Haru avoided Yuri like it was an art form.
He changed the timing of everything—woke up earlier, left later, ate when Yuri wasn't around. If Yuri entered a room, Haru found a reason to leave it. If their paths crossed in the hallway, Haru's eyes slid right past him like Yuri wasn't even there.
It hurt more than yelling ever had.
The first day, Yuri told himself Haru just needed time. That space was healthy. That this was what Haru had asked for, and respecting it was the right thing to do.
By the second day, the silence started to feel intentional.
By the third, it felt cruel.
Yuri watched him from across classrooms and common areas, noticed the way Haru laughed with others, how his shoulders relaxed when Yuri wasn't nearby. It wasn't fake—Haru wasn't pretending to be okay. He was coping. Moving forward.
Without him.
Yuri replayed the fight endlessly. The way his words had sharpened without him noticing. The look on Haru's face when the vase shattered—not anger, not even fear, but heartbreak. Like something delicate had finally cracked beyond repair.
Yuri barely slept.
When he did, it was shallow and restless, dreams filled with fragments—glass breaking, Haru walking away, doors closing before Yuri could reach them.
He tried apologizing in smaller ways first.
A text that went unanswered.
A note slipped under Haru's door that was never acknowledged.
A quiet "Can we talk?" murmured in the hallway that Haru pretended not to hear.
Haru wasn't dramatic about it. That somehow made it worse.
He was polite. Distant. Calm.
Cold.
It felt like watching someone slowly erase you.
On the fourth day, Yuri reached his limit.
He found Haru outside the library, sitting on the low stone wall with his backpack at his feet, earbuds in, staring at his phone. Yuri stopped a few feet away, heart hammering, rehearsed apologies dissolving in his throat.
"Haru," he said.
Haru didn't look up.
Yuri swallowed. "Please. I need—"
Haru stood abruptly, slinging his bag over his shoulder and starting to walk away.
Something snapped.
Yuri grabbed his wrist.
Not rough—but firm, desperate.
"Haru, stop," Yuri said, voice cracking. "Just—stop."
Haru froze.
Slowly, he turned around. His expression was guarded, eyes tired in a way Yuri hadn't seen before. Not angry. Worn down.
"Let go," Haru said quietly.
"Not yet," Yuri replied, grip tightening slightly. "Please. I can't do this anymore."
Haru yanked his hand free. "You don't get to decide that now."
"I know," Yuri said quickly. "I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But you can't just—pretend I don't exist."
"I'm not pretending," Haru said flatly. "I'm protecting myself."
The words hit Yuri straight in the chest.
"I can't keep walking around like this," Yuri continued, voice shaking. "Like I'm watching you disappear and I'm not allowed to say anything."
Haru laughed softly, bitter. "Funny. That's exactly how I felt."
Yuri flinched.
"Haru," he said, stepping closer. "Please. Just give me five minutes."
Haru hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded once.
They didn't go far—just behind the library, where the noise faded and the trees muffled the world. Haru leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, gaze fixed somewhere over Yuri's shoulder.
Yuri stood in front of him, suddenly unsure where to start.
All the practiced apologies felt fake now.
So he dropped them.
"I was jealous," Yuri said. "And scared. And stupid."
Haru didn't respond.
"I hated the idea of someone else being important to you," Yuri continued, voice trembling. "Not because I don't trust you—but because I don't trust myself. I don't trust that I won't lose you."
Haru's jaw clenched.
"That's not your burden to carry," Yuri said. "I made it yours anyway."
Still nothing.
Yuri's chest tightened, panic rising. He ran a hand through his hair, breath uneven. "I've been replaying that fight over and over. Every word. Every look on your face. And I hate myself for it."
Haru finally looked at him then.
There was pain there. Raw and unresolved.
"You made me feel small," Haru said quietly. "Like I was doing something wrong just by being myself."
Yuri's eyes burned. "I know. And I'm so sorry."
"I've spent days wondering if I was naive," Haru continued. "If I missed something obvious. If I should've handled things differently."
Yuri shook his head violently. "No. No—you didn't do anything wrong. That was me. All of it."
He took another step closer, voice breaking now. "I let my insecurity turn into control. I hated that part of myself and I still let it speak."
Haru looked away again.
Yuri felt his chest cave in.
"I don't want to be that person," Yuri whispered. "I don't want to hurt you like that ever again."
Then his voice gave out completely.
Tears spilled over before he could stop them.
"I'm so scared of losing you," Yuri sobbed, hands shaking. "You're the best thing in my life and I acted like I didn't trust you at all."
Haru stared at him, stunned.
Yuri wiped at his face uselessly, breath hitching. "I don't care if Yeojun exists. I don't care who talks to you. I care about you. And I hate that I forgot how to show that."
He sank to his knees.
Right there on the cold ground.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice wrecked. "I'm so, so sorry."
Haru's breath caught.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then slowly, carefully, he knelt too.
"Hearing you say that doesn't erase what happened," Haru said softly.
"I know," Yuri replied. "I don't expect it to."
"But it matters," Haru continued. "Because I didn't think you understood how deep it cut."
Yuri looked up at him, eyes red and desperate. "I do now."
Haru exhaled shakily. "I was angry. And hurt. And I didn't know how to talk to you without crying or yelling."
"So you shut me out," Yuri said.
Haru nodded. "Because I needed to feel like myself again."
Yuri reached out hesitantly, stopping just short of touching him. "Can I…?"
Haru nodded again.
Yuri wrapped his arms around him, careful at first, like Haru might disappear if he held too tight. But Haru leaned in, forehead pressing against Yuri's shoulder, fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket.
They stayed like that for a long time.
No words. Just breathing.
"I love you," Haru said quietly. "But we can't do this again."
"I know," Yuri replied immediately. "I won't."
"I need honesty," Haru continued. "Not suspicion. Not resentment."
"You'll have it," Yuri said. "Even when it's ugly."
Haru pulled back slightly, meeting Yuri's eyes. "And if you're scared… tell me. Don't let it turn into something else."
Yuri nodded fiercely. "I promise."
Haru studied his face, searching for something—truth, certainty, reassurance.
Finally, he sighed.
"Okay," Haru said.
The word felt fragile.
But real.
Yuri let out a shaky laugh, relief crashing through him. He pulled Haru into another hug, this one tighter, surer.
"I don't deserve you," Yuri murmured.
Haru smiled faintly. "You're learning. That counts."
They stood together, hands still linked, the tension finally easing.
Things weren't magically fixed.
But they were facing each other again.
And for now, that was enough.