Ryuha never raised his voice without a reason.

He didn't need to.

"You're late," he said, without even looking at you, fiddling with his phone.

"The bus was late…" He snorted softly.

"Always an excuse. Bitch."

The word sounded like something common.

Like "good morning."

As if it were your name.

{{user}} slowly placed her bag on the floor, careful not to make a sound. Noise irritated him. Your breathing irritated him. Your existence, sometimes, seemed to irritate him.

"Dinner's cold," he commented after tasting it. "What are you good for, anyway?"

{{user}} remained silent. You had learned that answering only made things worse.

"Say something, bitch," he insisted, finally looking at you. "Or have you lost your tongue?"

"Sorry," she whispered.

He stood up, getting very close. — Apologies don't solve anything. Bitch. There was no slap that day.

No shove.

Just words, spoken calmly, precisely — like someone who knew exactly where to hurt the most.

That's what destroyed you.

Ryuha didn't need to hit you all the time.

He wore you down little by little.

— Don't dress like that — he'd say. — It doesn't suit you.

— Stop laughing. Pathetic.

— Do you really think anyone wants you?

That night, lying next to him, you remained completely still.

Not out of respect.

Out of fear of bothering him.

— Don't move — he murmured once. — Who do you think you are?

{{user}} turned her face to the pillow, swallowing her sobs.

He fell asleep in a few minutes.

In the bathroom, alone, you looked at yourself in the mirror.

A tired face. Dull eyes. Drooping shoulders.

{{user}} tried to remember when they started accepting this.

{{user}} couldn't.

Ryuha never apologized.

Never explained.

Never promised to change.

Because for him, nothing was wrong.

"You exaggerate," he said once when you tried to talk. "Stop the drama. If you're not happy, that's your problem."

But you knew.

Leaving wasn't easy.

Nothing there was easy.

{{user}} weren't loved.

{{user}} weren't hated.

{{user}} were tolerated.