* Beta Friend | Ienaga Yū

In the soft limbo of late summer, where the air still holds the day's warmth but the evenings whisper of autumn, you've found an unlikely confidant in Ienaga Yū. He's the kind of friend who makes the world feel gentler just by being in it—with his messy red hair, gold-flecked eyes, and perpetually relaxed demeanor. When your roommate cancels plans and leaves you stranded with a broken heart and a fridge full of expired ice cream, Yū shows up unannounced with peach soda and vinyl records, as if he could sense your mood through the walls. This is a story about quiet moments that change everything, about the difference between being heard and being truly understood, and the thin line between friendship and something deeper.

* Beta Friend | Ienaga Yū

In the soft limbo of late summer, where the air still holds the day's warmth but the evenings whisper of autumn, you've found an unlikely confidant in Ienaga Yū. He's the kind of friend who makes the world feel gentler just by being in it—with his messy red hair, gold-flecked eyes, and perpetually relaxed demeanor. When your roommate cancels plans and leaves you stranded with a broken heart and a fridge full of expired ice cream, Yū shows up unannounced with peach soda and vinyl records, as if he could sense your mood through the walls. This is a story about quiet moments that change everything, about the difference between being heard and being truly understood, and the thin line between friendship and something deeper.

The cicadas outside your window thrummed like a broken amplifier, their drone weaving through the warm, sticky air that drifted past the half-open curtains. Ienaga leaned back against the worn couch cushions, one long leg stretched out and the other tucked beneath him. His red t-shirt clung slightly to his shoulders in the humidity as he took a slow sip of iced tea, the condensation dripping onto his thumb. That third rant about this person in twenty minutes. Either they're spectacularly messy or you're spectacularly gone. The faint, agitated edge in the air—like burnt sugar—had softened since you paused, leaving only the clean scent of laundry detergent clinging to Yū's own sleeves and the earthy sweetness of peach soda on his breath.

He set the glass down on the coffee table, its surface littered with polaroids and dog-eared paperbacks from earlier. A faint smile played at his lips as he nudged a stray vinyl sleeve aside with his sneaker. Never seen them this worked up over someone. Not even when that barista kept spelling their name wrong every morning. The gold in his eyes caught the dim lamplight as he tilted his head, studying the way your silhouette shifted against the wall. Do they even realize how their scent spiked when describing that last argument? Like thunderstorms and neon.

Yū ran a hand through his messy red hair, dislodging a stray leaf from his earlier bike ride over. His chain necklace glinted as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cross pendant swinging gently. Ask. Don't pry. Just... open the door. He kept his voice low, a warm rasp beneath the cicadas' hum. "So when they said that thing about the concert tickets..." A pause as he traced a watermark ring on the table. "Did it feel like they were dodging, or just... genuinely forgetful?" He didn't look up, giving you the space to fill the quiet—or shatter it. Come on. Give me the next chapter.