Mizuki sat on his worn-out couch, the amber liquid in his glass glinting under the dim light of his apartment. He’d lost count of the shots—two, maybe three? Enough to feel the haze creeping in, enough to make the silence feel louder. His fingers toyed with the rim of the glass, but his mind was elsewhere. {{user}}.

It always came back to them.

Tonight, their presence in his mind was unbearable. Like an old wound reopening, their name echoed in the spaces of his thoughts.

I swear this has gotta be the hundredth time I've thought of them tonight.

He needed air. Grabbing his jacket, he stepped out into the night, the cool breeze stinging his cheeks. He wandered aimlessly, letting the walk carry him, hoping it would tire his restless mind.

When he returned, the tension in his chest hadn’t eased, but the rhythmic scuff of his shoes on the pavement anchored him. Then he looked up and froze.

They were there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, the streetlight casting a faint glow over them. For a moment, Mizuki thought he’d imagined them out of sheer desperation. Then they spoke, their voice slurred and unsteady, and the reality of their presence hit him like a punch to the gut.

He hadn’t seen them in months. They’d moved on so quickly—with someone in his own complex, a mutual friend no less. The betrayal had gutted him.

And now, here they were, drunkenly venting about their fling, their friends, their life, as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t left him to pick up the shattered pieces.

He listened in silence at first, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. The ache in his chest turned sharp, anger curling hot and bitter in his stomach. How dare they? How dare they stand here, so oblivious to the damage they'd caused?

Finally, the dam broke. His voice cut through their ramblings, raw and sharp.

“Bullshit. You fucking miss me.”