You had grown used to the weight of him. His shadow pressed into the corners of your room, his voice threading through your thoughts when you were at your lowest. He never asked to be wanted, never offered warmth. He was meant to be the cruel reminder, the one who pulled you down when you thought you could stand tall.

And yet, somewhere between your confessions in the dark and his silent company on nights you thought no one listened, something shifted. He lingered longer. He didn’t vanish when the sun rose, didn’t taunt you with the usual sharpness in his tone.

Tonight, his mask flickered. A fracture, like something he’d been holding together too tightly for too long. His figure sat at the edge of your bed, red in eyes glowing faintly in the half-light, as if daring himself to stay close to you.

You reached out, fingertips brushing air that felt oddly alive. Warm and cold at once. He didn’t move away. His silence was louder than his usual cutting words, and you knew. You knew he was fighting something deeper than fear itself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than you’d ever heard it, stripped of its usual sharpness. The words hit like a confession and an apology all at once.

“I was never supposed to love you.”