bubblegum princess

chapter seventy three

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒
welcome to the final show;
HER MIND CRYING
FOR HIM !
⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

𝞋𝞎

Boruto didn't know how far he'd run.

His legs moved on their own, each step fueled by a storm he couldn't quiet. By the time the burn in his chest forced him to stop, he found himself standing in front of the Hokage's office—his father's office. The one place he hadn't stepped foot in since everything fell apart.

He opened the door quietly.

The room was dimly lit, untouched yet burdened with the weight of absence. Papers were scattered across the desk and piled at every corner. The trash bin overflowed with empty ramen cups, and an unfinished mission report lay waiting, half-forgotten beneath a pen that hadn't moved in days.

It looked exactly like someone had left in a hurry... and never came back.

His eyes swept across the room—and then, in the corner, something caught his gaze.

A jacket.

Tattered and faded at the sleeves. The same one he'd once thrown out of his father's bedroom window during a fight he barely remembered now. Back then, it had felt like a statement—loud, defiant, childish.

And yet now... it was folded carefully over the Hokage's desk. As if someone had brought it back. As if it had found its way home long before he did.

Boruto stared at it, unmoving, his chest tightening as the silence of the room pressed in on him.

He was still holding his breath.

Yet somehow, his feet moved again.

Boruto turned toward the mirror at the far end of the room, drawn by something unspoken.

And there—reflected in the glass—was his own silhouette wrapped in the familiar fabric of his father's old, worn-out orange jacket.

He didn't remember putting it on. It must've been instinct, like muscle memory born from years of wanting to understand the man behind it.

It fit him. Not just in size, but in weight.

His breath hitched. His throat burned. And then the tears came—quiet, no sobs, no gasps—just the kind that blurred his vision and made everything feel heavier.

Seiren's face flashed in his mind. Her tear-streaked cheeks. Her trembling voice. The way she looked at him—not in anger, but in pain.

He covered his face with both hands, trying to block it out. But it was too late.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, voice cracking through his palms, the weight of regret pressing down on his shoulders like the jacket itself.

He slowly lowered his hands, eyes glued to the floor, the ache inside him growing louder than his thoughts.

"I'm the one... who's uncool," he muttered to himself, the words barely more than breath.

"You got that right," came a voice from behind.

Boruto flinched.

He turned sharply toward the doorway—eyes wide—as Sasuke stepped inside, his movements calm, assured, like he had all the time in the world.

"S-Sasuke-san?" Boruto stammered, his voice hoarse with lingering emotion. "Shouldn't you be with S—"

He couldn't finish her name.