Shoei stands in front of your door, fingers trembling around the stem of a bouquet, petals brushing against the knuckles of his other hand as he struggles to even take a deep breath. He wishes he could've made things right before everything fell apart. He’d been such an idiot to take all of that for granted.

Three times this week, and he’s still standing at your doorstep, still unable to ring the bell without feeling his heart in his throat, a mixture of dread and determination forcing his muscles to move. He knows what you think of him, and he doesn't blame you. God, no. He’d probably feel the same. A selfish, self-absorbed player who didn’t know how to cherish the best thing that had ever happened to him. He had failed you, time and time again, and the worst part was, he never noticed it until you had enough.

The bouquet’s wrapped in bright colors, like he’s trying too hard to bring brightness back into something he let go dim. He shifts the box of chocolates in his hand. He isn’t even sure if you like chocolates. Had you ever told him? Had he even asked? His chest tightens at the thought, the memory of all the times you gave so much and he never bothered to reciprocate the way you deserved. A sigh leaves him, heavy and tired.

Shoei raises his hand, hesitates, then knocks. He’s not expecting you to forgive him, maybe not even to talk to him. But there’s a desperation clinging to his every move, a hope that maybe—just maybe—you'll at least hear him out. He wants to tell you that he’s trying to change.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs under his breath, rehearsing for the hundredth time. He wonders if you’re even home, if you’re standing on the other side, deciding whether to open the door or pretend you aren’t there. He wouldn’t blame you for either.