Yuji stood frozen beneath the streetlamp for long seconds, the phone still in his hand, Aiko's name gray on the screen.
The call had ended on its own.
No—not on its own.
Turned off.
The words stuck in his throat. His heart took a step back, as if he didn't want to be seen collapsing.
He swallowed hard. Ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.
To bear it — yes.
But to provoke it, to generate it like this? Never.
"What an idiot I've been."
He'd repeated it to himself at least ten times on the walk back to the dorm. Every step an 'I should have', every breath a 'why didn't I say it?'
There were no good answers. None noble. None that really held up.
He knew exactly when he'd chosen silence. He remembered it perfectly.
That afternoon, when Yaga had mentioned the possible lineup for the joint trial.
"Hana Kurimoto and Itadori Yuji. Two compatible styles, similar experience, excellent control of energy."
Yuji had only given a nod. Told himself it was just a rumor. But then he'd thought about how Aiko would react. The narrowing of her eyes. The quick flare of anger. And instead of telling her, he'd done the most cowardly thing of all: he'd waited.
"I'll wait. If it doesn't happen, I'll dodge it. If it does, I'll find the words."
And now? Now he was there, reaching for words that wouldn't come.
He entered the dorm without greeting anyone, climbed the stairs with the slow steps of someone returning from a failed mission. His room felt smaller. The bed, remade by Aiko the day before, was untouched. Her scent still lingered there, faint but present.
Yuji sank down beside the futon, arms resting on his knees, face buried in them. He didn't cry. But he wanted to.
Not because she had left him there. But because she was right.
"You chose not to tell me anything until it was useful to you."
That sentence circled inside him like a quiet curse. It hadn't been the silence that did the damage. It was the reason behind it.
Why hadn't he said it? Why hadn't he refused it?
Because, deep down, a part of him wanted to prove he could face Hana as well. He wanted to prove he was professional, strong, resolute. But in doing so, he had taken space away from Aiko. He had treated her like someone to be kept outside the room where decisions were made.
And that—exactly that—was the opposite of loving her, as he had sworn.
Yuji let himself fall onto his back. The ceiling stared down at him like a silent sentinel.
There, in the quiet of the room, he realized how much he had underestimated the weight of unsaid words.
In battle, every move is life or death. In love, every omission is a crack.
And what if Aiko never forgave him?
Fear washed over him in a slow wave. Not the kind of fear that came in battle. It was the fear of losing home—and Aiko was that home, even if she didn't live there.
He picked up his phone. Switched it back on. Stared at the screen. No new messages.
He typed:
"I'm sorry. There's no excuse that counts. I wanted to protect you and ended up shutting you out. I know. I'll be here, waiting. Not because I think you have to forgive me. But because I don't want to surrender to this mistake."
He didn't send it. Read it over again.
Then he turned off the phone once more and set it down face-first. Slipped under the covers, but didn't close his eyes. He couldn't.
Sleep lingered at the threshold that night, never crossing over. Yuji lay awake in the dark, waiting for truth to find its way to forgiveness.
***
On the first day, Aiko didn't answer. On the second, she looked at him without speaking.
Yuji had shown up at the restaurant for lunch the next day with Megumi and Nobara, hoping a familiar setting might make things easier. But a single glance was enough to understand: Aiko was there only as a waitress. Not as his girlfriend.
No smile. No touch. Her voice was neutral, her movements quick, polite. But impersonal.
Yuji ate everything on his plate—not out of hunger, but because he had no idea what else to do.
On the third day, he showed up alone, just before closing. Aiko's parents were putting glasses away; her mother gave him a measured smile, the kind that says I know, but I won't step in. Her father barely nodded.
It was Aiko who came over, rag in hand, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail that felt like armor.
"If you want to talk to me, do it now. Five minutes. No more."
She led him to the back, between boxes of broth and the low hum of the fridge. Yuji didn't speak right away. Neither did she. Only the heavy air of a place at the end of the day and that suspended tension, like a note held too long.
It was Aiko who broke the silence.
"I don't want to hear you say you didn't mean to hurt me. I know that. But you did anyway."
Yuji nodded. His voice low, steady.
"Yeah. And I'm sorry. But I want to work through it with you. Fix it, if I can."
She leaned back against the counter. Her eyes weren't glossy anymore, just hard. Now they were only… tired.
"Yuji, not everything can be fixed just because you want it to be. Some things—when they break—they keep making noise long after. You didn't betray me, I know that. But you took away my choice to know. And I'm not here to be a spectator."
He stepped forward half a pace.
"I…Aiko…I don't want it to end like this."
"I believe you," she answered. "But this time that's not enough. You shut me out of something that involved me. And it happened after you told me, 'I choose you.' Do you understand how much that hurts, Yuji?"
Silence. A silence Yuji didn't dare to fill.
Aiko drew a breath. And when she spoke, it was with a calmness that sound sharper than any scream.
"I don't hate you. I don't want to make you pay for anything. But I'm disappointed. And right now I need to stay disappointed. To think. To be… away."
Yuji felt his heart drop slowly, like an object rolling off a shelf without breaking right away.
"How far away?"
"Just far enough to know if I still trust you."
He lowered his gaze. He didn't cry, but something in his jaw loosened, as if a blow had landed squarely. Then he nodded. Nothing more.
"Thank you for listening to me," he said.
She didn't answer. She walked him to the back door. When she turned to go back inside, Yuji lingered for one more second. Not to insist. Only to remember her like that, in that exact moment.
And when he walked back toward the dorm, he did so without looking behind him, because sometimes love is knowing when not to insist.
***
The dojo was empty at that hour, filled only with the sound of his own breathing. Yuji was finishing his bodyweight exercises, shirt clinging to his back, eyes fixed on the beams above. He needed to burn it off. To not think of it. Not to feel it.
But every push-up ended with Aiko's name pressed against the inside of his eyelids.
That was when he heard the door open.
"Came here to sweat it out alone?"
Hana's voice was low, almost a whisper—like she didn't want to disturb…or wanted to disturb in a subtler way.
Yuji didn't turn. Drew in a breath. Kept going with the last set.
One, two, three…
Still, she came closer. Light steps, a shoulder bag slung at her side, hair tied in a messy bun that looked just a little too deliberate.
She was wearing a loose sweatshirt, but it had slipped off one shoulder and black leggings that seemed to have been designed specifically for her.
"I see you're…wound up. Training or running away?"
"Training," he answered flatly. No tone to offer. None to fake.
She stopped a step away. Too close. Looked at him, dark eyes curved slightly in a smile.
"Must be heavy, keeping it all inside."
She moved as if to brush his arm—an excuse, a fold in his shirt, a speck of dust.
Yuji caught her wrist. Not hard. But firm. He looked straight at her. Finally.
"Enough."
Hana stayed silent for a second. Her gaze shifted, just slightly—from inviting to surprised.
"Are you always this tense when someone leaves you?"
Yuji stepped forward. Not to get closer, but to force her back.
"You're not part of this. You weren't before, and you're not now."
"I haven't done anything, Yuji. You're the one who—"
"I'm the one who told you "no." Who set a boundary. And you're the one who keeps trying to scratch at it."
His voice wasn't raised. It wasn't harsh. But it was steady. A clean cut.
Hana lowered her gaze for just a moment. Then she lifted it again, this time without makeup, without tone.
"Does the idea that you might like me a little, scare you that much?"
"No."
Yuji stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt with a sharp motion and tossed it into the basket.
"What scares me is becoming someone who clings to whoever comes close, just because he's lonely."
Silence. Perfect, taut, awkward.
Yuji took a step back.
"You're not the problem, Hana. But I already made one mistake with Aiko. I won't give myself the luxury of making another. Not even for half a second."
She swallowed. The face that had always been composed, elegant—a weapon of grace—quivered just slightly. She gave a small nod.
"Clear."
"Finally."
Yuji turned. He went to drink. He let the distance between them grow, clear, like a closed door without a lock. And when he was alone, with the icy water wetting his mouth, he felt something inside him stop trembling.
He had done the right thing. Now all that remained was to earn back the heart he had disappointed.
Day One- Aiko
At eight-thirty the alarm rang; Aiko shut it off without looking at the screen. The phone stayed facedown on the nightstand, powered off for three hours. The silence of that small black screen was louder than any alarm.
Around 11 a.m., the restaurant was still quiet when Aiko rolled up the shutter with a motion that looked more tired than usual. Her steps were muffled, the apron left hanging halfway at her waist, as if everything—even that—felt heavier than it should.
Kazuma arrived ten minutes later, looking half-asleep in an oversized hoodie pulled up to his chin. In his hand was a giant thermos, probably filled with either coffee or poison—depending on his mood.
"You look devastated. Did you fight with the stove, or is it simply that love is dead and no one warned?"
Aiko glanced at him, her gaze dull but honest. She tried to smile, but it only made it halfway.
"Something like that. I didn't sleep much."
Kazuma moved up to the counter, set down his thermos, and grabbed a dish towel.
"He didn't leave you high and dry on the genovese, did he? Because that would be emotional sabotage—and it deserves punishment."
"No. Just… something of his. I don't feel like talking about it."
Kazuma raised his hands. "Fair enough. Just—if you ever need someone who doesn't fight demons but can cook a decent plate of spaghetti, I'm here."
She let out a quiet laugh. One of those short ones that don't last but ease the chest a little.
"Are you seriously trying to wedge yourself between me and him?"
"I only said 'I cook'. The rest is up to destiny. And your mom."
In the kitchen, while rinsing tomatoes under cold water, she went over the same question in her mind: Why didn't he tell me?
No answers came—only the memory of Yuji under the streetlamp, eyes wide open like windows after a storm, and the sharp ache that had pierced her chest when she let go of his hand.
She simmered the broth five minutes longer than usual: a fuller taste, with just a trace of bitterness. No one would have noticed it except her; yet, that aftertaste lingered on her tongue for the entire shift.
Her father was sharpening knives; her mother was folding cloth napkins; Kazuma was setting the tables. No one asked anything. At the Tramonto Rosso, love was measured that way too: by letting questions sleep until they were ready to wake.
At lunch the dining room filled; Aiko served, smiled, recommended sauces. Every so often the bell above the door rang and a shiver ran down her spine—will it be him? It never was.
When evening came and it was time to close, she lingered a few minutes alone, sitting on the step that separated the kitchen from the dining room. She stared at the corner table where Yuji usually sat with the others. Then her eyes went to the little sofa—the same one where they had done it for the first time. She counted the imaginary plates she hadn't brought out. Then she switched off the last light; the restaurant closed back in on the warm smell of chicken and coarse salt.
The night brought no sleep. She turned over and over on the futon, tracing invisible circles on the sheet. After 2 a.m., she switched on her phone just to look at the wallpaper: a picture of her and Yuji in front of the fogged-up mirror in his room, the reflection of a happiness that now felt carved in stone. She didn't open the messaging app; she shut the screen the way you close a door so the heat inside doesn't escape.