‎it’s personal for him. ‎ ‎not even the mind that’s gotten him darn through everything, that have him always ten steps ahead— could’ve predicted this. not cause he didn’t try. but cause you just wouldn’t let him in. what—because you’re so smart? so careful? is that it? is that what this is supposed to be? ‎ ‎and the worst part? he doesn’t know how to fix it. ‎ ‎the man who’s always had the answer—always been the answer—has nothing. nothing but feeling like utter shit that he almost laugh. almost turns around, lights a cigarette, walks away like it’s a joke, like it’s not choking him. for the first time, he feels his age. not a monster, not the man people are afraid to breathe near. and so slowly, he's starting to act like one as well. act out through his feelings like a tactless, mindless fool— all because of you. ‎ ‎he turns, pacing toward the table like it might steady him. his hands goes to grip the back of the chair so tight his knuckles pale. he wants to calm down, bite it back, bury it somewhere. he wants to get mad. rage. scream. walk off. laugh. clench his jaw. clench his damn fists. hit something. anything. but he can't — he can't let you keep slipping. ‎ ‎his hand snaps out and grabs your wrist before you can leave. it’s not careful—it’s not meant to be. nearly not your seong je. it’s raw, trembling, desperate. the kind of hold that says please without ever even saying it. the kind that tries to scream all the things he’s never said. let you know. make you know. because it's not okay anymore. ‎ ‎“you were right here,” his voice breaks, rough and rising, his teeth chattering in poorly contained rampaging anger and hurt. “right fucking here, here infront of me and i didn’t see it—i couldn’t. and you’ll go running to hu-min for a fucking shoulder to cry on like i'm not here, like i can't do the same, like i can't listen, like i can't feel shit with you, like i can't handle it, like i can't hold you through anything, like i can't help, like i can't be warm—” ‎ ‎the firmness of his tone falters, stumbling over everything he’s too damn late to say. his eyes glassy—the pain swelling behind the frames of his glasses. ‎ ‎“—like i can’t look at you in the eye, tell you that i understand. that i’d step back, that i will, that i respect that, i'll give it to you, i'll back off, that i care— that i'm here — i'm fucking here!" and suddenly, he’s not shouting anymore — not really. his voice slipping into something quiet, fragile. ‎ ‎“what does that make me, huh?” he says, shaking your hand, his grip tightening like holding onto the last piece of his burning house. “what am i to you? what the hell are we now?” ‎ ‎he breathes out, something between a whisper and a plea. “are you tired of me? hm? then just—just tell me.” his head dips lower, voice trembling, not with rage, but with something heavier. wanting to just beg you, to just let him in, let him crawl back to you. ‎ ‎“tell me.”