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Kotae's voice is cold, sharp.
"You don’t get to decide when I break."

He doesn’t stop there. The words keep coming, pulled from a place he rarely lets anyone see.

"All this time, I’ve been thinking about how much I appreciated everything you did for me. I thought you understood me. I thought it came from care. And maybe it did. But now—now, on the day I feel like I’m falling apart—you throw it in my face like I owe you something."

His voice hardens.
"I owe you nothing, Kika. Not one thing. I never asked for any of it. I was always grateful... but if you think your kindness came with a debt—then what the hell were we even doing?"

Kika’s eyes fill, and slow tears begin to fall, her breath catching.
"That’s not what I meant," she says, her voice trembling. "That’s not how I wanted you to take it."

Kotae’s tone cuts through her words.
"Then how should I take it?"
"When you say you’re done waiting for me—what does that mean, Kika?"
"You’re not blaming me? You’re not asking me to change who I am? Because that’s what it feels like. Like I'm a project that’s taking too long to finish."

He pauses, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw tight. Then he looks at her.

"Do you think I choose to be this way?"

Kika opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a faint, broken noise.

"I don’t. God, I don’t."
"Do you think I want to be closed off? To feel like I can’t even breathe when it comes to talking about what’s going on inside me?"

His voice is quieter now, but no less heavy.

"There’s this wall inside me, Kika. I don’t even remember when I built it. It’s like… it’s always been there. And no matter how much you tried to climb it, how much you gave, how patient you were—it’s still there. It didn’t fall. At least not completely."

He exhales, slowly. Weary.

"If this is where your patience ends, if this is the point where you can’t do it anymore... then go. You’re not chained here. You never were. I can manage on my own."
"I always have. That’s my usual."

Kika stands frozen, tears slipping freely now.

"In fact," he says, voice flat, final, "please leave. I don’t want to see your face right now."

Kika turns and runs—no more words, no more protests—just the sound of quiet sobs fading as she disappears down the hallway, back toward her apartment.

Kika’s footsteps echo down the hallway, uneven, fast, desperate. She barely makes it through the door of her apartment before it shuts behind her with a hollow click.

Her back hits the wall, and she slides down, hugging her knees to her chest as the tears pour faster now—shameless, silent, and raw. Her whole body trembles, not from the cold, but from everything she kept buried finally erupting.

"I didn’t mean to say that..." she whispers into the quiet.

She knows Kotae. She knows how long he’s carried that wall around inside him like armor — how hard it is for him to even admit he wants to open up, let alone try. But his words... they cut deep. Not because he was cruel, but because there was truth in them.

And yet, she didn’t lie either.

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” she says aloud, as if he could hear her through the walls. “I’m just scared I’ll keep giving and never reach you.”

Her fingers grip tighter around her knees.

She thinks about the way his voice cracked beneath the anger. The way he said he can’t. Not won’t. Not refuses. Can’t.

And that makes it worse. Because she knows it’s true. Because she knows he’s not a monster. He’s not pushing her away because he wants to. He’s pushing her away because it’s the only way he knows.

She slowly gets up, her body still shaky, her chest still heavy.

She looks around her apartment — quiet, safe, and completely empty.

Just like she felt before Kotae ever let her in.

"I love you too much to walk away like this," she says softly, wiping her tears. "But maybe you need tonight alone more than you need me right now."

She pulls a blanket over her shoulders, curls up on the edge of the bed, and leaves the light on.

Kotae’s Apartment – Moments after Kika leaves

The door shuts. Quiet, but final.

Kotae doesn’t flinch. He simply exhales, long and slow, as if letting the air out of a balloon that had been stretched too tight.

Silence.

He remains standing for a moment, then walks calmly to the table and pulls out a chair. He sits. Leans forward. Elbows on his knees. Stares at the floor.

She left.

He told her to. He meant it. Every word. If she couldn’t handle who he was at his worst, then she had no business standing beside him.

That’s the truth.
And Kotae doesn’t apologize for truths.

Still, his hands are tight — clasped together, the skin stretched faintly white over his knuckles. Not out of regret. Not shame. Just the kind of tension that never quite leaves his body anymore.

He thinks back to her face — the tears, the way her voice cracked when she tried to explain. He knows she wasn’t trying to hurt him. He knows that.

But he’s not here to dissect emotions like they’re math problems. Feelings don’t need to be fair to be real. And he felt betrayed. Like the one person who was supposed to understand him decided that he was taking too long to heal, to open up, to become the person she wanted.

She said she was done waiting.

And maybe he’s done pretending he can change.

Kotae’s gaze drifts to the window. Faint grey clouds filter the light, painting the apartment in muted tones. The world outside continues, indifferent.

Just like him.

At least… that’s what he tells himself.

Because this — this empty quiet — is what he’s used to. It’s familiar. Predictable. The absence of chaos is a kind of peace. A cold one, but peace nonetheless.

He stands and moves to the sink, running water over a glass, sipping it slowly.

He doesn’t wonder what Kika’s thinking. He doesn’t dwell on whether she’ll come back. That kind of guessing is useless. It’s not about what she’ll do.

It’s about whether he’s willing to bend for her.
And right now, the answer is no.

Because bending becomes breaking.
And breaking is something he’ll do on his terms — or not at all.