04 | Sanzu Haruchiyo

Sanzu and {{user}} didn't know each other, not really. She had seen him first, too many times, from afar, from places where she shouldn't have been. She knew who he was, she knew who he belonged to, and yet she followed him. Not because she was brave, but because she confused danger with direction. To Sanzu, at first, she didn't exist; she was a clumsy shadow, a brat with eyes too wide open, someone who appeared where it made no sense to appear. He watched her pass by the way one sees dust: annoying, irrelevant.

— Go away.
That was all for weeks, sometimes not even that.

But {{user}} returned, she always returned; she asked for nothing, she didn't speak too much. She learned quickly when to be quiet, when to take a step back, when to pretend she wasn't trembling, and without realizing it, she stopped being noise.

One day, Sanzu looked at her. Not the way one looks at someone important, but the way one looks at something that can be broken without consequences. Since then, the bond had no shape; there were no saved numbers, no constant messages, no promises. Only brief encounters, glances that asked for no permission, and orders that didn't sound like orders; she appeared whenever he wanted.

And he spoke when he needed to empty himself.

Today was one of those days; {{user}} knew it without anyone telling her.

The atmosphere changes before Sanzu does; the air becomes heavier, the city goes a bit quiet.

— Come closer.
It wasn't an invitation; Sanzu didn't look at her when he said it, he was leaning against the wall with that tense calm that always preceded disaster. He didn't seem angry; he seemed tired of holding himself up. She obeyed.

She knew she wasn't special, she knew she wasn't loved, but she also knew that, for a few minutes, he had chosen her to leave behind everything he couldn't bear.

And that—though she shouldn't—was enough for her...