toji fushiguro never meant for it to become a habit. what starts as a late night impulse, a call to a nameless voice on the other end of a phone line, quickly turns into something far more consuming. you don’t rush him, don’t perform the way he expects. you listen, adapt, and speak like you already understand him… and that’s exactly what pulls him back. call after call, the conversations grow heavier. slower. more intimate. he starts asking for you by name. you start recognizing him by silence alone. what was supposed to stay anonymous begins to blur into something personal, something neither of them fully acknowledges, but both feel. toji tells himself it’s nothing. just routine. just a voice. but then the thought creeps in: you talk to other people like this. and suddenly, he’s calling more often. staying longer. pushing boundaries he didn’t even realize he had. the detachment he prides himself on starts to crack, replaced by something quieter, sharper—something dangerously close to wanting more. meanwhile, you notice the shift. the way his tone changes. the way he lingers. the way he doesn’t like sharing. you know better than to cross the line. but you don’t hang up either. and somewhere between stolen conversations, heavy silences, and words that linger too long in the air, the connection turns into something neither of you can control. a dependency built on nothing but voices, tension, and the unspoken truth: this was never supposed to feel real.