𝕾𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓🍷

genuine — well, for the most part. he’ll try to bury the more unsightly parts of himself, and show you more of his good, fun, and chill side. but he doesn’t try to pretend to be someone he’s not just to gain your affection, or at least not someone entirely different. he is perceptive to what you like about him, even if he can sometimes get stubborn and convince himself that you wouldn’t like his lowest points no matter how much you assure him that just like he loves all of you, you love all of him. but while he might play up the parts (he thinks) you like of him, he won’t outright fake being someone else entirely. he doesn’t mind being honest and pointing out your faults, either, but it’s clear even that’s endearing to him. he loves you not despite your flaws, but because of them. there’s a raw edge to how he talks about you that sounds both unbearably in love, and like there’s something close to bursting at the seams deep down. it’s hard to overlook how much fondness seeps through when he talks to and about you, even when it starts to sound almost concerning.

your personal hype squad — from cutsey (if cringy) nicknames, to hyping you up whenever you’re introduced, to being able to talk about how wonderful you are for hours, you’ll never have to second guess just how much he adores you. anyone can see how in love he is with you, and even if he can get a little overbearing sometimes, you’ll never doubt it. it’s not just to others, either. he’s very upfront about how much he loves you to your face, too. if you’re ever not feeling to great about yourself, he’ll immediately start telling you all the great things about you, and his list is hardly short. he loves you, and he wants you to know he loves you. in fact, it’s essential to him that you’re aware of it. he knows what it’s like to hate yourself, and he absolutely don’t want you to have to feel the same way if you don’t have to. it’s thanks to you that he started tolerating himself more and more, so now it’s his turn to return the favour. but even outside of that, he’s just the type of guy to loudly proclaim how much he loves his partner, because he just has a lot of love and excitement about you. and he’s almost painfully genuine, too—none of what he says, however extravagant, is at all exaggerated. he really just cares for you that much. it’s cute and uplifting, if nothing else.

cons:

self-sacrificial — he’s already lost everything he died so many times working for once, so he’s not about to let you slip through his fingers this time, and if that means putting your safety above his no matter what, he’ll do so. there’s probably many dead ends he could’ve avoided had he just been thinking a bit more clearly, but that’s fine. you haven’t died once yet, and while both of you would like to keep it that way, subaru is a lot more insistent on it. if he has to take on more pain for you to get off free, he’ll do so without thinking twice about it. he’ll make any sacrifice, so long as it gets you out of trouble. whether you remember it or not doesn’t matter, as long as you’re safe and sound. he’ll insist you stay out of the way in a secure location when he knows something bad is about to happen, and this is the one thing he won’t ever budge on. when you try to talk to him about how you’re starting to get worried about him and he should let you shoulder some of the burden he carries, he insists you’ve already done more than enough for him and that all he needs is for you to stay safe. safe and out of the way and by his side—he’ll take care of everything, okay? don’t worry about it. don’t worry about him, even if he can’t lie and say he doesn’t like it when you fuss over him afterwards. he’s… not entirely above just locking you up for a while if he needs to, even if it’ll make you mad at him later. and if you wake up several days prior the next time, well, he’ll know that at least you were safe.

projects… a lot — he sees you for you—he doesn’t see you as someone you’re not, or at least not exactly. instead, the problem lies in that he’s constantly putting you on a pedestal. you’re the only one who truly understands him, he’ll say, and he’s right. you’re special and amazing and he could go on for hours about how amazing you are, but ultimately you’re almost filling a role for him more than anything else. he needs someone to anchor him, to save him, for him to rely on when he’s all alone in life, and he won’t accept anyone else but you anymore. he doesn’t need anyone else anymore; as long as he has you, he can keep going. he’ll be your loyal knight, so won’t you allow him to stay by your side? he’ll take care of everything dangerous for you, so you can rely on him more. unlike emilia, you’re not from this world, just like him, and you can’t hold your own in the same way she could. so rely on him. be there for him. don’t abandon him. save him over and over again.

You Reaffirm He’s The Problem

Not directly. But he hears it.

You say things like:

“I seem to attract broken people.” Or “Maybe I only know how to love things that are difficult.”

You don’t mean it cruelly. You’re just trying to understand yourself.

But he hears what you won’t say out loud: You’re the burden.

And it burns more than any accusation ever could.

You Don’t Hate Him. And That Hurts Most of All

Because he knows you should.

You should run.

Slam the door.

Scream at him for all the ways he’s hurt you.

But instead—you sit beside him, your hands trembling, your voice raw with conflicted care.

And he can’t bear it.

Your forgiveness is unbearable.

Because it means he has no excuse.

You Pull Away When He’s Gentle, Not When He’s Cruel

When he says something cutting, you meet it with fire.

When he needles you, you shove back.

But when he strokes your hair without speaking, or leaves your favorite book open to the page you stopped on—that’s when you recoil.

He doesn’t understand why.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe he just hates that his tenderness frightens you more than his cruelty ever could.

You Think the Worst Parts of Him Are a Phase

You say things like:

“You’re not hopeless.”

Or

“You’ve just been hurt too much.”

You mean it lovingly.

But he hears the subtext: This isn’t really you.

And it is.

It is him.

The way he sees the world.

The things he’s done.

You keep looking for a version of him that doesn’t exist and call it love.

You Keep Your Past From Him

He tells you things—terrible things—like they’re flowers laid at your feet.

Pieces of the labyrinth inside him.

But you keep your stories locked in your throat.

Or worse—you laugh them off.

“It’s not important.”

It makes him feel truly monstrous.

Like he’s handed you his worst sins, and you won’t even give him a scar in return.

You Say ‘You Scare Me’ Like It’s a Compliment

And it is. In your own way.

But he hears it like a prophecy. Something inevitable and true.

He never tells you that you scare him too.

Because what would you do with that?

You Ask If He’s Okay Like He’s Not Real

“Are you… alright?” you’ll ask, your voice hesitant, eyes too careful.

Not because you don’t care—but because you’re unsure if he’s even built like that. Like you’re asking out of obligation. Like it’s a script.

And he realizes:

You don’t see him as someone who can break.

Only as someone who breaks others.

That hurts in a place he didn’t know was soft.

You Talk About the Future Like He’s Not In It

You make offhanded plans.

“When I graduate—maybe I’ll move somewhere quieter.”

“Someday I want a little garden, maybe a cat…”

And you never say we.

Never include him. Not even hypothetically.

He smiles. Nods.

But something inside him goes very still.

Because you don’t even realize you’re writing him out.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’s certainly never been sure of his own permanence either.

You Laugh With Your Friends in a Way You Never Laugh With Him

He watches it happen—how your shoulders relax, how your voice lifts, how you lean into them.

With him, it’s more careful. More tense. Even when you are happy.

It confirms what he fears:

He makes you less yourself. Not more.

Leaving the Light On When He Sleeps Over

It’s a small thing.

But it guts him.

He’s the one who sleeps with the light on.

But now he wonders if you prefer it too—not because you’re afraid of the dark, but because something in your subconscious still whispers danger. 

Even when you’re lying next to him.

The First Time You Hummed Without Realizing

You hum absentmindedly while organizing your bag.

Johan isn’t even listening—until the cadence shifts.

Soft.

Low.

Repetitive.

Something slams into his chest.

It’s not the melody.

It’s the feeling:

Being lulled to sleep in the dark.

A hand on his forehead.

A voice just out of memory.

He looks at you too long.

You don’t notice.

The Smell of Soap

Dish soap or bleach on your hands after cleaning reminds him of the back rooms of The Three Frogs.

His mother’s hands.

Worn from long shifts.

Cracked skin, a faint scent of citrus and exhaustion.

Once, he gripped your wrist absentmindedly and pressed his nose to your palm.

You flinched.

He let go—slowly.

Murmured an apology.

But his mind didn’t return to you right away.

It lingered somewhere far off.

You Ask Him About Her

He doesn’t talk about the lullabies.

Or the dresses.

He tells you how cold her hands were the last time she touched his face.

How her eyes wouldn’t meet his when she said goodbye.

You think he’s being cruel.

Detached.

But that’s the only version of her he can stand to remember.

Because the loving one still gave him away.

Resemblance

You find the photo by accident, tucked between the pages of one of his books.

Probably forgotten.

Or maybe not.

A girl, maybe eight—if that.

Standing still in front of some concrete building.

Pale. Solemn. Blue eyes.

You study it curiously, then glance at him with a faint smile.

“She does look like you.”

He doesn’t speak.

You have no idea what you’ve just touched.

How easily those words press into something that never closed right.

His face doesn’t shift.

But something in him recoils.

She looks like you.

The words loop—sharp, reflexive.

And with them, the question returns:

If she could have told us apart.. would it still have been me?

Or did I only get saved wearing my sister’s clothes?

He nods, just once. Enough to end it.

And you, still unaware, hand the photo back.

Never realizing what your fingers brushed against.

Not the scar on his head.

The one underneath it.

The Wrong Hand

He doesn’t want you to see it.

The part of him that never grew past that moment.

Not the man beside you now, sharp-eyed and still—but the child.

Small. Silent.

Clinging to a woman’s hand, whispering, “Don’t let go.”

And she did.

So he learned not to ask.

Not to reach.

He taught himself how to disappear first—or worse, how to be remembered in ways no one could ignore.

Because if no one stays, then being unforgettable is the only way to prove he was ever really there.

Not a shadow.

Not a mistake.

Not the wrong child pulled by the wrong hand.

So when you touch him like he’s worth staying for—when your eyes say you see him—something fractures.

He wants to hold on.

Tight. Tighter than he ever dared.

But he doesn’t.