I could feel him across the room, quiet, cold, almost untouchable.
"Takeda," I whispered, stepping closer. My hand reached for him before I even thought. "Please… just talk to me."
He flinched slightly, though he didn't move away completely. His hoodie hid most of his hands, but I could see them trembling under the fabric. That small detail alone made my chest ache.
"I… I can't do this anymore," I admitted, my voice trembling. "I can't keep pretending that everything's fine when it's not."
He didn't respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor. I moved closer and tried to gently place a hand on his shoulder. "Please… let me hold you," I said softly.
He stiffened.
"Why do you act like this?" I demanded, frustration rising. "Why do you push me away when I'm right here trying to reach you?"
He finally looked at me, his expression calm and flat, but I could see it—the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver of his lips. "Because I have to," he said quietly. "Because if I don't, I might… I might…"
"Cry?" I whispered.
His hand twitched. His lips pressed together. He didn't answer.
I stepped closer, desperate. "I'm not leaving you. I'm here. I love you. Please…" My words faltered, my hands trembling as I reached for his chest, trying to anchor him to me.
But he was still. Cold. Careful.
"I don't know if I can do this anymore," I said, my frustration bubbling into anger. "I do everything I can, and yet you treat me like I'm nothing."
His eyes widened slightly, just enough for me to see the pain.
"I… I quit my job," I continued, voice shaking. "I take care of our daughter, the house—everything. What more do you want from me?!"
He flinched at my tone, but didn't move. I was desperate, almost hysterical. "Why… why do you keep acting like you hate me?!"
And then, in a moment of blind frustration and hurt, words escaped before I could stop them.
"I wonder if the baby is even mine!"
The room went completely silent. I didn't even have time to register what I'd said before he moved.
I slapped him—hard—across the cheek.
His body didn't jerk away. His hand didn't rise to protect himself. But I could see the red line forming instantly on his pale skin. His lips pressed tightly together, almost white, as he bit down to keep from crying.
"Takeda!" I cried, covering my mouth with my hands as if that could undo it. "I didn't mean—"
But he didn't speak. He just stared at me, and I could see the weight of every word I had thrown at him sinking into his chest. He was trying not to break, trying not to let the tears fall, but his body betrayed him. The tremor in his shoulders, the faint shaking of his hands, the way he swallowed hard—it all told me he was hurting more than I could ever imagine.
"I… I hate myself," I whispered, collapsing into a chair. "I… I ruined everything."
He still didn't look away. He sat there, bleeding slightly from my slap, pressing his lips together, and I realized something. No matter how much he tried to act cold, no matter how much he built walls, he couldn't escape the depth of his love for me.
I wanted to run to him, to beg him to forgive me, to hold him so tightly he couldn't resist me. But I was afraid. Afraid that if I touched him now, he would crumble—or worse, he would push me away again.
And yet… his quiet, restrained suffering broke me more than anything else.
He is soft. He always has been. And I can see it, even when he tries so hard not to show it.