Chapter Text
Orihime felt the bile rising up her throat.
She was going to throw up.
No, she needed to throw up.
Her face drained of color, heat rushing to her ears as her stomach lurched violently. She could feel her breakfast turning, crawling its way back up her throat, and she swallowed hard, her breath shallow and uneven.
“E-Excuse me,” she said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too thin. “I just need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
She was already stepping away when Ichigo turned to her, brows knitting as his gaze swept over her face.
“You okay, Inoue?”
The concern in his voice made something twist painfully in her chest. She could feel Chad’s quiet attention on her, Uryu’s sharp, assessing stare. Three sets of eyes. Three people who knew her too well.
Orihime tried to smile. Tried to make it gentle, reassuring, normal. Even as it formed, she could tell it didn’t look right. It felt stiff, brittle, like it might shatter if anyone looked at it too long.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Turning on her heel, she walked, because running would draw attention, toward the cinema restroom. Her nails dug into her palms as her body rebelled with every step. The moment she pushed the door open, the smell of cleaning chemicals hit her, and that was enough.
She barely made it to the stall.
The door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place as she dropped to her knees and retched. Her body folded in on itself as everything she’d eaten that morning came up in painful, burning waves.
Her hands trembled against the cold porcelain as tears spilled over.
They came hot and fast, blurring her vision as she hunched over the toilet, one hand braced against the porcelain, the other pressed tightly over her mouth. Her shoulders shook as another wave of nausea hit, followed by a dry, painful retch that left her gasping. When it finally passed, she stayed there, knees tucked in, forehead resting against the stall door as her breathing stuttered.
The tears didn’t stop.
They slipped down her cheeks soundlessly at first, then faster, soaking into her sleeves as she wiped at them with clumsy hands. Her chest hurt in a way she didn’t have words for yet. Not sharp enough to scream. Not loud enough to draw attention. Just heavy.
Orihime swallowed and laughed weakly to herself, the sound breaking apart halfway through.
Is this what it feels like, she wondered, dazed, when your heart breaks?
The thought lingered, absurd and terrifying all at once.
Was it even physically possible for a heart to break like this? To make your stomach turn, your throat burn, your lungs forget how to breathe properly? To leave you on a bathroom floor, crying quietly so no one would hear?
She pressed her palm against her chest, as if she could feel something inside it giving way beneath a weight she hadn’t prepared herself to carry.
It was strange, she thought distantly, how the day had started so well.
That morning, Ichigo had been the one to reach out.
A simple message. Too simple, really.
Movie tonight. Cinema near the station. My treat.
Orihime had stared at her phone longer than she should have, a smile creeping onto her face despite herself. Ichigo never organized these things. He showed up, complained, pretended he didn’t care. Planning an outing at all had made her heart feel light.
When he added a second message, Ishida and Chad are coming too, she’d laughed softly, already imagining it. The four of them in a dark theater, sharing snacks, arguing over the movie like they always did. Normal. Comfortable. Safe.
She hadn’t noticed the way her fingers hesitated when a third message came through.
There’s someone I want you to meet.
At the time, she told herself not to think too hard about it.
Now, kneeling on a cold bathroom floor with tears still slipping down her face, Orihime wondered when exactly her heart had started cracking, and whether it had been breaking long before she ever realized it.
Orihime arrived at the cinema ten minutes early.
She told herself it was a coincidence, that she had simply misjudged the train schedule. In truth, she hadn’t wanted to be late. Not today. Not when Ichigo had been the one to plan it. She lingered near the entrance, hands twisting together as she watched people filter in and out, her heart beating a little too fast for no reason she could name.
Chad was the first to arrive. He greeted her gently, eyes warm and steady, and for a brief moment she felt anchored. Then Uryu appeared beside them, glasses glinting as he checked his watch and made a comment about Ichigo’s punctuality, or lack thereof.
A few moments later, Ichigo appeared at the far end of the lobby, and Orihime’s attention snapped to him automatically, only to falter when she saw he wasn’t alone.
There was someone else beside him.
She was tall. Beautiful. Her dark hair fell neatly down her back, glossy under the fluorescent lights. She leaned toward Ichigo as she spoke, close enough that Orihime could see the way his smile changed. It wasn’t the crooked, careless grin he wore with them.
It was softer. Quieter.
Something in Orihime’s chest lurched.
She felt it immediately, the sudden dip in her stomach, the heat rushing up her neck. Her mouth went dry as the girl laughed, as Ichigo said something low enough that only she could hear, as they slowed their pace together like they were moving in sync.
No, Orihime thought stupidly. Not yet.
Ichigo spotted them and lifted a hand, waving. “Hey.”
He stopped in front of them, glanced sideways at the girl, and hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough for dread to coil tight in Orihime’s stomach.
“This is Akari,” he said, clearing his throat. “My girlfriend.”
Girlfriend.
The word landed like a blow.
Orihime’s vision swam. The lobby felt too bright, too loud, her pulse roaring in her ears. She felt Chad stiffen beside her, his presence suddenly heavy and protective. Ishida went very still, his mouth tightening as his gaze flicked once to Orihime’s face.
They knew.
Of course they did.
She felt exposed in a way she hadn’t prepared for. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She had imagined distance. Time. A gradual knowing. Not this, standing under harsh lights, smiling while her insides twisted violently.
“We’ve been dating about a month,” Ichigo added, rubbing the back of his neck.
A month.
A whole month where the world had kept moving while hers had stayed exactly the same.
Akari stepped forward, confident and at ease, introducing herself with a smile that didn’t falter. She shook Chad’s hand, exchanged polite words with Uryu, laughed easily, like she belonged here. Like she always had.
Orihime watched her hand brush Ichigo’s arm.
The room tilted.
She became painfully aware of everything she wasn’t. The way Akari spoke without stumbling. The way she stood tall, unafraid of taking up space. The way Ichigo leaned toward her without thinking.
Of course, Orihime thought, panic fluttering in her chest. Of course it’s her.
She had always known this was possible. She had told herself she was ready. But knowing something might happen and watching it unfold in front of you were not the same thing.
Her throat burned.
I can’t do this, she thought desperately. I can’t—
The thought collapsed before it could finish.
Orihime pressed her palms flat against the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain as if it could anchor her. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes red-rimmed and too bright, face pale and unfamiliar. She forced air into her lungs until the nausea dulled to something manageable.
I need to leave. I just need to get out of here.
She rinsed her mouth, wiped at her cheeks with shaking hands, and straightened. The smile she practiced in the mirror didn’t stick. It slipped away the moment she turned.
When she pushed the restroom door open, she nearly collided with Uryu.
He stood just outside, arms crossed, posture rigid in a way that made it clear he hadn’t been passing by. His gaze flicked to her face instantly, too sharp, too knowing, and something inside her gave way.
“Ishida-kun, I—” she tried, but the words tangled uselessly in her throat.
She couldn’t explain this. Not now. Not ever.
Her eyes burned as she looked at him, pleading without meaning to. Please. Not now.
Uryu hesitated.
Then his expression softened. Not pity. Never that. Just understanding. He adjusted his glasses, stepped aside, and inclined his head the smallest amount.
“Go,” he said quietly. “I’ll cover for you.”
Relief hit her so hard it nearly sent her back to her knees.
Orihime didn’t thank him. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She slipped past him, head down, feet carrying her faster and faster until walking became impossible.
She ran.
She burst out of the cinema doors, lungs burning as she sucked in the cool evening air. The sounds of the street blurred around her as tears streamed freely, her chest aching with every breath.
Her phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Ichigo.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
She ran until her legs ached, until the lights thinned and the noise faded, until she found herself at a small, forgotten park tucked between quiet buildings. The swings creaked softly in the wind. The slide stood rusted and dull.
Orihime didn’t think. She crawled beneath the slide, knees drawn tight to her chest, and finally broke.
The sob that tore out of her was raw and ugly. Her hands flew to her mouth as she shook, tears soaking into her sleeves. She pressed her forehead to her knees, body curling inward as if she could make herself smaller.
“I wasn’t enough,” she whispered. “I was never enough.”
Memories crashed down all at once. Smiles given too easily. Feelings hidden too carefully. Years spent hoping she might one day be seen.
“I tried,” she choked. “I really tried.”
But she had always been too quiet. Too gentle. Too easy to overlook.
Always just out of reach.
She didn’t realize how much time had passed.
The sky darkened, park lights flickering on one by one. Her throat was raw, chest aching with every shallow breath, body curled so tightly it felt like she’d folded in on herself completely.
That was when she felt it.
A familiar pressure at the edge of her awareness, gentle and unmistakable.
Orihime stiffened.
She didn’t need to lift her head.
“Oi,” a voice said softly. “You’ve always been terrible at hiding.”
Rukia.
Orihime’s breath hitched. Another sob threatened to tear free as she pressed her sleeve harder to her mouth.
Rukia crouched in front of the slide, hands resting on her knees. She didn’t reach for Orihime. She just stayed there, eyes sharp but kind.
“Ishida contacted me,” Rukia said quietly.
That was enough.
Orihime shook harder, a broken sound escaping despite her efforts. She clutched at her clothes like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
Rukia didn’t hesitate. She pulled Orihime into her arms, firm and grounding.
“Then you don’t have to,” she said simply. “I’ve got you.”
They stayed like that until the shaking eased into something survivable.
“I don’t want to go home,” Orihime admitted softly.
“Tatsuki’s away,” she added after a moment. “And I don’t trust myself to be alone.”
Rukia studied her, then nodded. “Then don’t be. Come with me.”
They didn’t go back through the main streets. Rukia guided her somewhere quieter, somewhere familiar in a way Orihime hadn’t realized she needed until the wooden sign came into view.
Urahara’s shop.
The moment they stepped inside, Orihime felt eyes on her.
Urahara looked up from behind the counter, fan pausing mid-flick as his gaze sharpened beneath the brim of his hat. Yoruichi, perched lazily nearby, straightened the instant she saw Orihime’s face.
Neither of them asked a single question.
Urahara’s smile softened, not playful or teasing, just concerned, as he stepped aside. Yoruichi’s golden eyes lingered on Orihime for a moment before she turned away, giving her space.
Rukia squeezed Orihime’s hand once. “We’re going to Soul Society.”
Orihime nodded.
She didn’t know what she needed yet. Distance, time, quiet, or simply somewhere that didn’t hurt so sharply to exist in. She only knew she couldn’t stay where she was.
Urahara moved without ceremony, opening the Senkaimon as easily as if this were any other night. The familiar glow spilled across the floor, warm and otherworldly.
As Orihime stepped forward beside Rukia, she spared one last thought for the world she was leaving behind. For the man she was leaving behind.
Maybe it would hurt wherever she went.
But at least, for now, she wouldn’t be alone.
The Senkaimon closed behind them with a low hum, the white expanse of the Dangai dissolving into stone beneath her feet. Cool air brushed against her tear-streaked face, carrying a scent she hadn’t realized she’d missed until now. Clean, sharp, unmistakably Soul Society.
“Orihime?”
The voice came immediately, rough with surprise.
She looked up just in time for Renji to cross the distance between them in three long strides. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, solid and sure, one hand resting between her shoulder blades like she might crumble without it.
Orihime let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and clutched the front of his haori, her face pressing briefly into his chest. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t composed.
But it was safe.
“Hey,” Renji murmured, quieter now. “It’s okay. You’re here.”
That nearly broke her all over again.
Rukia stepped aside, giving them space, though her eyes never left Orihime for long.
Renji didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong. He could feel it in the way Orihime trembled, in the way she clung like she was afraid of being dropped back into whatever she had escaped. As he held her, something sour twisted in his chest.
He remembered the first time Ichigo and Orihime had burst into Soul Society together.
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
Humans tearing through Seireitei walls like they owned the place, rescuing Rukia, turning everything upside down. He remembered watching them back then. Ichigo loud and reckless. Orihime soft but unyielding, standing at his side like she belonged there.
Everyone had seen it.
They’d whispered about it in the barracks, joked about it over drinks. Those two, they’d said. Just give it time. Renji had thought it too. That it was inevitable. That whatever they were circling around would eventually solidify into something real.
Guess that was bullshit.
Renji clenched his jaw, biting back a curse meant for a certain orange-haired idiot. Kurosaki Ichigo had always been good at charging forward without looking behind him, at not noticing the quiet, steadfast things that stayed by his side.
And Orihime had always been too kind to demand anything in return.
Renji loosened his grip just enough to look down at her, one hand still steady at her back. Her eyes were red and swollen, lashes clumped with dried tears, but she was standing.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”
Orihime nodded, unable to trust her voice.
They moved through Seireitei without lingering. Rukia stayed close, and Renji positioned himself subtly between Orihime and any curious glances, his presence a silent warning.
When the gates of the Kuchiki estate came into view, Orihime slowed, nerves fluttering faintly in her chest.
Rukia noticed. “Hey. You’re welcome here. As long as you need. I already spoke to Nii-sama.”
Surprise flickered across Orihime’s face, followed quickly by gratitude.
The gates opened smoothly, lantern light bathing the grounds in calm. As Orihime stepped inside, exhaustion finally seeped into her bones, heavy but relieving.
For the first time that night, the ache in her chest eased just a fraction.
Orihime sank onto the futon prepared for her in the guest room, lantern light warming the tidy space. Her legs ached from running, from standing, from holding herself together for so long. Her chest still felt bruised from the weight of everything she’d left behind.
Rukia knelt nearby as Orihime changed into fresh clothes. The fabric smelled faintly of clean linen. It was the first comfort she’d allowed herself since the cinema.
Renji lingered only long enough to be sure she was settled. “I’ll check on you tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Try to rest.”
She managed a small nod as he left.
Rukia stayed. She didn’t ask for explanations. She simply sat with her.
“You deserved better,” Rukia said softly.
Orihime’s chest tightened. “I…”
“Shh. You don’t have to explain. Not tonight.”
They stayed like that until Orihime’s breathing slowed and the trembling eased.
In the following days, Orihime barely left the Kuchiki estate. She moved through the rooms in a haze of exhaustion and lingering sadness, her thoughts always returning to Ichigo, to the girl he now called his girlfriend, to the impossibility of the world she had sought refuge from here.
Rukia and Renji resumed their duties, leaving early in the morning and returning late at night. Rukia made a point to check in whenever possible, bringing meals or sitting quietly with her when Orihime needed someone near, offering gentle reassurances that her feelings were valid.
One such night Orihime curled further into herself on the futon, Rukia sitting beside her. The shinigami’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, a steadying presence. “Orihime,” Rukia said softly, her voice careful, “there’s something you should know.”
Orihime lifted her head just slightly, wary. “What…?”
Rukia hesitated, choosing her words with the care of someone who understood how fragile the other girl had become. “Ichigo… he’s been looking for you.” Orihime blinked, unsure if she had heard correctly.
“Looking for me?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” Rukia continued. “After you left, he couldn’t feel your reiatsu properly. He knew something was wrong. He was worried. He wanted to know where you were, what you were doing, if you were… safe.”
Orihime’s chest tightened, a mix of guilt and sorrow twisting inside her. She had fled, avoiding him, avoiding everyone. And even now, he had thought of her, worried about her in his own way.
Rukia squeezed her shoulder gently. “He didn’t come here. He couldn’t. But he wanted to. He needed to know you were alright. You should know… he cared. In his own way.”
Orihime pressed a hand to her lips, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “I… I didn’t think… I didn’t know…” Her voice broke, a whisper too small to carry beyond the quiet room.
“You don’t have to do anything right now,” Rukia said, softer still. “Not for him, not for anyone. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
Orihime let her head fall back against the futon, exhaling slowly. Rukia stayed with her, her presence unwavering, letting Orihime soak in the truth she wasn’t ready to face directly: that Ichigo had thought of her, worried for her, even when she felt invisible and broken.
For Orihime, the hours alone had been the hardest. So much so that even Kuchiki Byakuya had taken notice of her presence, or lack thereof in the Kuchiki estate.
Even through the quiet stillness of the grand manor, the faint weight of Orihime’s sorrow lingered like a shadow. It was subtle, yet unmistakable, the tremor in her movements, the way her shoulders seemed perpetually slumped, the vacant way her gaze sometimes fixed on nothing at all.
Byakuya remembered her as she once had been: full of light, irrepressibly warm, a presence that made even the stiffest halls of Seireitei feel alive. Her laughter, the careful, hesitant way she had tried to bridge gaps between people, the small kindnesses she gave freely, they had been endless. And now… she was a shell of that former self.
He felt an unusual tightness in his chest, a recognition of something he understood all too well. Loss, helplessness, the slow erosion of hope. He had hidden himself behind composure and duty for years, guarding himself from attachment, yet even he knew what it felt like to wander through the world carrying absence, to feel life continue around him while he remained trapped in stillness.
Perhaps, he thought, that was why he could see her so clearly now. Not because he wished to fix her, nor because he could, but because he knew the weight of silence, the ache of carrying sorrow in solitude.
He found her eventually, as if drawn by an unspoken gravity, sitting at the koi pond, hands loosely clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on the rippling water. The lanterns cast a gentle glow, and the koi moved like slow, liquid fire beneath the surface.
He did not approach her with the intention of speaking first. Byakuya understood that words were often inadequate, sometimes even intrusive. Instead, he walked quietly to the edge of the pond, hands folded behind his back, and settled on the stone bench beside her. He left a space between them, enough to give her room to breathe, yet close enough that she could sense his presence.
“...” He waited.
She did not speak.
Byakuya did not speak either.
Instead, he allowed the quiet to stretch, letting the sound of water brushing against stone, the faint rustle of the wind through the lantern-lit trees, fill the space between them.
In the silence, he observed her. Her hands fidgeted slightly, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. Her hair had fallen loose around her face, and her shoulders carried the invisible weight of too many unspoken words.
He could see her pain, the way it pressed down on her small frame, yet he could also see the faint glimmers of life she still held, hidden beneath the layers of grief.
And in that recognition, he made a decision. He would not offer empty comfort. He would not attempt to soothe her in the way others might, for he knew the futility of words when sorrow ran this deep. Instead… he would offer his company.
“I will stay,” he said finally, his voice low, measured, and unwavering. “If you do not wish to speak, you need not. If you need only to sit… then we shall sit.”
Orihime’s gaze lifted briefly to him, the smallest hint of surprise passing over her features before retreating back to the koi.
Byakuya did not move. He did not press further. He merely remained, a silent presence beside her, his eyes following the slow, mesmerizing dance of the fish below.
He had known solitude, the kind that gnawed at the edges of one’s being, and he understood that sometimes the truest comfort came not from words or touch, but from simply being there.
And so they sat. Two figures on the edge of the pond, quiet in the lantern light, both carrying their burdens in silence, sharing a presence that required no explanation.
In that moment, Byakuya thought, perhaps that alone was enough.
Orihime remained still, knees tucked to her chest, watching the koi with a gaze that seemed distant, yet occasionally flickered toward Byakuya. She said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch, allowing herself to breathe without the pressure of explanation.
After a long pause, a soft sigh escaped her lips. It was nearly inaudible over the gentle splashing of water, but Byakuya caught it, and he made no comment. He did not need to. Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed.
The koi glided through the pond, the water reflecting the warm glow above, and Orihime’s fingers unconsciously traced idle patterns along her sleeves. Slowly, imperceptibly, her body began to relax. She stopped pressing her arms so tightly around herself, her shoulders lowering by the smallest fraction.
Finally, her voice came, a whisper, fragile and tentative. “I… I feel like I’ve lost myself,” she murmured, barely above the sound of the wind. “Like the me that everyone knew… is gone.”
Byakuya’s gaze remained fixed on the pond, but he tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her words without pressing. There was no judgment in his silence, no impatience. Only presence.
“I… I thought… maybe I wasn’t enough,” she continued, her voice breaking, though she tried to keep it steady. “For him. For… everyone.”
Byakuya’s hands remained folded behind him. He did not offer consolation, nor did he speak of Ichigo or the girl who had caused her so much pain. He simply allowed her to voice the thoughts that had been clawing at her chest, validating them without interference.
After a long, trembling breath, Orihime’s gaze drifted back to him. Her voice was softer now, more uncertain, yet tinged with something like hope, a small flicker she hadn’t felt in days.
“Why… why are you here?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
Byakuya’s eyes finally left the water, meeting hers with a calm intensity. “Because you are here. Because you are alive, and the world… needs to remember that.”
Orihime blinked, uncertain if she understood, but the weight in her chest lightened just slightly. She realized he did not mean to fix her, did not claim he could erase the ache. He simply offered… acknowledgement. Presence. Company.
Her lips trembled as she attempted a faint smile, the first genuine one since the cinema. It was small, shaky, but Byakuya did not comment on its imperfection.
He did not need to. He merely shifted slightly, letting her feel that she was not alone.
The minutes continued to flow, quiet and unbroken. Slowly, Orihime leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, watching the koi and letting the comfort of Byakuya’s silent company seep into her bones.
The ache did not vanish, it never would, but it became a little bearable, shared now rather than carried alone.