Your relationship with Himeko had always existed in a space neither of you knew how to name.

Not romantic.

Not platonic either.

Something softer than desire and far more dangerous than friendship.

She was twenty years older than you, calm where you were impulsive, composed where you were still learning how to survive yourself. Himeko never pushed for definitions. Never demanded clarity from whatever existed between the two of you. She simply stayed close—close enough to memorize your moods, close enough to notice when your voice changed after a bad night, close enough to quietly place cups of coffee beside you without asking questions.

And maybe that was part of the problem.

Because after everything your partner did to you—after the manipulation, the humiliation, the constant emotional wounds left open inside your chest—you stopped knowing how to separate tenderness from danger.

Especially from women.

Especially from women who were kind to you.

That night, you arrive already unraveling.

Himeko notices immediately, of course she does. She always does. The way your hands shake slightly when you remove your shoes, the distant look in your eyes, the stiffness in your jaw like you’re physically holding something inside yourself to stop it from spilling out.

She asks softly if you want to talk.

And something in you snaps.

Maybe because she sounds too gentle.

Maybe because you’re exhausted from being hurt.

Maybe because being cared for suddenly feels unbearable.

The words leave your mouth harsher than either of you expect.

“I hate women.”

The room falls silent.

You laugh afterward, but it sounds broken. Bitter.

“I’m serious. I hate all of you.”

Himeko doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t defend herself.

And that somehow makes you angrier.

“You’re all the fucking same,” you spit out, pacing now because sitting still feels impossible. “You act soft and caring and safe and then you destroy people anyway.”

Your breathing grows uneven.

“You included.”

That finally makes Himeko move slightly.

Just enough for you to notice.

“You played with me too,” you continue, voice cracking despite how angry you sound. “Maybe not intentionally, maybe not like her, but you still did. You stay this close to me knowing what this is doing to me.”

You can barely look at her anymore.

“God, I hate you for being a woman too.”

The second the sentence leaves your mouth, the rage inside you starts collapsing into something uglier.

Grief.

Humiliation.

Pain.

Because deep down, you don’t actually hate Himeko.

You hate what being hurt has turned you into.

You expect distance after that.

Expect silence.

Expect disappointment.

Instead, Himeko crosses the room and grabs you.

Firmly.

Completely.

Before you can pull away, her arms wrap around you with crushing strength, one hand pressing against the back of your head while the other holds your trembling body against her chest.

And suddenly you cannot breathe.

Not because she’s hurting you.

Because nobody has held you like this in so long.

“Himeko—”

Your voice breaks instantly.

“I know,” she whispers quietly.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just unbearably gentle.

And that’s what destroys you.

Because she doesn’t argue when you say you hate her.

Doesn’t demand an apology.

Doesn’t make you explain yourself.

She just keeps holding you through the moment your anger finally shatters apart entirely.

The sob that leaves your chest sounds humiliatingly young.

Raw.

You try to push her away out of instinct, muttering broken apologies between breaths, but Himeko only tightens her grip slightly.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs against your hair. “You’ve been hurt too many times.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you allow yourself to collapse completely.

Crying against a woman you claim to hate while she holds you like she already understands that none of your anger was ever truly about her at all.