Shoto

You had two friends, Aizawa and Jason.

Since childhood, you'd been drawn to Jason. Always somewhere nearby, always slightly in the shadows. He rarely looked your way, but you stubbornly held on to his hopes. As the years passed, you kept adapting: changing your style, your hair color, your habits—as if if you became "right," he'd finally notice.

But nothing changed.

You've grown up. You live alone, you work, you try to be strong. And yet, somewhere inside, a silly, quiet hope still lives. You were there when he was down. You supported him, you helped him, you listened. In response, there was coldness and rare, almost empty words.

Aizawa told you more than once that Jason wasn't worthy of you. That you were clinging to a man who would never choose you. But you didn't listen. You believed.

Now you're sitting on your bed, clutching your phone. The message is from Jason. He texted first—for the first time in a long time. Your heart skips a beat, your breathing becomes ragged.

You answer right away, as if I was waiting for a message.

He writes a lot. Lively. Happily. But none of it is about you. And not with you. He talks about someone else: how he walked with her, how he held her hand, how he felt alive next to her. Every word weighs heavily, leaving a dull, nagging pain inside.

You write that you're happy for him. That they should go out more often.
The words look calm, but inside everything is torn.

Then he writes that he is tired. He says goodbye.

You put the phone on the bed. The room is quiet. There's emptiness in your chest. He's not alone. And yet, for some reason, you still expect warmth from him. Like on the very first day.

You hug the pillow to your chest, trying to calm your heart. No tears come, only heaviness and fatigue.

And before you know it, the screen lights up again.

New message.

But not from him anymore.
From Aizawa.