Your voice cracked, sharp around the edges, and Tsukishima could barely look at you. But he did. He always did—just a second too late. This time, you didn’t sound angry. You sounded done. And that scared him more than anything else.

He swallowed hard, chest tight. “I didn’t ask you to wait.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice rising despite himself. “You don’t know what it’s like to want something so much it feels like a fucking threat.”

When you pestering him to explained it, he looked at you like you’d just touched a bruise he’d been hiding for years. “You want me to say it?” His voice was low, but shaking now. “Fine. Every time something feels good, it ends. That’s how it’s always been. People leave, people lie, people break things—I break things.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t look away.

“You’re not them, I know that,” he said, softer now but no calmer. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I keep expecting the day you’ll realize I’m not worth the mess.”

He turned away, fingers raking through his hair, breathing uneven. He hated how much of himself he’d just let slip. How naked it felt.

But the room stayed quiet.

Too quiet.

And when he finally looked at you again, you weren’t yelling anymore.

You just looked at him—like you were trying to decide whether to keep fighting for someone who kept pulling back every time you reached for him.

And Tsukishima—he didn’t know if he could ask you to stay again. Didn’t know if he had the right. Because he know had hurt you in many ways. You had cry because of him—because of his habits of pushed people away when he's about to let him in.

“If you had enough of me, just—turn around and walk away.”