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The morning of Miwa's departure is gray, the sky heavy with the threat of rain. Hachiman stands in her apartment, watching her pack the last of her things—a battered suitcase, her guitar, a notebook filled with scribbled lyrics. The space feels emptier already, the clutter of her life reduced to a few essentials. Miwa's quieter than usual, her movements brisk, but her eyes keep flicking to him, searching for something she doesn't voice.
Hachiman wants to say a thousand things—Stay. Come back soon. Don't forget me.—but the words stick in his throat.
Instead, he helps her carry her bags to the train station, their steps slow, as if delaying the inevitable. The platform is crowded, butម, but they find a quiet corner, the noise of the world muffled by their silence. When the train's departure is announced, Miwa turns to him, her expression a mix of determination and vulnerability.
"Don't go all sappy on me, Hikigaya," she says, her voice teasing but strained. "I'm not dying. I'll be back."
He nods, his throat tight. "You better. I'm not chasing you to Tokyo."
She laughs, sharp and bright, and for a moment, it's like nothing's changed. Then she steps closer, her hand cupping his face, and kisses him—hard, desperate, a kiss that says everything they can't. Hachiman pulls her close, his hands gripping her waist, memorizing the feel of her, the taste of her lips. When they part, her eyes are wet, but she blinks it away, her smile fierce.
"See you, Hachiman," she says, and then she's gone, boarding the train with a final glance over her shoulder. He watches until the train disappears, the platform suddenly too quiet, too empty.
The days that follow are a blur of routine. Hachiman throws himself into work, editing manuscripts with a focus that borders on obsessive, trying to drown out the ache of her absence. But Miwa's everywhere—in the coffee shop where they argued about music, the bar where she performed, the park where they kissed. His apartment feels hollow without her laughter, her chaos. At night, he lies awake, his body restless, craving her touch. He gives in to the memories, his hand moving with desperate urgency, imagining her moans, her skin, her heat. It's a poor substitute, leaving him hollowed out, yearning.
Miwa, in Tokyo, is a whirlwind of activity. The studio is a maze of cables and egos, the producer demanding and brilliant. She pours herself into the demo, her voice raw and powerful, but every song feels like a letter to Hachiman—words of longing, of fear, of love she's not ready to admit. The city is loud, relentless, and she misses the quiet of Chiba, the way Hachiman grounded her. She texts him late at night, small messages that feel like lifelines: Tokyo's insane. Miss your sarcasm. He replies, dry but warm: Miss your terrible cooking.
They call sometimes, their conversations a mix of banter and unspoken need. Miwa tells him about the studio, the pressure, the thrill. Hachiman shares snippets of his life, his voice steady but laced with something softer. The distance is a physical ache, but it forces them to talk, to reveal parts of themselves they'd kept hidden. She admits her fear of failing again; he confesses his struggle to hope. It's not enough, but it's something, a thread holding them together.
One night, alone in her tiny Tokyo apartment, Miwa's restless, her body thrumming with need. She lies on her bed, her fingers tracing the paths Hachiman's hands once took, imagining his lips on her neck, his hands rough and sure. Her movements are slow at first, then urgent, her breaths sharp as she pictures him above her, his voice raw with want. When she comes, it's with his name on her lips, a quiet sob following as the loneliness hits.
Hachiman, too, struggles. His dreams are vivid, Miwa's body tangled with his, her moans filling his ears. He wakes hard and aching, his hand a poor substitute for her touch. The release is sharp but empty, and he stares at the ceiling, wondering how long he can endure this.
Weeks pass, and Miwa's demo is a success. The producer talks tours, contracts, a future she's always chased. But the victory feels incomplete without Hachiman to share it. She calls him, her voice bright but brittle. "They want me to stay. Maybe go international. It's… everything."
Hachiman's chest tightens, but he keeps his tone even. "You deserve it, Miwa. You're a fucking force."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, "I don't want to do this without you."
The words hang between them, raw and heavy. Hachiman's heart pounds, his mind racing. He's never been reckless, never chased anything. But Miwa's worth it—worth the risk, the fear, the unknown.
"Come back first," he says finally. "We'll figure it out."
She laughs, a sound that's half relief, half promise. "Deal."
The distance has tested them, stretched them thin, but it's also clarified what they mean to each other. Miwa books a train ticket, her heart racing with anticipation. Hachiman waits, counting the days, knowing their reunion will be a collision of everything they've held back.