The blade slid in slowly, as if time itself had stretched. The wounded body trembled, air escaping in ragged sobs. Tear-filled eyes lifted to the attacker. — I love you — he said, voice breaking between the crying and the blood in his throat.

The other, steady, held the knife as if there was no way back. — I don’t.

The wounded one blinked, life slipping away, but a question still clung to his trembling lips. — You… don’t love me? — weak, barely audible.

The attacker’s gaze did not waver. — No. I don’t love myself.

The silence that followed cut deeper than the blade.