He wasn't supposed to matter this much to her.
Not in this world. Not in a world where her enemies were silent grades, awkward glances, and the dull ache of an empty apartment. But somehow, in this world of crosswalks and cracked phone screens, Eren Yeager still carved himself into her chest like a scar that refused to fade.
Mikasa stood at the edge of the overpass, headphones in, scarf coiled tight around her neck like armor. Below her, traffic buzzed past in an endless hum of Monday exhaustion. The wind tugged at her coat, but she didn't flinch. Her eyes were focused on the train station across the street, waiting.
She always waited.
He was always late.
The phone in her pocket buzzed.
Eren: I'm grabbing something from the bakery. Don't glare at me. Be there in 7.
She allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch, barely a smile, barely not. She could practically hear his voice saying it, that smug grin as he dodged her annoyance with one hand and tossed her a melon bread with the other. He always had this way of pushing past her walls without asking permission.
He didn't need to fight monsters to be reckless. In this life, Eren Yeager fought the system. School rules. City ordinances. Corruption, injustice, uniformity—he called it all a cage. He called her the only person who ever made him feel free inside it.
She never told him how much those words haunted her.
Armin called it codependency. Said they were tethered too tightly to each other, like stars caught in each other's gravity. He wasn't wrong. But gravity was comforting. Predictable. When Mikasa imagined a life without Eren—she felt weightless. Untethered.
Lost.
And she hated that.
He showed up nine minutes later, hair wind-tousled, a paper bag in one hand, a bottle of soda in the other. No backpack. No coat. Just a hoodie and that dumb grin.
"I brought the one with the custard filling," he said, offering the bag like a peace treaty.
She took it, expression unreadable.
"You said seven minutes."
"You're not denying the custard's an improvement."
She tore a bite from it, chewing slowly. He watched her like she was the main act in a concert only he had tickets to.
He always did that.
"You look like you haven't slept," she said finally.
"Didn't."
"Eren."
He threw his head back. "What? I'm on a streak. Five days. Zero sleep. Maximum creativity."
"That's not impressive. That's unhealthy."
"So is getting your period during finals but here we are."
She punched him in the arm. He yelped and laughed.
They took the train together. Her fingers brushed the metal pole, his shoulder rested beside hers. The city outside blurred past like a forgotten dream. He was talking about his latest obsession—some corrupt development project near the riverside they were bulldozing to build luxury apartments.
"They kicked out five families, Mikasa. Five. No coverage. No justice. Just gone."
His eyes burned the way they always did when he was furious. When he wanted to burn the world down and build a new one from the ashes.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
"And what are you going to do about it?"
He grinned.
"Make them wish they hadn't messed with Eren Yeager."
She rolled her eyes but her heart did that thing again—that twist, like a rope being pulled tighter every time he opened his mouth and made her care more.
He wasn't supposed to matter this much.
After school, they walked together past the river. It was quiet, gray, the sky low and swollen with the promise of rain.
"You ever think about leaving?" he asked.
She looked up.
"This city. This life. Just going. No plan. Just... out."
She stayed quiet.
He kicked a rock into the water. "Thought so. You're too responsible."
"That's not it."
"Then what is it?"
She hesitated.
"You are."
He froze. That smile faded. The mask slipped.
She kept walking. Her scarf fluttered behind her like a trail of red flame.
That night, she dreamed of snow. Of standing in a field holding something she never chose. Of Eren, walking away from her without looking back.
She woke up with her hand clenched into a fist and the scarf tangled around her neck.
She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
Even in this world, he was going to destroy something.
Even if it was just her.
The city outside her window was a pale blue hush. Streetlights glowed like tired stars. Somewhere in the distance, a siren groaned its lonely song, swallowed by silence before it reached her floor.
Mikasa sat on her bed, knees tucked to her chest, scarf still around her neck.
She should've taken it off hours ago. The room was warm. Stifling, even. But the fabric felt like an anchor—soft, familiar, and heavy with memories.
She glanced at her phone. No new messages.
Typical.
Eren would probably text her tomorrow like nothing happened. As if she hadn't dropped a confession at his feet like a grenade and walked away before the smoke could clear.
She leaned back and let herself fall onto the mattress, her arm draped across her face. Her fingers clenched the fabric over her heart like it could stop the ache.
He always did this. Lit something inside her and disappeared before it caught fire.
The next morning, she sat at their usual bench before school, sipping weak vending machine coffee, trying to look like she hadn't been up half the night dissecting every word she'd said.
Eren didn't show up.
Neither did Armin.
The bench stayed empty. The wind picked up. Her scarf fluttered, and for the first time in years, she wanted to tear it off.
By second period, he still wasn't there.
By lunch, Armin finally answered.
[Armin: He's at the district office. Something about the demolition project. Said he'd be gone all day.]
Of course.
Of course he would choose this exact day to chase a cause over a conversation. Over her.
Mikasa slammed her locker a little harder than necessary.
She found him after school, just like she knew she would.
At the edge of the riverside lot where they used to skip class and watch the sun hit the water like gold. Except now it was fenced off, bulldozers parked like sleeping giants, and Eren was arguing with two older men in cheap suits who looked more annoyed than threatened.
He didn't see her at first. His voice cut through the air sharp and bright like broken glass.
"No, I'm not with a paper. I'm a student. Which is exactly why I give a damn when you flatten homes and call it progress."
Mikasa watched the men wave him off, one muttering something dismissive before walking away.
Eren stood there alone, chest heaving, hands clenched like he wanted to punch the air.
She stepped forward.
"Making friends again?"
He turned, surprised.
Then he smiled—like the tension melted off him the moment he saw her.
"You came."
"You skipped class."
"They were gonna ignore my emails. So I made them listen."
"And did they?"
"No," he admitted, still grinning. "But I yelled at them. That's step one."
She sighed, stepping beside him. The chain-link fence cast long, skeletal shadows across their shoes.
"You didn't answer me yesterday."
He went quiet. The grin died. The silence between them stretched.
"I didn't know how," he said finally.
"That's new," she replied, voice cold.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mikasa—what you said—"
"It wasn't a proposal, Eren. Just a truth. One of us had to say it eventually."
He looked down. Kicked at the dirt.
"I don't want to mess things up."
"You already do. Constantly."
He laughed, short and bitter. "Yeah. Guess I do."
She looked at him. Really looked. The boy with fire in his chest and shadows under his eyes. Who wanted to save the world, one furious step at a time, without realizing he was tearing her world down in the process.
"You don't have to fix everything, Eren."
"If I don't, who will?"
"You could try fixing us."
He looked up. That hit him harder than anything the city could throw.
She softened. Just a little.
"I'm tired of walking beside you like a ghost. I want to be seen, not just followed. I want to know that when I fall behind, you'll turn around."
Silence again.
Then: "I always thought… if I let myself need you, I wouldn't be free anymore."
"And did you ever ask if I wanted to be needed?"
He said nothing. Just stood there, wind tugging at his hoodie, the weight of her words anchoring him to the earth.
Then slowly—carefully—he reached forward and adjusted her scarf.
Not to fix it.
Just to touch it.
"To me," he whispered, "this always meant you were still here. Still with me."
She didn't pull away.
"But I think," he added, voice cracking, "I didn't realize what it meant to you."
She stepped closer. Close enough that their arms brushed.
"You matter, Eren. Too much. And that's terrifying."
"I know," he whispered.
"Then stop running."
"I'm trying."
They stood like that, still, breath fogging in the early evening air, the whole city holding its breath around them.
Then, as the sky turned orange and the bulldozers hummed quietly in the distance, he said:
"I'll walk you home."
They didn't hold hands.
They didn't need to.
But as they crossed the same bridge she waited on yesterday, Eren glanced sideways and said:
"Tomorrow. I want to tell you everything. About the protest. About my plan. About… you."
"Okay."
"And I'll listen," he added, softer. "This time, I'll really listen."
She nodded.
And for the first time in a long time, the scarf didn't feel like a memory.
It felt like a promise.