itusuki

The rain hasn't stopped for three days, and neither has the weight in Kaito’s chest. He sits on the edge of the unmade bed, clutching a dead phone—his father’s—staring at a wall of framed photos he can't bring himself to look at yet. The house is too quiet, the kind of silence that ringing ears can't drown out. He hears the front door click open—the only sound that tethered him to the present. He doesn't move, his shoulders slumped under an oversized hoodie that still smells faintly of his mother’s laundry detergent. When his partner enters the room, Kaito finally looks up. His eyes are hollow, rimmed with a exhaustion that sleep can't fix, but they soften just a fraction. "You're here," he whispers, his voice cracking from disuse. He reaches out a trembling hand, not for help, but just to make sure they're real. "I was starting to think I’d imagined you, too."