain didn't distract him anymore. it brought clarity.
he looked at the wreckage of the car, then at the blood on his hand, then back at the car.
he had destroyed a few mugs, a mug rack, and now, his own hand. the car was still gone. you were still gone.
he realized he could scream until his throat shredded, he could destroy every single object in the northern hemisphere, but the silence would never break. his anger was a magnificent, powerful, utterly wasted effort.
a raw, unfamiliar pang of guilt sliced through the fury. he hadn't fought the world; he had fought an empty room, and now he was punishing his own hand for something you had no control over.
he felt the rage ebb, leaving him freezing, covered in sweat and blood, and deeply, terribly ashamed.
i am sorry, he thought, the first soft whisper of apology since the silence began. i am so sorry i’m angry at you.
he stood there, surrounded by the remnants of the tragedy he had just failed to conquer, and for the first time since the phone call, he felt something other than rage. he felt the vast, cold emptiness of the loss, and the sudden, desperate, chilling need to undo what had happened. he needed a way to bring you back.
he closed his bloody fist, the pain a distant, dull promise. there had to be a way. there had to be a deal to be made.
he had to fix this.
✶ STAGE THREE: BARGAINING.
the blood on satoru’s knuckles dried and cracked, but he didn't wash it off. the sight of the injury was a tether, a reminder that pain was real and therefore, something that could be paid.
anger had been a riot; bargaining was a frantic, whispered negotiation. if the universe had taken you, then the universe must also have a price list.
he started with the logical attempts at control, the if i do x, then y will happen equations. you had always wanted to finance the city's new community arts center, a project stalled by bureaucracy and cost. satoru's wired the total deficit—a staggering sum—to the foundation overnight. he watched the news reports the next day, waiting for the feeling of balance, of cosmic debt being cleared.
it didn't come. the news anchor spoke of a generous, anonymous donor. the arts center was saved. you were still gone. the universe had accepted the money, but it hadn't sent the receipt he actually wanted.
his focus narrowed to the immediate past, the agonizing if onlys. he reviewed the last week you had shared, turning every mundane moment into a potential fault line.
if only i hadn't made that joke about her work presentation being boring.
if only i had convinced her to take the train instead of driving to the out-of-town airport.
if only, when she asked me what i wanted for dinner, i had said "stay home" instead of "i don't care."
he became obsessed with the flight tickets. he found the confirmation email, printing out every iteration of the itinerary. he sat at the desk, meticulously highlighting different arrival times, different carriers, convinced that somewhere in the fine print was the detail he could change, the butterfly wing he could un-flutter.
he called the airline again, this time calm, clinical. he didn't ask about the accident; he asked about the initial booking process.
“when you click ‘confirm purchase,’ is there any way to change the carrier afterward, even for a fee?”
the bored agent said no.
“but if the server had lagged, and i had refreshed the page—would it have defaulted to the other option? the one that was safer?”
the agent just repeated the company policy.
satoru hung up, his hands shaking, recognizing the futility but unable to stop. this wasn't grief; it was logistics. if he could just find the loophole in the paperwork, he could prove the universe had made a clerical error.
the apartment was still in disarray, a combination of his destructive rage and your preserved order. he was carefully cleaning out the kitchen junk drawer—an act of desperate orderliness—when his fingers brushed against something small and cold at the very back.
it was a delicate silver earring, tiny and shaped like a crescent moon.
you had been looking for this earring for weeks. you'd been frantic about it, convinced you had lost the pair forever, remembering you'd taken it off right before you left for the conference.
satoru drew it out and held it up to the light. it wasn't the solution to a world-class problem, just a forgotten piece of jewelry.
a silent pact solidified in his mind, sharp and perfect. this was the focus. this was the test.
he closed his fist around the moon-shaped silver, the sharp edges digging into the cuts on his knuckles. he made the promise out loud, a strained whisper in the vast, empty living room.
“if i find the other one,” he vowed to the silent air, to the invisible, listening powers, “if i find the match and put them both back in your jewelry box, safe and sound, untouched—then this… this whole awful thing… it was just a terrible mistake. and you'll walk through that door, and you'll put them on, and we'll both forget this happened.”
the task became his sole mission. he searched for the other earring with a surgical desperation that bordered on hallucination. he tore apart the sofa cushions, checked the gap under the stove, and crawled under the bed, brushing aside dust bunnies and old socks. he worked for thirty-six hours straight, fueled by cold coffee and the impossible hope that this tiny piece of metal was the lever to reality.
he didn't sleep. he didn't eat. he ran his hands along the seams of every piece of clothing you owned, searching for the glint of silver.
he checked the one place he had known he should look from the start: the narrow, dark crack between the wall and your nightstand. he had always meant to seal that gap. he got a flashlight and a pair of tweezers.
after ten minutes of careful maneuvering, he snagged something. it was definitely silver, definitely the right size. he pulled it out, dropping it onto the wooden floor.
the light glinted off it. it was not the matching crescent moon. it was a dime.
satoru picked up the dime, his head swimming with exhaustion. he looked at the perfect moon in his left hand, and the useless ten-cent coin in his right.
he had fulfilled the condition of the bargain—he had searched. he had found something. but he had not found the right thing.
he sank back onto the floor, the two objects resting uselessly in his open palms. the fever broke. the frantic energy collapsed, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep fatigue.
there was no trick. there was no loophole. there was no secret pact he could make, no debt large enough to settle. the universe wasn't bargaining back. it was just silent. it had taken, and it would not return.
he looked around the room—the furniture shoved into the center, the shredded paperwork, the cold, stale air. he was entirely alone, sitting in the dust, clutching an unmatched earring.
he realized he was never going to find the other one. he was never going to hear your voice again. and he had nothing left to offer.
the silence that followed was heavy, vast, and final, a cold pressure settling over his lungs. he was too tired to be angry, too broken to fight. he simply sat there, staring at the dust motes dancing in the cold afternoon light, and let the crushing, leaden weight of despair begin to set in.
✶ STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION.
the apartment didn't feel empty anymore. it felt vast and cold, filled with something dense and invisible that made it impossible to breathe.
after the collapse of the bargaining stage, satoru didn't move from the floor. he sat amid the discarded items, the dime, and the single, useless crescent moon earring, until the sun went down. he had been fighting for days, and now the fight was simply over.
he wasn't angry. he wasn't desperately hoping. he was just tired. bone-weary, muscle-aching, soul-fatigued.
he eventually crawled into the bedroom. he didn't turn on the light. the room was dark, shadowed by the urban glow seeping in from the streetlamps. he went straight to your closet. he pulled out the biggest, softest sweatshirt you owned—the faded gray one with the hole near the cuff—and he buried his face in it.
it smelled like you. like old detergent and the hint of the specific jasmine tea you always drank before bed. it was a suffocating, intoxicating anchor.
he crawled under the duvet, pulling the sweatshirt up over his head until the scent was all-encompassing. he didn’t sleep, not really. he existed in a hazy, half-conscious state where the days blurred into the nights.
the phone rang, but the landline receiver was still off the hook from when he'd slammed it down in anger. his shattered cell phone lay where it had landed, the screen black. no sound entered the room, save for the rhythmic, dull thud of his own heartbeat.
he stopped eating. the thought of chewing, swallowing, or tasting seemed like a monumental effort. he only drank water when his throat felt like sand. he didn't shower. his hair felt heavy and greasy, a tangible representation of the mess inside his head.
the conflict wasn't about the past anymore; it was about the present. there was no point.
he looked at the small patch of light that fell across the carpet near the closet door. before, that light had promised morning, promising another day he would spend with you. now, it promised another day he would spend without you, and the thought was unbearable.
he didn't want to die, but he felt an aching pull toward stillness. to simply stop moving, to let the world continue its indifferent spin while he stayed rooted here, in the cold, silent apartment. he saw no light ahead, only the infinite, dull continuation of this present, agonizing pain.
one afternoon, he found himself standing near the armchair in the living room—your chair. you always sat there to read, legs curled up beneath you, the afternoon sun warming the threadbare fabric.
he hadn't sat there since you left. it had felt like an invasion, a desecration.
now, he simply lowered himself onto the cushion. it still held a shallow indentation where your weight usually rested. he pressed his face into the armrest, inhaling deeply, trying to find the last remnants of your scent that had clung to the fabric.
he finally stopped fighting the pain. he didn't lash out at the universe. he didn't search for a fix. he just surrendered to the fact that you were gone, and the weight of that truth crushed him, pressing all the air from his lungs.
the crying started without sound. it was just a hitch in his chest, a convulsion that turned into a deep, silent, physical wrenching. he shook, his body folding in on itself. the despair was raw, primal, and utterly consuming. he sobbed into the cushion until his throat was raw and his head throbbed. he allowed the grief, pure and unadulterated, to finally wash over him.
hours later, completely spent, he felt the heavy, suffocating silence return, but it was different now. the air wasn't mocking him; it was simply still.
he knew he couldn't stay like this, but he couldn't move forward either. he was stuck, suspended between the life he had and the void ahead.
he needed to finally clean out your nightstand drawer, a task he’d put off with panicked avoidance. he did it without care, without hope. just compliance.
inside, beneath a stack of old magazines and charging cables, he found a notebook—a small, dark blue journal you kept for sporadic lists and ideas. he flipped through it, not reading, just letting the familiar loop of your handwriting slide under his thumb.
on the very last page, separate from the lists, was a folded piece of stationery. it wasn't addressed to him, but it was unmistakably yours, a draft of a letter, started and never finished.
he unfolded it slowly.
i know i don’t say it enough, or maybe i don't say it the way it needs to be heard. but if you’re reading this, and i’m not there to tell you—please, please believe me when i say this: you are the best thing that ever happened to me. you are the warmth in the quiet, and the only reason the hard parts of the world felt worth facing. i want you to be happy, satoru. and i mean truly happy. if i’m not there, you have to find that joy anyway. you were born to be brilliant and bright, and you can’t let the gray spots swallow you. you deserve the whole world, and you deserve a future bigger than this apartment. go find it. don’t let me be the end of your story. love you, always.
satoru’s bloodshot eyes fixed on the last line. don’t let me be the end of your story.
the words weren't a plea for vengeance or a promise of return; they were a directive. a command. they cut through the thick haze of his despair, not with anger, but with a sudden, painful, illuminating sense of responsibility.
he lifted the note, touching the crisp paper, feeling the indentations of your handwriting. you had not wanted him to drown. you had wanted him to swim.
the emptiness was still crushing, but now, a tiny, almost imperceptible sliver of light—not happiness, but purpose—had been slipped beneath the heavy curtain. he closed his eyes, holding the note against his chest. it was the hardest thing he had ever read. he knew he couldn't pretend to be happy, but he also knew he couldn't ignore your final, loving wish.
he had to get up. not for himself, but because you had told him to.
✶ STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE.
it wasn't a destination; it was the slow, excruciating process of learning to walk on ground that had irrevocably shifted. it wasn't happiness, and it wasn't the relief of the pain ending. it was the quiet, brutal knowledge that the pain was the permanent cost of the greatest love he had ever known.
satoru started small. he picked up the navy blue cardigan from the floor where he had dropped it after finding the note. he folded it neatly, smoothing the wrinkles, and placed it on his pillow. he didn't sleep with it again, but he kept it close.
the next thing he did was the dishes. the sink was a science experiment of mold and neglect. the smell was awful, but he forced himself through the scrubbing, the rinsing, and the stacking. it was a tangible victory over the inertia of depression, a small piece of order forced back into the universe.
over the next week, he systematically took back the apartment, not in anger or frantic searching, but with a dull, respectful compliance. he boxed up the wreckage of the mug rack and the shattered phone, sweeping up every last shard of glass. he returned the furniture to its proper place.
the hardest task was packing your things. he hadn't touched your side of the closet since you left. now, he opened the doors and let the familiar, soft smell of your laundry hit him.
he didn't rush. he folded your clothes with the care of a museum curator, recognizing the memories attached to each item—the dress you wore to that party, the soft shirt he always stole. he wasn't boxing them to erase you; he was preserving them, moving them out of the current living space and into a space where they could be honored without being daily torture.
he found the little dinosaur mug, unharmed, sitting alone in the back of the pantry where he’d pushed it weeks ago. he wrapped it in a kitchen towel and placed it gently on top of the last box of clothes.
in the process of cleaning, he changed things. he took down the vibrant painting you had hung in the entryway and replaced it with a simple, dark landscape that felt better suited to his current, quieter mood. he moved your reading chair away from the window, turning it inward, facing the sofa, creating a new conversational space that no longer emphasized the vacant light.
this was the hardest work of acceptance: making the space his own again. not satoru and you, but just satoru, living in a house built for two.
the friends who had tried to help during his angry phase cautiously returned. shoko came over and helped him install new blinds. geto brought takeout and simply sat in the newly arranged living room, not talking, just existing with him. they accepted the new reality, and in doing so, they helped him accept himself.
one morning, weeks later, satoru finally shaved. he stood in the bathroom, watching the lather rinse down the drain, and looked at his reflection. he saw the same eyes, the same face, but the grief had etched new lines around his mouth, lines of permanent fatigue and wisdom. he looked like someone who had survived a war and come home to a strange, quiet peace.
he walked back into the living room and stopped in front of the framed photo. it was a picture taken on a random summer day, where the sun was too bright and you were squinting slightly, laughing at something he'd just said. it was imperfect, vibrant, and fiercely alive.
he looked at your face. he saw the curve of your smile, the familiar spark in your eyes, and for the first time, the memory didn't send him into a spiral of despair or rage.
a faint, sad smile touched his lips. it was real, born not from happiness, but from profound gratitude for what he had been given. he reached out and touched the glass over your face.
“i miss you,” he whispered.
the pain was there—a familiar, dull ache in his chest—but this time, he didn't collapse. he stood firm, rooted in the floor, and felt the ache not as a destructive force, but as a permanent reminder of the depth of his capacity to love.
he finally honored the commitment you had wanted him to make. years ago, you had encouraged him to teach—to share his knowledge and strength, arguing that the world needed his enormous potential channeled into something constructive. he had always dismissed it, preferring solo work.
now, he looked up the university’s adjunct application deadlines. it was terrifying—committing to a future without you, committing to something purely on his own.
the next morning, satoru stands in the entryway, not stepping over wreckage, but putting on his shoes. he takes his keys, his repaired phone, and pauses before the front door.
he slips the folded note out of his wallet, looks at the words—don’t ever let my story become the end of yours—and slips it back.
he opens the door. the sun is bright, the air is cold, and the world is still wrong, still incomplete. but he takes a step forward anyway, his feet firmly on the ground. he is satoru, who loved you, who lost you, and who is now learning, agonizingly, to live the enormous life you had commanded.
he doesn't know where he's going, only that he’s moving forward.
and that when he closes his eyes, your beautiful smile will always be the first thing he sees.
© 𝓹illbaby. please don't copy, steal, or plagiarize. refrain from feeding my works into ai, or translating them. if you have any other questions, dm me!
Lowkey sobbing ╥﹏╥