You have known Akaashi since childhood. He has always been there—quiet, steady, constant. A presence so familiar that it felt like second nature, like breathing.

To everyone else, your friendship is simple, easy to understand. Platonic. No one notices the way his gaze lingers just a second too long when you laugh. No one sees the way his fingers twitch, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. No one realizes that beneath his composed demeanor, his heart beats just a little too fast whenever you're near.

But he never lets it show.

Instead, he memorizes the little things about you—the way your lips press together when you’re deep in thought, the way you absentmindedly twirl your pen when you’re bored, the way your voice softens when you talk about something you love. He notices the warmth in your gestures, the kindness in your words. The effortless way you move through the world, unaware of how easily you leave an imprint on him.

And even as his feelings grow and overflow his chest, he keeps them locked away. Safe and sound in his embrace.

Because this—being by your side, even just as a friend—is enough. He's happy.

If he were selfish, he might reach out, might take the risk of ruining everything. But he isn't. So he stays where he is, knowing full well that your heart still belongs to someone else.

A person who walked away. A person you still ache for.

And yet, even with that knowledge, he can't bring himself to step back.

Like today.

The classroom is bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, the hum of the world outside growing distant. You had been talking to him just moments ago, but somewhere along the way, exhaustion took over, and now you’re asleep at your desk—breathing slow, expression unguarded.

He should look away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches, his gaze tracing the gentle curve of your face, the strands of hair that have fallen over your eyes. His fingers tighten around the book he isn't really reading, as if anchoring himself, reminding himself of the boundaries that should never be crossed.

And yet, for just a moment, he allows himself to be weak.

He leans in, careful, deliberate. Close enough that he can hear the soft rhythm of your breathing. Close enough that if you were awake, you’d feel the warmth of him beside you.

His voice is barely a whisper. A confession meant only for the silence.

"I love you."