𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 | bokuaka!

𝟑.

I wake up the next few weeks groggy, my vision and mind still clouded as I get up to get ready for work. I can't work from home everyday, I suppose my luck isn't as great as most people.

My dress shirt is crisp, straight from the dry cleaners and so is my grayscale blazer. I check myself out in the mirror, making sure my shirt is tucked and I'm appearing my best for work.

I brush my teeth nonchalantly, gathering my materials for the day around my open space floor plan apartment. I take a few bites of an apple, not to worried about eating after I sling my computer bag over my shoulder, fixing myself a small pot of coffee on the Keurig.

The coffee boils in its container, as I tap on the granite counter of my kitchen, waiting.

It has to be at least weeks, or even a couple months since I've sent that text to Tsukki, the one proclaiming my new feelings I was going to abide to. And, to be quite honest I've been staying true to actively seeking out the end of my feelings for Bokuto, as they're definitely lost.

I don't think of Koutarou that often, only when I've slipped into depressive episodes and mood swings late at night. Only when I remember how cold the bed next to me is without him, or anyone of that matter. I don't get sent into the dizzying world of sadness when I remember vivid flashbacks of him, and his cheerful grin. I began to realize that maybe his round and animated eyes aren't necessary to my survival. I don't need his piked bi-colored hair forged by gel, or his muscular build to wrap his arms around me; even if I feel the safest there. What I need is to move on. It's a bittersweet feeling, really, losing my highschool love.

...Yeah, definitely lost.
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________

I continue to live my life in accelerating misery.

But I've recently been talking to a girl at work more frequently, and her charming nature is slightly growing on me. I'm afraid she's going to replace the void in my heart left by Bokuto.

"Fujimura-sama," I greet her with a nod every morning, usually in the closed and cramped space of the elevator. Her formal attire consists of the same cycle of blazers and skirts, occasionally dress pants and dresses, but like every other week she's wearing her lipstick red dress that somehow makes her olive eyes pop.

She chuckles from beside me, "Please, call me Aoi. No need to be so formal, I'm not that much older than you, am I?" Aoi asks, glancing over at me with a small smile.

"Well, you're a Sr. Editor. That's still a huge deal to me that you're so many ranks above me, I want to respect you no matter what," I explain myself as the elevator doors seem to take eons between each ding, as we both climb the floors.

"Even after all the times we've hung out outside of work? Loosen up, Keiji," She playfully smiles, the image engraved in my mind as the shorter woman steps off onto her floor with a chime. I can't help but smile to myself aswell, watching her petite figure walk with confidence away from the door, until I can no longer see her body and the metal of the elevator fills my vision.

We hang out every so often. Chatting with her on my couch late at night while we sipped on our red wine like a classy couple until we were almost tipsy enough to make fatal mistakes is thrilling. As co-workers, as friends, and casual flirt buddies our trust in each other is stable, unlike other relationships in the past. The way her curly chestnut hair bounces at 'bout her shoulders when she flutters her long eyelashes just makes me feel cozy amidst the long winter nights. And I often sit on my cold, queen sized bed facing the ceiling, only thinking about her entrancing eyes.

But I still can't tell if her attention towards me is comforting because I like her or comforting because I need her.

She'd hate to learn that she may be a rebound, because she's a very kind lady.

That's why when my apartment doorbell rung after work I thought it was her. Yet, I was met with an unpleasant surprise.

With the turn of the doorknob, I idly open the door, wrapping my forearm around my waist because the winter months are harsh and cold on my skin. I mindlessly look up, until my eyes adjust to who is really standing on my doorstep. I immediately freeze.

"What the fuck are you doing here,"

word count: 810