𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍 • ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

the relief ˢⁱⁿᶜᵉʳᵉˡʸ ᵉ ʲᵃᵉᵍᵉʳ

𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝟹𝟶𝚝𝚑

𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄.
"Hi Eren. I wanna talk, are you busy tonight?"

For Y/N, I'd never be busy. The words hit me harder than I expected, a rush of emotions flooding me in that split second. It had been two months. Two months of silence, of wondering whether she'd ever speak to me again, and now... she was reaching out.

But why now? Had she read the letter I sent?

Was she pissed off at me? The thought of her being mad still felt like a punch to the gut. The guilt hadn't gone away. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd done, what I'd allowed myself to become. The kiss with Historia, the betrayal, the stupid mess I made—it all felt like an echo I couldn't outrun. But maybe, just maybe, this was my chance to make it right.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breath. There was so much I wanted to say, but I couldn't even begin to sort through the flood of thoughts and feelings. The last thing I wanted to do was fuck this up again.

I had texted back as quickly as I could: "Not busy. You have a time?"

I hit send before I could second guess myself, immediately regretting the casualness of it. What if it was too cold? What if she thought I didn't care?

The message was out there, though, and now all I could do was wait. The waiting was killing me.

I would glance at my phone every few seconds, hoping to see her reply. Would she still want to see me? Would she even let me apologize?

I stand outside her door, nervously fiddling with the sleeve of my hoodie. I wonder if I look gross—definitely not how I pictured this moment in my head. My hair's thrown up in my usual messy man bun, and I'm wearing sweats, because what else would I wear? Not that it matters, right? It's not like I'm trying to impress her... but who am I kidding? Of course, I want to impress her.

What is she wearing? I think back to when we were close, and I imagine her in something simple, maybe her favorite oversized t-shirt, the one that always made her look so effortlessly perfect. The thought almost makes me laugh, but then the nerves creep back in. I really don't know what to expect from this conversation.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This is it. Time to face whatever comes next.

I can't deny it anymore. I'm so fucking scared. My heart's racing like I'm about to go on stage in front of a crowd. My palms are sweaty, and I can't seem to focus on anything but the door in front of me. What if she hates me? What if she's moved on, or worse—what if she's just here to tell me how much I fucked up and how she can never trust me again?

The thought sends a wave of panic through me. I want to take a step back, to turn around and leave before it's too late, but something stops me. I think of her message, simple but clear, and how it felt like a lifeline. She wants to talk. That's enough, right?

I swallow hard, my throat dry. Taking another breath, I knock on the door, the sound too loud in the silence.

The seconds feel like an eternity as I stand there, heart hammering in my chest. My fingers twitch at my sides, almost wishing I had something to do with them—anything to distract myself from the intensity of the moment. I hear a yelp, followed by the rapid click of footsteps approaching the door, and my breath catches in my throat.