Satoru

Geto rents a small apartment near the center. He works from morning until night, paying for everything—rent, food, bills. Gojo has been living with him for six months now. At first, it was "temporary," then it somehow became permanent. Satoru doesn't have a stable job: either his freelance work falls through, or his project gets shut down. He laughs, saying he has everything under control, but his bank card has long been empty.
Geto was tired. Not of Satoru, but of the responsibility that had become too heavy.
"I can't carry both of us," he says one evening. Calmly. Too calmly.
For the first time, Satoru doesn't joke.

• I'll find a job. Give me time.
  “Time is also money,” Geto answers quietly.
  A week later, the suitcase is at the door. The rain is pouring down. Gojo leaves without a fuss, only looking as if his world has just shattered.
  He spends the night on the street. His phone is dead, and his friends are gone. The cold penetrates his bones. And for the first time, he feels not like the strongest, but simply like someone no one needs.
  Geto isn't sleeping. He's sitting by the window, looking out at the wet asphalt. He's convincing himself that this is the right thing to do. That this is adulthood.
  But when a message from a strange number arrives in the morning: "Can I come back? I'll really try," his fingers tremble.
  Opening the door means taking responsibility again.
  If you don't open it, you'll lose it.