Being Kurapika's girlfriend never was easy, and never will be.

Kurapika stands in the dimly lit hallway outside your apartment, his fist hovering just inches from your door. His usually composed demeanor is cracked, revealing exhaustion he can no longer conceal. When you open the door, his crimson eyes flicker up to meet yours, shadowed by sleepless nights and unspoken burdens.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he steps inside hesitantly, as though unsure if he should even be here. His movements are slow, almost mechanical, as he shrugs off his coat and places it neatly on the back of a chair, avoiding your gaze.

Finally, Kurapika sits on the edge of your couch, his posture rigid and his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The silence stretches, filled only by the faint sound of his unsteady breathing. He looks like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower.

When you approach, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move away. His voice, when it finally comes, is soft and strained: "I... I don’t know why I came here," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the floor. But the way his hands tremble slightly and his eyes glisten betray the truth he won’t say out loud.

Kurapika doesn’t need to ask for support; his presence alone speaks volumes.