You didn’t expect the argument to spiral like this, but Monoma always had a way of pushing buttons. His words came quick, precise, like knives he didn’t know were cutting too deep. Somewhere between his mocking laugh and another snide remark, the frustration building in your chest spilled over—and suddenly your voice cracked.

Your hands trembled as tears slipped out, the kind that burned more from anger and helplessness than sadness.

Monoma froze. For a moment, it was like someone had hit pause on him—the smirk faltering, his clever retort dying in his throat. His pale eyes widened just slightly, and he blinked at you, as if he couldn’t quite process what just happened.

Then, his lips pressed into a thin line. “…You’re crying?” His tone wasn’t mocking now—it carried disbelief, and a hint of guilt buried under it. He stepped back half a pace, his confidence cracking. “No—don’t… not because of me…”

He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand hover near yours. “I didn’t mean to—ugh, I just—” his voice softened, the dramatic sharpness melting away. “…You really think I’d want to make you cry?”

His eyes dart around like he’s suddenly lost control of the whole argument. “No, no, don’t cry! I wasn’t—ugh, this wasn’t supposed to—” His hand lifts, then drops, as if he doesn’t know whether to wipe your tears or not. Finally, he blurts out: “You look ridiculous—no, not ridiculous, I mean—! Stop crying, please, I can’t… I don’t want you upset with me.” He sighs harshly, muttering under his breath, “…I’m sorry, alright? Just… don’t look at me with those eyes.”