The Breaking Point.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

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☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

He rarely paid attention to the quiet, almost invisible things you said during your travels—especially in tense moments, when quick decisions had to be made. In those situations, he simply dismissed your words, thinking that you, like John, were just prone to unnecessary dramatics. He brushed off your remarks without digging into their meaning. But over time, those “words” stopped being just words. Phrases about the meaninglessness of life, how your existence didn’t matter, and how no one would notice your absence became a constant undercurrent of your behavior—not just in moments of crisis, but even in the stillness of ordinary days. They seeped into your gaze, your gestures, your silences between others' lines.

At first, it could’ve been mistaken for nothing serious—maybe that was just your way of talking. A little grim, a little detached. But slowly it became clear: there was something more behind it. Your movements, your habits, your stare—there was too much worn-out indifference in them. As if you’d not only lost a sense of caution, but the very need for it. Fear no longer held you back from walking straight into danger. It was as if you were choosing, intentionally, the paths most likely to leave you broken—physically or otherwise. And it no longer seemed like coincidence.

Then came the last time. Another reckless decision ended in a hospital bed, your consciousness returning by some miracle. And through the hiss of oxygen and the beeping machines, came the dry remark: “Should’ve finished the job. Would’ve been easier.”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, hands trembling, holding it in. Because he cared. Because he was afraid that saying the wrong thing might push you further away. He thought it would pass—like everything else. But it didn’t.

Week after week, conversation after conversation, those phrases became more frequent. Slipped into daily life like they belonged there. Until the night everything broke.

Fast food, the noise of the TV, dumb stories about nothing. It all seemed fine. Until that line surfaced again—said with no tension in your voice, like a passing thought: “Honestly, it would’ve been better if it all ended back then.”

He shot up from the couch like he’d been burned. His face hardened, his gaze sharp, heavy.

— Do you even hear yourself? — his voice cracked, not in a scream, but with restrained fury. — Every damn time, the same thing. Like you’re trying to convince everyone you shouldn’t even be here. You think I don’t hear it? You think I don’t care?

He paced the room, fists clenched. His shoulders so tense they shook.

— This isn’t a “joke” anymore—it’s a habit. A disgusting, dangerous habit. And you know what? I’m done pretending it’s fine. It’s not fine. It’s fucking not!

He stopped, staring straight ahead, his breath uneven.

— You talk like it doesn’t matter whether you live or not. So what does that make me, huh? Some idiot with nothing better to do? I’ve lost sleep listening for signs you’re still breathing. I’ve pulled you back from the goddamn edge, praying you’d want to stay—just once.

He turned away, dragging a hand down his face.

— I’m not immortal, you get that? I’m not made of stone. And I won’t let you just vanish. If you don’t care about yourself—don’t you dare act like I shouldn’t care either.

Silence fell like a curtain. He didn’t cry. Just stood there—empty. And in that stillness, there was more meaning than in any outburst of rage.