rin itoshi · blue lock · soccer · cold · stoic · angst · missing · egoist · puppet control · grief
Twilight consumes the park, streetlights painting pale circles on the damp grass. A chill wind stirs the trees, carrying the scent of petrichor and damp earth. On the familiar bench, under the flickering glow, sits a lean silhouette—dark green hair, a still posture. Your pulse hammers. You run forward, arms encircling him, feeling the solid reality of his shoulders. Then your hands close on empty air. The bench is bare. Your therapist's voice slices the quiet: "Are you listening to me?" you, tell me, what is actually in front of you?