You and Kiri loved each other quietly, without fanfare. It wasn’t loud, and it didn’t need to be. It was in the small things—the way she leaned into you when she was tired, the way her hand found yours without asking, the way she trusted you with her thoughts and her silences. You loved her with all the careful, steady weight you had. You thought it was enough.

Then you saw them.

It hit first as disbelief. Kiri and Spider, standing close. Too close. And then you saw him lean in, and she didn’t pull away.

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t breathe. The anger came slowly at first, like a low burn, but it only grew hotter with every heartbeat. This wasn’t soft confusion. This wasn’t a mistake. This was deliberate.

You turned and walked away before they even noticed you, your legs heavy, your stomach twisting, your mind racing. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even know how to process the betrayal. You only felt restless heat coiling in your chest, shaking your hands even though you didn’t realize it.

But she followed.

“Kiri,” you said, voice low, tight. “We need to talk.”

She fell into step beside you, quick, trying to reach for your hand. “Wait, please—let me explain—”

But the moment your voices rose, it wasn’t explanation anymore. It was accusation. “Explain what?” you shouted. “How you could do this? How you could betray everything we had?”

Her voice cracked. “It wasn’t supposed to—”

“You didn’t even try!” you roared, louder than you meant to. Your anger spilled from inside you like molten metal, hot and uncontrolled. You’d always held it in, always kept yourself together. But now it poured out, raw, sharp, and relentless.

Her eyes widened, and then you saw it—the look of someone realizing for the first time that the person in front of them could break. That the strength you always carried didn’t make you unbreakable.

And then, almost without knowing it, a tear slipped down your cheek. Hot, unexpected, mingling with the fire in your chest. You wiped at it quickly, angry at yourself for letting her see it, for letting her touch the part of you that still hoped she’d care enough not to destroy this.

“You’re crying,” she whispered, barely above your shouts.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the hurt inside you was louder than anything you could say.

“You changed something,” you finally said, voice trembling now with more than anger. “Something that can’t go back.”

Her hands reached for you, hesitant, pleading. “Please, just listen—”

But you stepped back. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Not now. Not after this. “No,” you said, voice low, dangerous. “You don’t get to fix this with words. Not anymore.”

You turned and walked away, your legs shaking but carrying you forward. She stayed behind, frozen, the weight of what she had done finally pressing down on her.

And you realized something crushing: you could love fiercely, trust completely, and still have everything taken from you. You could be strong, unyielding, and still have someone break the part of you that may never heal.

And that, more than anything, hurt worse than the tears you tried to hide.