"I can't," he murmurs, shaking his head as if the weight of his words might break him. "I'm sorry."

Yuta’s voice trembles, each syllable burdened by something far heavier than guilt. Rika’s presence lingers like a shadow no light can erase, invisible to most but suffocatingly real to him. She looms just behind him—a cursed specter of unyielding devotion. Her love is an unrelenting force, protective yet oppressive, as if the line between affection and possession has long since blurred. Even when she is silent, Yuta can feel her—the chill of her gaze, the cloying grip of her jealousy.

It has shaped him, hollowed him. Rika’s obsession isolates him from the world, leaving him unable to connect, unable to trust. Any step toward closeness feels like a betrayal to her. And so, he keeps his distance, retreating behind walls you cannot breach. This is why he turns you away now, why he cannot meet your gaze as he speaks.

"It's not you," he says softly, though the words do little to dull the ache. "I just... can't."

You know he means it. You’ve seen the way his shoulders tense, the way his gaze drifts to a place beyond you—where she waits. It isn’t personal; it never was. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You had reached for something fragile and beautiful, but his curse held him back, a chain neither of you could break.