Or At Least I Think It Is..? - Blog Posts

Sunlight.

DEAD!Megumi x Grieving! Reader

summary: In the wake of Megumi's death, you're left haunted by the quiet moments you've shared, the unspoken words, and the last goodbye that never came. Clinging to the memories of a love that felt unfinished, replaying the moments you wish you could have held onto forever. Grief, in all its silence, becomes a space you learn to inhabit, where the echoes of your lost connection linger just out of reach.

WARNINGS: (mentioned) character death, depression, ANGST!!!!!!!, heartbreak

Word count : 1134 words (I thought it would be short, but i just kept going with it and here we are....)

a/n: First time writing something super angsty!!! I hope you all enjoyed it... I think I did really well! (˶˃ᆺ˂˶) ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You didn’t say much that morning. But that wasn’t unusual. You never did.

You stood by the door for a second longer than usual. Glanced back at me. And in your eyes—just for a moment— there was something soft. Something final.

I should’ve noticed. Should’ve asked why you weren’t wearing that fake bored look you always put on before missions. Should’ve stopped pretending I was too busy to get up and kiss you goodbye.

But I didn’t. I waved. Lazy. Distracted. Said, “Don’t die, dumbass.”

And you huffed a laugh. That almost-smile. Then turned and left.

No last words. No “I love you.” Not even a real look.

Just the soft click of the door closing.

And now I keep replaying that moment, over and over, like if I stare at it long enough, I’ll see something I missed.

A message. A sign. A warning.

But there’s nothing. Just you, fading into the morning light, shoulders squared like always, like you were walking into something you’d already accepted.

You always were like that— quiet, distant,

I know now— you were protecting me. Not just from the mission. From the goodbye.

Because if you had said anything real, anything final, I would’ve shattered right there.

But you knew me. Knew I needed to believe you'd be back. So you gave me silence. And left all the words unspoken.

Now I cling to them. The ones you never said. The look you gave me like it might’ve been enough. The quiet care folded into every goodbye you never made a big deal of.

I never got to say it back. But I hope you knew. Hope my half-wave meant please come back, and my lazy grin meant I need you, and my stupid parting words meant I love you more than I know how to say.

I hope you carried that with you. To wherever you are. Wherever you went.

Because I still carry you— in the silence. In the warmth that lingers. In the things we never said but always meant.

Some days, I still set a place for you. Not a real one. Not forks and plates. But a space—next to me, in the quiet. In the pauses between songs. In the second half of a sentence I never finish anymore.

I don’t think people vanish. Not really. You’ve just… sunk beneath the surface of everything.

You’re in the smell of summer pavement after rain. In the echo of a laugh I hear once and never again. In the way I turn, sometimes, too fast—thinking you're there. And the second after, when I remember.

You would’ve hated how soft I am now. How small I’ve gotten. I used to be louder around you. Stranger. Braver. Real.

Now I just exist. Sleep. Wake. Float.

Some days I still wonder what you were thinking. Before. When the silence started pressing too hard, when the light got too far away.

Did you know I would miss you like this? Like a phantom limb? Like an entire future collapsing in slow motion?

I still dream of you. Not as a ghost. Not as someone gone. But as you were—messy, warm, your sharp eyes, good with the dogs, awkward.

You always knew how to ruin me with a smile.

And when I wake up— when the dream folds shut like a book I never finished— there’s that moment. Where the air remembers you.

Where the world almost feels like it did before.

And I just lie there. Quiet. Staring at the ceiling like maybe you’ll come back with the morning light.

You don’t.

But I keep waking up anyway.

If I could stay in a moment… Yeah. I think I would.

But only that one. The one that slipped past like sunlight on water— brief, warm, gone before I could hold it.

It wasn’t anything special. Just your laugh, maybe. The way your voice stumbled when you were too tired to filter your thoughts. The way we both said nothing, and it still meant everything.

I replay it sometimes. That soft little second in the blur of days. You looked at me as if I were made of light. Me pretending I didn’t notice.

But I did. God, I did.

And now it’s fading.

Like all beautiful things do—too fast, too quiet, too soon.

I try to keep it. Bottle it up, hide it away, memorize the sound of it. But it slips. It always slips.

And maybe I was never meant to keep you. Maybe we were always going to be this—just a blink between lifetimes. Something bright and impossible and almost.

But still, I find myself reaching— in dreams, in quiet hours, in the soft hush of early morning— hoping, maybe, you’re doing the same.

Just for a moment. Just one.

You and me. Caught between the seconds. Still turning, still drifting, Still almost real.

I woke up like usual,

flipping to my side, and you’re still not there.

If I could’ve said something that mattered… Yeah. I think I would have.

But it all happened so fast. Too fast to hold. Too fast to save.

One minute, you were laughing like the world couldn’t touch you. And then— just air. Just a silence too big to fill.

People said it was peaceful. That you didn’t feel a thing. But I think they said that for me, not for you. Because I felt it. The echo where your voice should’ve been. The coldness in places you once warmed.

You were gone, and the sky didn’t change.

I hate that.

I hate that the world kept spinning, like you were never here at all.

But I remember.

I remember the exact shape of your presence— the way time curved when you smiled, the way your fingertips lingered a second too long, like you were always about to say goodbye but never quite did.

Maybe you knew. Maybe you knew.

And maybe I didn’t want to believe it.

Now, I go back to where you still exist— the songs we shared, the notes you left, the way your name looks written in my handwriting. 

Your jacket still lingered of your scent.

Your toothbrush is still hanging in my bathroom cabinet.

It’s like you’re going to be back, but I promised myself.

I can’t keep deceiving myself with lies like those. 

You’re not going to be back. Not to collect your toiletries,

And even more so not to collect the memories we’ve shared together. 

And so I replay it— the moment before you left. The last laugh. The last word. The last time you looked at me like I was something worth staying for.

The world spins, but I stay still. In the memory of you. In the breath before the end. In the place where I almost kept you.