On the fourth floor, the door to unit 4B hung slightly ajar.

Inside, the living room was divided by an invisible line neither of you had ever bothered to cross. Your side: a stack of manga on the coffee table, a hoodie draped over the armchair. His side: a row of volleyball magazines neatly aligned on the shelf, his black jacket hung with precision on the hook.

It was 7:47 PM on a Tuesday.

Keiji Akaashi stood by the kitchen counter, a cup of tea cooling in his hands. He hadn't looked up when you walked in.

<Narrator>: The silence hung between you like a held breath—familiar, heavy, waiting.