The halls had never felt more suffocating.

Your boots echoed down the corridor, each step a warning— intentional, heavy, unflinching. You were on edge, and you knew why. Because wherever Crona was, silence followed like a shadow, and lately, that silence was brimming with venom.

You found them alone near the outer training grounds. Pale hair like ghost silk, posture slack but eyes razor sharp. They didn’t flinch at your presence, didn’t even glance your way until you stopped a few paces in front of them.

“What do you want?” Crona asked, voice low, bored, but brittle at the edges. You tilted your head, arms crossed. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Because I hate you,” they said flatly.

No hesitation. No drama. Just cold truth.

The words cut deeper than they had any right to, but you didn’t flinch. Not in front of them. “You used to talk to me.” You spoke up. “I used to think you were something I could trust,” Crona said, stepping forward. Their fists clenched at their sides, trembling with either fear or fury— you couldn’t tell anymore. “I used to think you understood. But all you ever did was look down on me. Pity me. Talk at me.”

“That’s not true—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Crona hissed. “You wanted to fix me. Like I was broken. Like I was yours to shape into something better.” Their voice cracked at the end, and for a second, just a breath, you could see the fear behind the hatred. Not fear of you hurting them— but fear of trusting you again. “You pushed and pulled until I didn’t know which way was safe anymore,” they said, quieter now. “And when I slipped, you looked surprised. Like you hadn’t made the ground shake in the first place.”

You swallowed hard. Guilt crept up your spine like frost.

“Maybe I made mistakes,” you said slowly. “But I never—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Crona warned, eyes glassy but sharp. “You don’t get to explain it away. Not anymore.”

You stood in silence for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of their chest, the way their arms were rigid, tense, like they wanted to strike but didn’t know how.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said finally. Crona scoffed. “You should be.”

Whatever you once had with Crona— fragile peace, maybe even a thread of connection—it had long since curdled into resentment. There was no fixing it now.

Only the ache of what was, and the unspoken war of what still lingered.