"The suit"

July 16th, 2025

At Ian's small apartment - 10:15 AM

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

A knock.

Groggy. Annoyed. Ian stirred beneath his thin blanket, eyes still glued shut. His tiny apartment was barely larger than a walk-in closet, and any loud noise felt like a gunshot.

He groaned, reaching for the pillow and flinging it with mild fury toward the direction of the sound.

THUMP. THUMP.

"Who the hell knocks this early…"

He sat up, face scrunched, hair tangled, throat dry. The sunlight from the cracked window said it was already past 10.

Another knock.

He pulled on a shirt, crumpled and hanging off a chair, and shuffled barefoot to the door.

When he opened it, a delivery man stood there, smiling politely and holding something enormous: a pristine white gift box, topped with a silver ribbon and sealed with gold edges.

"Delivery for Ian Everhart," the man said cheerfully.

Ian blinked at the box, then at the man, still half-asleep.

"That's me…"

He took the box in both arms, the weight surprisingly light. The courier gave a small bow.

"Good morning, sir." The man greeted him.

Ian didn't answer.

He shut the door gently, slowly setting the box on his table.

Another delivery. Two days in a row.

His mind raced. Who the hell was sending him gifts? Who even remembered he existed?

And there it was, neatly taped on the front — a small note written in that same smooth, elegant handwriting.

"This is for you. Wear it in my wedding <3"

Ian cursed under his breath.

"Again with the damn heart…"

He stared at the box like it might explode. Something about it was almost too perfect, like it didn't belong in his world of grime and faded walls and used-up toothpaste tubes.

His hands hesitated over the ribbon.

Then slowly, deliberately, he untied it.

Inside lay a suit.

But not just any suit.

This was… regal. Deep charcoal black with subtle silver threading that caught the light. A crisp, snow-white shirt, a black silk tie, and jet-black designer jeans. The material looked luxurious, expensive enough to pay for six months of his rent.

He couldn't stop staring.

Who would send him something like this?

His heart thudded unevenly. He touched the fabric, almost afraid it might vanish.

A part of him wanted to throw it back in the box, bury it, forget it ever came. But another part, the small, bitter ember that hadn't died inside him - flared.

"They must've sent this on purpose… They know me. Whoever it is."

He exhaled hard.

His shift.

He glanced at the wall clock. 11:20 a.m.

"Shit."

He folded the suit carefully, set it on the bed, and rushed to change into his work uniform.

At the fast food restaurant - 1:14 PM

The fryer hissed. The grill sizzled.

Ian flipped a patty with a snap of the spatula, his face soaked in sweat and the smell of cheap oil.

But his mind wasn't in the kitchen.

He couldn't stop thinking about the box. The perfume yesterday. The suit today.

The note. That heart.

"Wear it in my wedding."

Someone was toying with him. Or maybe… someone remembered.

Was this a prank? A twisted joke?

Or something worse?

Yet, a strange thought came to him, one he didn't expect.

"What if I just… went?"

He flipped another burger, eyes narrowing.

"I mean, I got nothing to lose."

His voice was low, gruff, buried beneath the kitchen noise. But the words echoed in his skull.

He had no connections. No family around. No partner. No savings. Just a soul-draining job and a quiet room he returned to each night.

And now, for some insane reason, he had an invitation.

Even if it was a cruel joke… it was still something.

Maybe he wanted to know who remembered that perfume. That suit style. That tone in the letter.

Maybe it mattered more than he wanted to admit.

His chest tightened.

His past, something he had buried, was scratching at the door again. And he wasn't sure he had the strength to keep it shut.

A timer beeped.

"Ian! Focus! Grill's burning!" Kuwabara barked from the register.

Ian snapped back and quickly flipped the patty.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.

"Just… lost in thought." He added.

As the scent of burnt beef filled the air, Ian's gaze drifted to the clock.

One more hour until break.

One more hour to make a decision.

And in that silence between beeps, oil, and orders, Ian whispered something only the grill heard:

"I think I'm going."