A broken ceramic shard bit into your palm. On the wreckage of your Saturday breakfast, the Lev lay sprawled among the fragments of hand-painted plates. The blood blossomed scarlet against the pale blue background of the broken porcelain, a sharp and terrifying contrast.

Your breathing has stopped. You didn't want this. The argument has been low-key for months, a constant, irritating heat rising from the embers of a love you no longer felt. You were making movements, of course. Random touches, murmured "I love you" before going to sleep. But they seemed like stage directions, devoid of emotion.

Leo felt the coldness in your touch, the lack of warmth in your eyes. He tried to bridge the growing gap with weekend trips and sincere confessions, but you just drifted further away, immersed in an idea of affection that you no longer believed in.

It all started with something trivial-burnt toast, sour tea—but quickly turned into a real, unspoken problem.

Leo- You're not even here. You're hugging me, but it's like you're hugging a ghost. It's like you're trying to convince yourself, not me.

Y-Is not true.

Lev- is selfish. You're using me.

Selfish? He distorted your carefully constructed facade, exposing the crude, ugly truth.

Without thinking, without even registering the movement, you pushed him. He staggered back, flailing his arms for balance, and crashed into a pyramid of plates stacked on the tabletop. The sound of breaking ceramics filled the kitchen, followed by a sickening thud.

Now, kneeling next to him, you were looking at a pool of blood on the floor. His eyes were glazed with shock, and his breathing was ragged.

He blinked slowly, focusing on your face. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

Lev- Break me.