Perfect. We can structure it in two parts
I will never forget the night he cried in front of me. Takeda, the man whose gentle hands had always calmed me, who never raised his voice, who carried the quiet warmth of someone too soft for the world. That night, his eyes were red, his lips trembling, and his body shook with a grief I could barely stand to witness.
He had almost asked for a divorce. I could see it in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his hands fidgeted in his lap, in the pause before he finally spoke. He wanted to leave, and yet… he didn't.
He loved me too much.
I was trembling as I confessed, my voice breaking under the weight of guilt. I expected anger, maybe hatred, maybe a scream that would finally let me feel the consequences of what I had done. Instead, he sat there, soft and broken, holding himself together as best as he could.
"Why… why would you do this?" he whispered, barely audible. His voice caught in the middle, and I felt the weight of every unshed tear.
I had no answer that could fix it. I could only bow my head, shivering, and let him see the shame I could not hide.
He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, like he was trying to gather courage from the air itself. And then he cried. Softly. The kind of crying that is nearly silent but so deep it shakes everything around you. The kind that makes you want to curl up next to him and tell him it would be okay, even when you know it isn't.
I reached out instinctively, but he flinched slightly and whispered, "Don't…"
He couldn't leave me. He couldn't hate me enough to walk away. He loved me too much, even when his heart was breaking, even when I had shattered everything between us.
That night, I understood Takeda in a way I had never before. He was gentle, unyielding in his love, and yet fragile in a way that terrified me.
The memory lingers every time I see him now.
He sits across from me at the kitchen table, eating breakfast with the same careful, polite movements he's adopted over the past year. His hands are delicate, folded over the edge of the table. His hair is slightly messy from sleep, and the morning sunlight falls softly over his face.
"Takeda," I say, trying to keep my voice calm. "I'll make lunch early today. Will that be okay?"
He glances up from his plate briefly, expression neutral. "That's fine."
His words are short, measured, cold. I know he is forcing himself. He is pretending to care only about schedules, meals, and the child. But I notice the faint tremor in his hands as he sets down his cup. I see it in the small way his shoulders slump, as if the weight of pretending to be cold is heavier than anything else.
I take a deep breath and speak again. "Takeda, do you… need anything today?"
He pauses for a heartbeat, then shakes his head slightly. "No. Everything is fine."
I nod, because there is nothing else to do. He doesn't need me to fix anything anymore. He doesn't need me to comfort him. And yet, I can't stop noticing the way he lingers in the doorway before leaving for work, the way he hesitates as if every step away from me hurts.
Even now, after a year, he cannot act truly indifferent. Every polite word, every measured motion, every cold glance is an effort. I know it. I see the soft man behind the mask.
And I ache for him.
Later, when he leaves, the house feels too large, too empty. I press my palm against the edge of the table where he sat, remembering the warmth he leaves behind even when he tries to hide it.
He is cold in words, careful in his actions, yet he cannot escape himself. I can see him in all the quiet gestures he does not realize betray him. Folding my clothes neatly, placing my favorite tea beside my cup without a word, adjusting the blanket on the sofa so it sits just right. These things are small, but they speak louder than any confession.
Takeda is pretending. I know this. And I also know that beneath the forced coldness, he still loves me. More than I have any right to ask for, more than he has any reason to stay.
I want to reach him, to melt the cold layer he built around himself. And I will. Slowly. Patiently. Because I know Takeda. I know the soft, gentle man who cannot act cold forever.
The living room smelled faintly of the tea I had made for him earlier. Takeda was sitting on the sofa, hoodie pulled slightly over his hands, his legs tucked under him. He wasn't looking at me. Of course, he wasn't.
"I folded the laundry," I said softly, placing a small stack of clothes on the armrest beside him.
He glanced at it briefly, eyes flicking just enough to notice, then back to the floor. "Thanks."
The word was polite, flat. Cold. But I knew. I knew he had seen it, and I knew he cared. That subtle acknowledgment, that micro-expression, was everything.
I sat on the other end of the sofa, careful not to get too close. My hands rested in my lap. My stomach was tight, as it always was when I was near him these days.
"Takeda," I began, my voice softer now. "Are you… eating enough these days? You barely touched breakfast."
He didn't answer immediately. His fingers traced a small pattern on the hem of his hoodie. Finally, in that calm, almost emotionless tone, he said, "I'm fine."
I wanted to reach out, to place my hand over his, but the moment my fingers twitched toward him, he shifted slightly. Not away, exactly, but enough to remind me of the distance he was keeping intentionally.
I swallowed, forcing my voice into something neutral. "I'll pick up dinner for us after I pick up our daughter. Do you want anything special?"
"Anything's fine," he said. Short. Dismissive. Cold, as always. But again… I knew him. I saw the faint crease in his brow, the way his eyes flicked toward me for a fraction of a second before looking away. He wanted to care. He wanted to tell me what he wanted. But he wouldn't. Not yet.
I let out a quiet sigh and leaned back. "You've really changed," I murmured to myself, more than to him. "You try so hard to be cold, but…"
I trailed off, because I knew he could hear me even when he didn't turn his head. I could feel it in the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he adjusted his posture as if trying to straighten out the invisible wall he was building between us.
I wanted to ask him something I had thought of a hundred times over the past year. Something I had rehearsed in my mind in front of mirrors, in the kitchen, when I was alone.
"Takeda," I whispered, careful not to let my voice rise, "do you… miss how we used to be?"
His hand froze mid-motion. The tension in the room thickened. I didn't need to see his face to know his jaw clenched. He didn't answer. He didn't even look at me.
I took a slow breath. "I know you're trying to act cold. I know you don't want me to see that…"
He flinched ever so slightly at the words. I leaned forward just a little, but not enough to touch him. "I know it's hard," I said. "But I… I want to find a way back. Even if you push me away, even if it takes time, I want to be here. With you."
Finally, he looked at me. Just for a moment. Just long enough for me to see the softness buried under the effort. The flicker of pain in his eyes. The faint tremor in his lips, the way his hand clenched slightly in his hoodie pocket.
And then, as always, he looked away. His voice calm, controlled, cold: "I know."
It was a simple word. Almost dismissive. Polite. Cold.
But I knew. I always knew.