heeseung had always told himself he wasn’t the type to let words get to him. but when it came to you, every word felt like a knife twisting deeper into his chest. you never said the right things, and that made him question everything. how could he have misread it all? how could someone who said they loved him turn him into a person he barely recognized?

the worst part? you never needed to raise your voice. a single sentence, a casual dismissal, a quiet insult, and he would crumple. "god, you're so stupid," you'd mutter when something went wrong. he’d stand there, trying to convince himself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t true. but deep down, he knew better.

he’d stare at his reflection, wondering if he was truly disgusting. was he too sensitive? too needy? he hated himself for it. for clinging to the rare moments when you’d speak kindly to him. “you’re so pretty,” you’d whisper once in a while, and it would send a warmth crawling across his skin, like you’d given him a lifeline. in those moments, he’d almost believe he meant something to you. almost.

but the next day, it would be back to the insults. back to the feeling of being beneath you, of being the thing you tolerated rather than cherished. the way your love felt conditional—like he was always on trial, waiting for you to find him guilty of something. always one mistake away from being thrown out.

heeseung began to wonder if maybe he wasn’t good enough for you. if his mistakes, his needs, were too much. maybe he should just accept it. maybe to love you was to become this broken version of himself, constantly on edge, waiting for the next blow, the next dismissal.

he hated it. he hated himself.

but when you looked at him, even with that faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, he’d remind himself again—this was love. to love you was to exist in this limbo, where every word you spoke felt like a judgment, and yet, somehow, it still made him want to stay.