Mistake

The morning unfolded just like any other aboard the Thousand Sunny.
The crew, one by one, entered the kitchen, greeted by the smell of the lavish breakfast Sanji had prepared.
Luffy charged in first, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he dove straight into the food, laughing loudly.
Zoro followed, yawning before sitting down to eat, his focus already drifting back to his next training session.
Nami, Robin, Usopp, and Franky took their places around the table, talking, laughing, and enjoying the meal in the warmth of the morning light.
Sanji stood in the corner, away from the others, watching them from a distance as they ate.
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes.
His cigarette hung loosely between his lips, the smoke curling up and disappearing into the air, almost like he wanted to-fading into the background.
They were all engrossed in conversation, the usual banter flowing effortlessly.
Luffy was teasing Usopp about something, Nami was scolding them both, and Robin offered her quiet, knowing smile.
Zoro, as always, sat in silence, focused on his plate.
But no one noticed Sanji.
No one asked if he had eaten.
No one even glanced his way, not even to make a passing comment.
It was like he wasn't even there.
After they finished, the crew stood up, laughing and talking as they left the kitchen one by one, each heading off to their tasks for the day.
Luffy ran off to the deck to train, Zoro grabbed his swords and disappeared, Nami and Robin left together to review maps, while Franky and Usopp went to tinker with something on the ship, jimbei talking with brook about something.
Sanji stood there in the now-empty kitchen, staring at the table full of half-eaten plates and crumbs.
The laughter from his crewmates echoed faintly down the hall, growing distant, until it was just silence.
He hadn't eaten.
No one had noticed.
He moved quietly, mechanically, clearing the dishes, scraping leftovers into the trash, and scrubbing the plates clean.
The water splashed against the sink as he washed the last of the pans, but the noise did nothing to fill the growing hollowness inside him.
The routine of cleaning had always been second nature, but today, every motion felt heavier, as if the weight of his thoughts was pressing down on him with every step.
When the last dish was finally put away, Sanji wiped his hands on a towel, looking around the spotless kitchen.
It was as if he'd never made breakfast at all-just another day, another meal.
Everything was back in place, and once again, he was alone.
But something was different this time.
Usually, even after cleaning, he'd sneak a bite of something-a piece of bread, a taste of the food he had made for the crew.
But today, the thought of eating made him feel sick.
He couldn't stomach it.
Not after that dream, not after the silence that followed.
Sanji walked to the middle of the kitchen and sat down on the floor, his back against the counter.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, the cool tiles beneath him offering no comfort.
His cigarette had burned out, but he didn't bother lighting another one.
The morning sun streamed in through the window, but all he could feel was the cold weight of his own mind pressing in on him.
The memories from his nightmare flooded back all at once, sharper, more vivid now that he was alone with them.
He could still feel the hands grabbing at him, the roughness of the marines' laughter, the way they tore him apart piece by piece, not caring about the person behind the body they violated.
He felt small, powerless. Even now, awake and alone, the shame and fear gnawed at him, eating away at his sense of self.
He had always been strong.
He had always prided himself on that strength, his ability to protect, to stand tall no matter the situation.
But this... this was different.
The helplessness he felt in that dream had shaken something deep inside him, something he didn't know how to fix.
The violation, the loss of control-it made him feel broken in a way he didn't want anyone to see.
And yet, no one noticed.
No one saw how fragile he felt beneath the surface, how much he was struggling to keep his composure.
To them, he was just Sanji-their cook, the guy who made their meals, the flirt who always had a witty line or a cheeky smile.
But now, sitting on the cold kitchen floor, Sanji wasn't sure who he was anymore.
The laughter from the crew, the way they moved on without even realizing he hadn't eaten, the way no one asked if he was okay-it all felt like confirmation of the fears his nightmare had stirred up.
Was he just a tool to them? Just someone to cook and clean, to be there when they needed him and fade away when they didn't?
His chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought about calling out for someone-anyone-to come and sit with him, to ask him if he was alright.
But the words stuck in his throat, his pride holding them back.
He didn't want them to see him like this, didn't want them to know how deeply the nightmare had scarred him.
So, instead, he sat there in silence, the memories swirling around him like a storm he couldn't escape.
The laughter of his friends echoed faintly from somewhere outside, but it only served to make the silence in the kitchen more unbearable.
Sanji made his way through the ship with snacks and drinks, keeping up the routine he'd built over so many days and weeks-making sure the crew had everything they needed, always ensuring their comfort.
He moved quietly, efficiently, not wanting to disturb anyone.
The dark thoughts swirling in his mind were pushed down once more, locked behind a wall he refused to let crack.
After serving Robin her tea and snacks with his usual charm, though his heart wasn't in it, he made his way toward Nami's cabin.
His footsteps were soft as he approached her door, balancing a tray with her drink and snacks.
He knocked gently, three times, waiting for a response.
But none came.
That wasn't unusual-Nami often got absorbed in her map-making and didn't hear much beyond the pen scratching across the parchment.
After knocking again and hearing nothing, Sanji took a breath, braced himself for whatever mood she might be in, and slowly opened the door.
His usual cheery voice tried to break through the fog of his emotions as he called out, "Nami-swan! I've brought your drink and snacks, just as you like-"
Before he could finish, he was cut off by the sharp crack of a slap against his cheek.
The sudden sting of the blow was nothing compared to the shock that followed.
His eyes widened as he stumbled back slightly, the tray trembling in his hands but staying balanced.
Nami stood there, her face twisted in frustration and anger.
"I'm busy!" she snapped, her voice loud and biting.
"Why didn't you knock before coming in? Don't you have any manners?"
Sanji froze, his words dying in his throat.
He had knocked.
He had waited.
But it didn't matter now.
The sting of her slap faded quickly, but her words, sharp as knives, cut deeper than anything physical ever could.
"Don't you have any respect? Didn't your mother teach you how to treat women properly?" she spat, her voice dripping with venom.
The accusation hung in the air like a dark cloud, and Sanji's breath caught in his chest.
He didn't move.
Didn't say a word.
His mind flashed back to his mother, to her gentle hands and kind voice.
She had taught him to respect women, to cherish them, to protect them.
That had been a part of who he was, a part of his soul.
And now, in just a few words, Nami had torn that part of him to shreds.
He felt hollow, like everything he prided himself on, everything he believed in, had been ripped away.
But still, he didn't argue.
He didn't defend himself.
He just lowered his eyes, staring at the floor as he carefully placed the tray on her desk.
His movements were slow, deliberate, almost robotic.
He swallowed the pain, the hurt, and forced himself to offer a small bow, his voice barely above a whisper as he muttered, "Sorry, Nami-san."
Without another word, he turned and left the cabin, the echo of her anger still ringing in his ears.
The door clicked softly behind him, but the weight of her words felt like they were pressing down on his shoulders.
He walked down the hallway, feeling like the ship had grown colder, the world around him more distant.
As he stepped back onto the deck, the brightness of the sun felt harsh against his skin, almost mocking the darkness inside him.
He looked around, half-expecting someone to have heard the slap, to have heard Nami's outburst.
But no one did.
No one had even noticed.
Luffy was still training, Zoro was deep in his routine, Robin was reading, and Usopp and Franky were still tinkering away, laughing about something he couldn't hear,Brook and jimbei laughing at chopper new rumble.
The world continued on, oblivious to the turmoil that raged inside him. No one looked up.
No one asked if he was alright.
No one saw him.
Sanji let out a breathless laugh, but it wasn't one of joy-it was hollow, bitter, and edged with pain.
He smiled, a forced, tired smile, as he made his way back to the kitchen, alone with his thoughts.
His hand absentmindedly reached up to touch his cheek where Nami had struck him.
The skin was still slightly tender, a small reminder of what had happened, but it was the words that stung the most.
Sitting down on the floor of the kitchen, Sanji rested his back against the counter.
He brought his hands up to his face, feeling the wetness on his cheeks, realizing he had started crying at some point.
His fingers brushed against the faint sting of Nami's slap, but again, it wasn't the physical pain that mattered.
Her words echoed in his mind, over and over again.
"Didn't your mother teach you how to treat women?" The accusation lingered like poison, slowly seeping into him.
He had always lived by that principle, always upheld that respect for women above all else.
But in that moment, with Nami's anger crashing down on him, he felt as though he had failed.
Not just her, but his mother too.
He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, still smiling, though the smile was a mask for the pain underneath.
No one saw. No one cared. He was just there-cooking, cleaning, serving-like a tool for their comfort.
And now, even the small sense of pride he had in his purpose felt shattered.
Sitting on the cold floor, Sanji wiped his face again, but more tears kept coming, silent and steady.
His shoulders shook slightly as he tried to keep himself together, but the cracks in his heart were widening. And still, no one saw.
He was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering smells of the breakfast he had made, the memories of his nightmare, and the sting of Nami's words.
And for the first time, Sanji truly wondered if that's all he was-a tool, a servant, someone who only existed to fulfill others' needs, without ever being seen for who he truly was.
And in that crushing loneliness, he smiled, because what else could he do?
***