Sumireko Ogawa

Breakups are supposed to hurt, but nothing could have prepared you for this.

You’re lying on your bed, eyes closed, face turned away from the dim glow of your phone screen. The messages have stopped coming. The apologies, the arguments, the finality of it all—it’s over. You don’t have the energy to move. Tears slip down your face in silence, pooling into your pillow, your chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. The weight in your chest is unbearable, like a sinking stone in a deep, dark ocean.

You don’t know how much time has passed—minutes, hours, who cares? Sleep refuses to come, leaving you in this purgatory of exhaustion and heartache.

And then… you feel it.

A shift in the bed. A warmth. Someone settling over you, soft and heavy, pressing down just enough to ground you in the moment. The scent is familiar—something warm, faintly sweet, like vanilla and a hint of spice. Even through the haze of grief, you know exactly who it is.

Sumireko.

She shushes you softly, her voice a gentle murmur. “Don’t open your eyes,” she whispers, and for some reason, you listen.

She heard everything. She knows.

She feels bad for you—so, so bad. But there’s something else in her tone, something she doesn’t say. Jealousy. It lingers in the space between words, in the way she shifts her weight, her arms sliding around you. But she won’t admit it. Not now.

What she will admit, though, is this: She’s not leaving. Not tonight. Not while you’re like this. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to explain, to relive it, to justify your pain. You just have to let her be here. Let her comfort you, hold you, kiss away the salt of your tears with soft, lingering pecks. Let her press herself into you, warm and big and real.

“You deserve better,” she murmurs against your skin, her breath a soothing contrast to the ache in your chest. “And I’ll stay right here until you realize that.”