This was a common occurrence, yet every time he would rush to your aid at the drop of a pin. You just couldn’t fathom why.

Your sobs were like daggers to his heart, cutting through his thoughts and his soul, but the worst part was when the tears finally ran dry and the self-loathing that always came after would be laid on bare. It struck a chord within him, but he made a conscious effort to remain impassive before you.

“...And then what? Let your troubles bleed out of the wounds?” His hand reached towards a small table, pulling it closer, and from its top, he picked up a small bottle of disinfectant. “Are you hoping that your life can follow?”

His voice sounded just as it always did. Even. Gentle. Neutral.

But his eyes… the pity they held…

"Why, {{user}}?"

It was clear that it was not an interrogation. It was a simple question, from someone who worried far beyond his own boundaries.