After the slap, I sank onto the sofa, hands trembling, heart racing. I couldn't look at him. My chest ached with shame.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just sat there, the red mark on his cheek a silent testament to my anger and my guilt.
I wanted to reach out, to cradle him and beg for forgiveness. I wanted to hold him and never let go. But I was afraid. Afraid that if I touched him now, he would vanish behind that wall he'd built.
So I stayed silent.
I didn't notice when he left the room.
Takeda closed the door behind him gently, careful not to make a sound. Once inside the bedroom, he let himself collapse against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His hoodie hid his hands, but I could see them trembling, gripping the fabric tightly.
He pressed a hand to his face and whispered to no one, a soft sound barely audible, "I… I can't…"
And then the tears came. Quietly at first, pooling in the corners of his eyes, sliding down his cheeks. He bit his lip so hard I could almost imagine it breaking the skin. The sound of his soft, restrained sobs filled the empty room, muffled yet unmistakable.
He hadn't let me see this. He would never let me see it. Not really. Not after the slap, not after everything. He was trying to be cold, trying to punish himself, trying to hold all the hurt inside so I wouldn't notice.
But he couldn't. He was too soft. Too gentle. Too human to carry the pain silently.
His knees hugged his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, trembling. Each quiet sob tore at something in me even from across the house, even though I couldn't see him now. I could feel it. I knew him too well.
Takeda's love for me, his heartbreak, his restraint—it all mingled in that quiet, lonely room. He had tried so hard to appear cold, to hold himself together, to keep me at a distance, yet his body betrayed him completely.
I wanted to rush in, to hold him, to apologize, to cradle him and let him cry as long as he needed. But I stayed where I was, frozen in my own guilt, knowing that even now, he loved me enough to suffer quietly, alone, rather than let me see the full weight of his pain.
And that, more than anything, broke me.
I stayed frozen, unsure if I should go after him. But something in my chest ached too much to ignore. Slowly, quietly, I rose and padded toward the bedroom.
The door was slightly ajar. I peeked in. Takeda was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, head bowed. His hand still pressed to his face, hiding the tears I knew were there. My chest tightened.
I knelt in front of him, not touching him at first. "Takeda…" I whispered.
He didn't respond.
I swallowed and reached forward, gently wrapping my arms around his shoulders, letting my weight press softly against him. He stiffened immediately.
"Don't…" he said quietly, his voice low, controlled, even though it trembled.
"I just… want to hold you," I murmured. "Is that okay?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose and, without looking at me, muttered: "You're ridiculous."
The words stung, but not the way anger would. They carried frustration, hurt, disbelief—but no malice. His lips pressed tightly together, trying to bite back the tremor in his voice.
"I… I just—" I started, but he cut me off.
"You… You really are the stupidest person sometimes."
His back was stiff against me now. I could feel it tense, every inch of him coiled. I wanted to pull away, but I didn't. My arms stayed wrapped around him, holding gently, even as he spoke.
"You think hugging me like this fixes anything? Huh? You think that one gesture undoes the mess you made?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I… I'm trying, Takeda. I'm trying so hard."
"You don't get it," he whispered, voice almost cracking despite his effort. "I'm not like you. I can't just… forget things. I can't just pretend it didn't happen. And you… you just keep—" He stopped himself, biting his lip hard. I felt the tremor of his body through my arms.
I tightened my hold ever so slightly, not enough to hurt him, just enough to let him know I wasn't going anywhere.
"You're… infuriating," he said softly, almost to himself, then pressed his forehead into my shoulder. "But I… I can't hate you."
I felt it—his warmth, the slight shudder against me, the quiet of his sobs that had not completely stopped. He was still resisting, still trying to act cold, but the effort was failing.
I whispered into the curve of his neck, "I know… I know you're hurting. I'm here."
He didn't answer. Not with words. But I felt the tension in his shoulders ease fractionally, the tiny tremor of his body softening.
"You're impossible," he muttered again, and I smiled faintly through my own tears.
"Yes," I said softly, "I am. But I love you."
And though he didn't respond, I could feel him relax just enough for me to hold him a little longer.
I felt him stiffen at first, every inch of him taut and unyielding.
I held him anyway. Softly, gently, letting my arms wrap around his shoulders, my cheek resting against the top of his head. His body was rigid, fighting the urge to curl away.
And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to soften.
A shudder ran through him. His hands clutched my shirt weakly at first, as if testing whether I would let him fall apart. And then, with a quiet, choked sob, he leaned forward, pressing his face into my chest.
"Takeda…" I whispered, tightening my hold. "It's okay. I'm here."
He didn't respond with words. He couldn't. He just sobbed quietly, his body trembling against mine, small, fragile, and human in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. I felt the heat of tears soaking into my shirt, the rapid, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
He was letting himself break, letting me see the part of him he always tried to hide. And it hurt me—hurts me even now—because I know this is the real weight of what I did. Not just the slap, not just the words I said, but the way I fractured the trust and softness that made him… him.
I stroked his hair softly, murmuring his name again and again, letting him lean into me, letting him cry.
He finally wrapped his arms around me, hugging me back with everything he had. The quiet sobs shook his shoulders, pressed into my chest. He tried so hard to bite his lip, to hold the tears back, but I felt every drop, every shiver, every piece of the heartbreak I had caused.
I held him tighter.
And in that moment, I realized something I already knew deep down:
This would take time.
Not days. Not weeks. Maybe months, maybe years. Someone like Takeda, someone so soft, so careful with himself and with others, cannot heal quickly. He cannot pretend the past away. He cannot act as though a single apology fixes everything.
I could hold him. I could comfort him. I could be here for him. But I also knew I could not rush him, could not demand his forgiveness or his love back.
I let the silence stretch between us, only the sound of his quiet sobs filling the room. I held him through it all, and I would continue to hold him, no matter how long it took.
Because I love him. And someone like Takeda… someone this gentle, this soft, deserves patience. Deserves time. Deserves all the care I can give.
And I would give it.
No matter how long it took.