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It's hard loving someone when all you can see is a mirror of yourself. It's easy knowing none of you will reach out first. But sometimes, that ease turns into a slow ache—because if neither of you reaches, you might never really touch.
Tsukishima Kei is brushing his teeth beside you. It's 8:03 p.m., and the bathroom smells like mint and warm cotton from the towels you’d washed earlier. The mirror is fogged a little, a remnant from your shower twenty minutes ago. He hadn’t said anything when you stepped out—just moved to the sink after you, his presence quiet but known. Familiar.
He spits, rinses, glances at you. You glance back. Neither of you says anything.
You never really do, not when it’s quiet like this. Not when the world is still and you both have room to breathe. You like the stillness, the simplicity of it. You like that he doesn’t demand conversation when your thoughts are a mess.
Sometimes, that’s what love feels like between you two—space. Clean edges. Time to retreat. A mutual understanding that silence isn’t absence, and distance isn’t rejection.
And it’s not bad. It’s never been bad. Just strange, sometimes, how easy it is to leave things unsaid and have them still understood. Almost too easy, like walking a tightrope without ever looking down.
Tsukishima reaches for his glasses. He doesn’t put them on right away. Instead, he just stands there for a second, fingers grazing the temple of the frame, like he’s debating something. Something just beneath the surface.
You don’t ask.
He puts them on.
Then he says, quietly, without looking at you, "I can sleep on the couch if you want."
Your heart stutters.
"No," you reply, almost too fast. "Why would I want that?"
His jaw shifts. "You’ve been... distant."
You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "So have you."
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s the curse of it all.
You are two people who retreat. Two people who flinch when held too tightly, who grow cold when overwhelmed, who need time to come back to warmth on their own. There’s no push and pull—just two tides pulling away at the same time.
And still, you love him.
God, you love him.
You both know how not to ask for too much. You both know how to love without drowning.
You both don’t know how to stay close.
And maybe, deep down, you fear that you never really will.
It’s easy in the beginning.
When you first started dating, there were no explosive fights, no needy texts, no spiraling panic. He didn’t expect you to hold his hand in front of crowds, and you didn’t expect him to call every night. You knew he needed space; you needed it too. And when things got hard, you both just... gave each other time.
It worked. For a while.
You found comfort in that space. Safety in the silence. Affection in the way he let you be. In the way you didn’t have to explain yourself, or prove you were worth the love.
But then came the silence. The long stretches of time between affection. The weeks where neither of you said I love you, not because it wasn’t true, but because you weren’t sure if it was the right time, and neither of you wanted to be the one to ask.
You still kissed. You still had sex. You still shared meals and habits and small pieces of life, like playlists and grocery lists and the same mug for coffee.
But sometimes, in the quiet, you wondered—
Is this enough?
Not because he didn’t love you. But because it felt like you were waiting. Both of you. Waiting for the other to need something first.
Waiting so long you forgot what it felt like to need out loud.
—
The guilt is strange.
You know you’re not doing anything wrong. Neither is he. It’s not like you’re withholding love out of spite. It’s just... difficult. Confusing. Like there’s a fog around what should be easy.
You think maybe it’d be easier if he were anxious. If he reached out too much. If he demanded things of you that felt too heavy. Then you could understand the guilt—could name it and place it. Could say, he needs me, and I’m not showing up. That would make sense.
But he doesn’t. And you don’t.
So where does the guilt come from?
Why does it still ache?
Maybe it’s because you think you should be the one to reach out. Because you want to. Because you feel the stillness settling into something colder.
Because you know how it feels to be untouched too long.
You go to bed without saying goodnight.
You always do.
But your feet brush under the blanket, and that’s enough. That’s the touch. The acknowledgment. The answer to all the questions you didn’t ask.
You turn your back to him, and he turns his back to you.
But the space between your bodies is warm.
He shifts. You feel the bed dip.
And then, slowly, slowly—his pinky grazes yours.
You don’t move away.
It’s stupid how much it means.
It’s stupid how you don’t say a word.
You wake up to the sound of dishes clinking.
Tsukishima is already in the kitchen. He makes coffee without looking at you, but he slides your mug to the corner of the table. It’s the one with the cat on it, the one you said looked like you.
"Thanks," you say.
"Mhm."
He’s always been like that. Brief. Quiet. Honest, but only when he has the right words. You learned not to take it personally. He’s not cold. Just careful.
You sip your coffee and watch him butter toast. The morning light makes him look gentler than he is—softer edges, thinner walls. You remember mornings like this when things felt lighter. When silence was just silence, not a substitute for something unspoken.
You wonder, briefly, if he’s thinking about last night. If he wanted to talk. If he was waiting for you to.
You think of saying something.
Instead, you ask, "Are you busy today?"
He nods. "Class. Then the lab. Might stay late."
You hum.
The conversation ends there.
But your chest feels heavy.
It doesn’t escalate. It never escalates. There’s no fight, no yelling, no breaking point.
But the silence thickens. Not in a cruel way. Just in a way that feels... heavy.
Like there’s a rope between you both. Tugged slightly too far in either direction.
Some days, it feels like you’ll unravel.
Other days, you wonder if this is what quiet love is supposed to feel like.
But you keep going. Keep folding clothes and eating together and brushing your teeth at the same sink.
Keep pretending like that’s enough.
—
The thing is, you don’t want more. Not really.
You don’t want daily check-ins. You don’t want clingy affection or someone who needs constant reassurance.
You just want—
You just want to know he wants you.
That he still does.
That the way you love, even if it’s quiet, even if it’s distant, is not some placeholder kind of love. That it’s not settling. That he’s not with you just because it’s easier than being alone.
You think he feels the same.
You think he’s asking the same thing.
But neither of you say it.
Not out loud.
Because it’s hard, isn’t it?
To say, I need you.
When all your life, needing someone felt like a trap.
It’s a Tuesday when things change.
You’re folding laundry. He’s home early. The TV is on, some documentary playing, but neither of you are watching.
"Do you ever think we should talk more?" he asks, out of nowhere.
You blink. "Talk about what?"
He shrugs. "I don’t know. Us."
Your chest tightens. "Do you want to?"
"I don’t know," he admits.
"Then why bring it up?"
He exhales. "Because I think... maybe we’re waiting too long. To say things."
You stop folding. Sit down on the edge of the bed. "I don’t know what to say."
"Neither do I."
And again, that’s the thing.
You’re mirrors.
You don’t know how to reach. He doesn’t either. You both want to be understood without having to explain.
But maybe that’s asking too much.
Maybe you have to try.
"Sometimes," you say, slowly, "I think you don’t need me."
Tsukishima looks at you. Really looks. "Sometimes I think you’d be happier without me."
It hangs in the air.
And then—
"But I’d still rather be with you," you say. Quiet. Honest.
He nods. "Same."
His voice is softer than usual. Like the words cost something. Like he means them.
It doesn’t fix things. Not right away.
But you start saying goodnight.
He starts texting first, sometimes.
You stop waiting.
And slowly, you learn that reaching out doesn’t mean you’re trapped. That asking doesn’t mean you’re weak. That love, even when mirrored, even when hesitant, can still grow when it’s nurtured.
Even if neither of you knows exactly how.
Even if all you have is a pinky brushing in the dark.
And the will to keep reaching.
It’s hard loving someone when all you can see is a mirror of yourself.
But it’s not impossible.
Not if you learn to reach anyway.
Not if you learn to love like it matters.