The apartment feels like it's been sealed off from the world. Windows closed, curtains drawn. No breeze, no sound. Just stillness. Only the humming of the refrigerator pretending to be company.

Hitomi lies curled on the floor of the bathroom, the cool tiles digging into his cheek. He hasn't moved in hours. The faint smell of mildew clings to the air, and still he can't bring himself to care.

There are dishes in the sink he hasn't washed. He doesn't remember the last time he changed clothes, or showered. Time isn't real here, in this safe, quiet rot. All he can feel is this heavy, slow ache, like gravity itself has turned against him and is pressing down into the floor.

He's disappearing, and maybe that would be easier. Maybe even useful.

Out of habit, he picks up his phone. Muscle memory guides him to Chihara's name, to their chat log. The last message Chihara sent, weeks ago, still waits for a reply.

Hitomi knows the words by heart, he wanted to respond a hundred times, a thousand. But he didn't.

He didn't know what kind of person Chihara thought he was. What he wanted from him. It couldn't be love. He was sure of that. But whatever it was, he craved it, craved that something Chihara had given him so easily, without asking anything in return.

Their last night together had felt too real. He remembered the way Chihara had kissed him like it meant something. Like he meant something. The way they'd held each other afterward, barely speaking. That look in Chihara's eyes, gentle, serious, almost afraid, was still burned into his memory.

And then he ruined it, asking stupid questions and waiting for stupid answers.

What are we, Chihara-san? What do you want us to be?

Now, every day felt like a punishment for letting something like that happen. For believing it, even for a second. The silence stretched endlessly. Days blurred. The apartment was a dim, peeling box with a leaky faucet, and somehow even that felt too clean for him. He didn't eat much anymore. Nothing tasted like anything.

He closed his eyes. For a moment, he imagined it: not waking up. Just… fading. A simple exit. But he knew he wouldn't do it. Not really.

He's a coward. Too afraid to die, too ashamed to live.

So instead, he reached for something he understood. Something familiar. It had been a while.

Under the sink was an old rusted tin tucked behind bleach bottles and empty boxes. Inside: a tissue-wrapped blade he'd used before. Always cleaned. Always hidden.

He peeled back the fabric like it was part of a ritual. The blade felt small in his hand. But certain.

He pulled one leg of his shorts up and pressed the edge just below the underwear line, on the inside of his thigh. Out of sight. Out of shame.

The first cut was shallow and clean. Tiny red beads rose slowly, like dew.

His heart pounded.

He felt it now. The rhythm, alive and violent inside him. It echoed in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His body felt too full of blood, too alive for someone who didn't want to be. As if it bothered him.

He inhaled too quickly, and the room tilted. That nauseating pull behind the eyes. His pulse roared in his ears.

Then the blade slipped. Too deep. Too fast.

A sharper, angrier sting exploded through his leg. His fingers clamped onto the porcelain edge of the sink, knuckles whitening. The sound that came out of him wasn't a cry, just breath caught too hard in his lungs.

Blood spilled faster. A thin, racing line slid down and soaked into his sock. His vision blurred at the edges and darkness crept in. His heart pounded harder, and then, for one terrifying beat, it stuttered.

He froze. Trembling. His legs felt like jelly. His whole body prickled with heat and cold at once, nausea blooming behind his ribs. He thought he might throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

But he didn't. Not quite.

He just stared, not in horror, not even in fascination. Just to confirm it had happened.

That he was still real. That he could still bleed.

Slowly, he wiped the blade with toilet paper. Then his hand. Then the floor. It was all routine now. Quiet. Practiced. Like brushing his teeth. Like folding laundry.

He bandaged the cut with gauze from the kit. Too tightly. It wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the worst.

He was so tired. So, so tired.

The sting in his leg stayed with him, not a scream, just a dull, persistent whisper. Something to anchor him, for now.

He looked at his phone again. The message is still there, still waiting. The timestamp might as well have gathered dust.

He should delete it. Block the number. Stop pretending there's still a version of him that deserves any of this.

But he didn't.

Instead, he dragged himself up to sit, and this time, he didn't turn the screen face down. He just stared until it went dark again.

"Fuck," he whispered, barely audible, as the cold floor clung to his body with frostbitten fingers.

Somewhere beyond the sealed windows, he heard birds. Soft, scattered chirps, tentative. Like the start of the morning.

He hadn't noticed the sun rising.

The sky must be pale by now. Maybe even warm. People were probably walking to work. Someone was probably buying bread. Someone was taking their dog out or waving to a neighbor they liked.

The world, it seemed, hadn't stopped for him.

It never had. It never would.

And somehow, that was the loneliest part.