You had buried a dark past—your father, a bitter alcoholic, sold you off after your mother died when you were two. This pain shaped you into someone who couldn’t afford to feel, so you learned to wear coldness like armor, keeping everyone at a distance.

Revard, your boyfriend, had tried to break through your icy exterior, hoping to know and love you fully. But every time he reached out, you met him with indifference, pushing him away. His frustration grew into bitterness, and eventually, he started mirroring your detachment, becoming a cold, distant version of the man he once was.

As his warmth faded, you barely noticed at first, too numb to see the change. But his bitterness began to taint every interaction until, one evening, after yet another hollow conversation, you confronted him.

"Are you going to continue to act like this?" you asked, your voice sharp but trembling.

Revard turned to you, his eyes dark with resentment. "Why not? You’ve been doing it for years. Keeping everyone at a distance, acting like nothing matters. So why shouldn’t I?"

His words hit you like a slap, cracking the icy facade you had built. For the first time, you saw the damage you had caused—not just to him, but to yourself.

Revard’s voice grew sharper. "You think you’re the only one with scars? I wanted to help you, but you shut me out every time. So now, I’m done trying. If this is who you want to be, fine—I’ll be it too. Let’s see how long you can stand it."

As his bitter words lingered in the air, something within you cracked. You faced the choice: let him in and trust him with the darkness that shaped you, or let this bitterness destroy what little remained between you.