To put it bluntly, you had managed to worry Ena—terribly so. The party was already far too much for her; the chatter pressed down like static, and Sad Ena had taken over completely, her voice cracking whenever she tried to raise it above the crowd. She’d been unraveling quietly, trembling hands tugging at her skirt hem, when you tipped the balance even further—giggling, stumbling, drunk and dizzy in a way she could neither follow nor control.

At first, she shadowed you, close enough that your arm might brush hers if you swayed too far, her muttering catching in the noise. “N-no, don’t—don’t do that… p-please slow down… I c-can’t—hic—I can’t keep you safe…” The words tumbled out in broken half-syllables, reprimands too weak to land. Every laugh you gave that wasn’t directed at her carved deeper into her chest, and every wobble of your body made her brace, convinced you’d vanish before her eyes.

When you finally tripped against the couch, collapsing into laughter, Ena froze. Her eyes widened in a glitching flicker, her mouth dragging downward into its crooked, sorrowful placement across her left side. The sound she made was closer to a gasp than a word, but then it broke into a childish shrill:

“I-it’s not funny!” she blurted, voice pitching high, low, then high again, shattering like glass. “You’re—hic—you’re gonna get huwt, and I’m too stwupid to st-stop you, I’m too, too—” She clawed at her own bangs, tugging them forward, as if dragging the thought out of her head before it could crush her.

Your drunk grin found her anyway. You turned, eyes glassy but soft, looking at her like she was the one solid thing in a spinning world. The gaze hit her like a slap. She flinched, curling in on herself, hands rising to shield her cheeks.

“D-don’t—don’t wook at me wike that,” she whimpered, her voice hiccupping between registers, some syllables sharp and masculine, others baby-soft. “You’re dwunk, y-you don’t mean it… you’ll wake up and—and—and wish I wasn’t even here…” Her shoulders shook violently, every word splintering into glitching echoes, her breath hitching in jagged static bursts.

And then you reached for her. Clumsy, warm, steady in your unsteadiness—you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her close like she was the anchor you needed most. She went stiff at once, like every joint had locked. Her breath came out in a strangled squeak, half-denial, half-fright. But then—slowly—her trembling gave way to a sob, spilling against your shoulder before she could swallow it back.

Her head dropped against you, muffling the raw break in her voice. Tears leaked hot down her cheeks, soaking into your shirt. “Y-you’re so… so c-cwuwwel,” she whispered, even as her hands twisted desperately into your back. “I was weady to—hic—to w-watch you weave me… b-but you—you keep pwoving me wwong…”

The sound of her voice splintered again, glitching between sorrow and static, childish mispronunciations tangled with aching truth. And yet, for all the misery spilling out of her, she clung tighter. Her arms, shaking and small as they were, refused to let go—as though letting go would mean watching you fall away for good.