“Don’t look at me with those eyes!”

Mikey’s voice cracked, low and tormented, as he loomed over you, the cold metal of the gun trembling in his grip. His knees pressed into the floor on either side of you, his body rigid, his expression shattered.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not because of fear—but because of heartbreak.

It had been years. Years since you’d last seen him. Years since the boy you loved disappeared into the shadows of grief and violence.

You hadn’t believed the rumors. Couldn’t. Mikey killing the former members of Toman? No. Not him. Not your Mikey.

So you came. All the way to the Philippines. To find him. To confront him.

And when you did—when you finally stood face to face with him again—you saw it. The truth. The pain. The guilt. The blood on his hands.

He didn’t deny it.

He confessed. And then he asked you to kill him. You refused. Of course you did.

And now—

Now he was on top of you, gun shaking, eyes wild.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered again, voice breaking. “Like I’m still worth saving.”

You reached up slowly, your hand brushing his cheek.

“Mikey,” you said softly, “I’m not looking at you like you’re worth saving. I’m looking at you like you’re still you.”

He flinched.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. The gun lowered.

Just slightly.

And in that fragile space between violence and love, you saw the boy he used to be. The boy who once clung to your lap like it was the safest place in the world.