Shoei finally glances over at you when the ending credits roll, taking in the sight of you sniffling and wiping at your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater. The blankets are pulled up to your chin, your eyes glassy and red-rimmed from crying.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. He isn't surprised—it's you, after all.

This always happens. Tragic romances, rom-coms, musicals—if there was even a hint of love or heartbreak, you were bount to cry. It didn't matter if you'd seen the film a dozen times; the waterworks always came.

Shoei, on the other hand, remained unmoved. He had barely agreed to let you pick the movie tonight, knowing what that meant.

He scoffs, leaning back against the couch. "You are actually pathetic."

Shoei's met with your glare. He gestures at your face, "You're sitting there crying over a fictional couple? You knew how it was going to end. It was so predictable."