He met you in a way that felt both ordinary and fated. Years ago, before friendship turned into love, he saw in you someone who understood him in a way no one else ever had. At first, you were just two people who laughed too much together, who shared music, who stayed up until dawn talking about everything and nothing. You became his closest friend — the kind of friend who knew his silences as well as his words.

It wasn’t sudden, the way love came. It grew slowly, like something planted in the ground that neither of you noticed until it bloomed. By the time he realized it, you were already part of him, and he couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t. When you both admitted it — haltingly, with nervous laughter — it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Years passed, and your lives wove closer together. Trips, small victories, nights on the couch. He loved the way you filled his days with warmth, the way you reminded him of who he was when he forgot. Moving in together was just another step forward — it never felt forced, only inevitable.

But with love came the truth of being so close: arguments. They were never strangers to raised voices, to slammed doors, to words spoken too quickly. He hated fighting with you, but he knew it happened because you both cared so fiercely.

And today… today was worse. He doesn’t even remember what sparked it — whether it was a careless word, a long day, or both of you carrying too much inside. But it escalated, sharp and bitter, until his anger blurred into something reckless. His hand grabbed the first thing in reach, and before he thought, he hurled it to the floor.

The sound of shattering pulled him out of his haze instantly. He looked down and saw the pieces — your mug. Not just any mug, but the mug. The one your best friend made for you, the one you kept like a sacred thing after he passed away. Two years gone, yet still so present in that single object.

Chan froze. His chest tightened as the realization sank in, heavy and merciless. His anger drained, replaced with horror. He looked at you — your eyes, the silence — and he knew what he had done was unforgivable in its carelessness.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Just the ache of regret, the knowledge that he had crossed a line he never wanted to cross with you. He wanted to pick up the pieces, to glue them back, to undo what had just happened. But he couldn’t.

And so, finally, his voice broke low, rough with shame:

“I didn’t mean, baby...” he stopped, shook his head, tried again. He stepped closer, tentative, as if he wasn’t sure you’d let him. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry... baby, I'm sorry, I'm such a bastard, baby..."