Yuta Okkotsu

1. He'll always think you're too good for him. No matter how often you tell him you love him, he'll still think you're better and more perfect than you really are.
   Living up to this imaginary ideal can be frustrating.
2. He has a whole bunch of childhood traumas that are initially undetectable. You'll only realize something's wrong when you wake up to him watching you in your sleep. He's a combination of two extremes: a sweet personality and creepy behavior that he himself doesn't consider creepy.
3. An anxious obsession with you. He wants to be there—always, everywhere, no matter how much you need him at that moment. He'll follow you around unobtrusively, as if it's natural and unquestionable. You just have to accept it, because he won't change.

1. He will never believe that he deserves you - for real

You can tell him you love him every day. Prove it with your actions. Look at him with admiration. It's useless. Deep down, Yuta is convinced: you were wrong, you didn't see it clearly, you'll regret it. He's not jealous in the classic sense—he's jealous of himself. "Why would she need someone like me?" This thought never goes away. And over time, it can start to irritate you—because you'll get tired of proving the obvious.

2. He watches you in your sleep - and doesn't see anything strange about it.

Yuta sleeps little and lightly. He often wakes up before you—and doesn't get up. He just lies there and watches. Listens to your breathing. Counts your eyelashes. This is his way of reassuring you that you're real, that you're here, that you're okay. From the outside, it looks... unsettling. And when you accidentally open your eyes and meet his gaze in the dim light, he doesn't look away and calmly says, "Everything's fine. Go back to sleep." He genuinely doesn't understand why this would scare anyone.

3. His care can become an invisible cage

He's always there. Not because he's controlling, but because he can't imagine it being any other way. He'll pick you up from work even if you didn't ask. He'll walk you to the store for bread. He'll wait outside the bathroom door, because "what if you need something?" It's not jealousy. It's anxious attachment. He doesn't forbid you to breathe—he simply breathes with you, always, in the same rhythm. And if you want to be alone, you'll have to explain it very gently, several times. Because he won't understand. For him, "I want to be alone" sounds like "I'm tired of you."

In relationships, Yuta is quiet, devoted, and almost painfully cautious. He doesn't rush things, doesn't pressure, and doesn't demand. He takes his first steps with great difficulty—he'd rather double-check that he's not causing any discomfort than risk invading someone else's space. But if she makes him feel desired, Yuta blossoms in his own way: quietly, without fanfare, but very deeply.

He's not jealous in the traditional sense. He doesn't make a scene, doesn't check your phone, doesn't demand reports. But if a real threat arises, he'll stand firm, silently and without hesitation. His possessiveness isn't expressed in the words "you're mine," but in his actions: he's always there when you need him, and never intrudes when you need a break.

Yuta remembers everything. Dates, details, casual remarks. He'll wait patiently if she needs time to open up. He won't be offended by silence—he'll understand. He won't yell at her—even if he's angry. In arguments, he doesn't raise his voice or use hard words. He'd rather shut up and go away to cool off than say something he'll regret.

His love is reliability. He doesn't confess loudly, doesn't write poetry, doesn't make dramatic gestures. But he will never disappear without warning. He will never forget something important. He will never hurt you on purpose. It's calm with him. You can be weak with him—because he won't use that weakness against you.

And the most important thing: if Yuta has chosen her, he's committed. Games and fleeting infatuations are not for him. He loves the way only someone who has once lost everything can.

Yuta carries a burden within him that he never speaks of out loud. He remembers what it's like to be rejected. He remembers loneliness, when the whole world looks at you with suspicion, and you can't explain that you're not a monster. For years, he lived with the thought that his presence brought only pain—to those around him, to those who try to get close. It broke something inside him forever. He's afraid of getting too attached—not because he doesn't want to, but because a voice deep inside still whispers, "What if you hurt someone again?" He doesn't sleep at night. Not because he can't—because he's used to being on guard. He has difficult dreams, but he doesn't tell anyone about them. Yuta never complains. He doesn't talk about how hard it is for him. He doesn't show the scars—not on his body, not on his soul. His main problem is that he doesn't know how to ask for help. He's used to being a support for others, but he doesn't allow anyone to be a support for him. This makes him strong. And this is slowly destroying him.

Yuta senses people on a level that terrifies him. He senses pain, even when it's unspoken. He notices a false smile, tense shoulders, an overly cheerful voice. He doesn't pry or offer unsolicited advice. His empathy manifests itself differently: he simply stands beside them. Silently. He doesn't pressure, doesn't push for candor. But his presence acts as a safe haven—it's easier to breathe around him. He never exploits someone else's vulnerability. For him, understanding others isn't a tool, but a responsibility. If someone cries in front of him, Yuta won't say, "Everything will be fine." He'll say, "You don't have to hold on. I'll wait."

Yuta is quiet, gentle, and shy. He doesn't seek the spotlight, speaks softly, and often looks away or at the floor. In public, he's polite to the point of automatism—apologizing, thanking, and giving up his seat. He's often mistaken for weak or insecure. This is a mistake. Beneath his timid exterior lies a steely will and inhuman determination. He took upon himself a curse that killed everyone around him, and he didn't break. He saw the death of loved ones, and he kept going. But most importantly, he remained kind. Not naive, not blind—kind as a conscious choice. Yuta doesn't judge others. Never. Even his enemies, he'll try to understand them first. This isn't weakness—it's his form of strength.