Persephone's Point of View
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"It's bothersome. Very bothersome. And I am not good at speaking about emotions or feelings. Ever. Except anger. I'm good with that."
The words left my lips in an unnervingly steady stream, my tone calm yet cold, each syllable carefully measured as if carved from stone. There was a deliberate weight to my admission, one I could feel pressing down on the space between us. Even as I spoke, I wondered if it was my restraint or my bluntness that unsettled me more. My fingers rested still on my lap, save for the occasional twitch—a slight, almost imperceptible movement that betrayed the tension coiling in my chest. I didn't want to admit that tension even existed.
I shifted my gaze, allowing my eyes to slide toward Pride-Niklaus as though drawn by some invisible thread. He sat just a little to the side, his posture as composed as ever, and yet there was nothing casual about the way his amethyst eyes burned into mine. Those eyes—sharp, knowing, relentless—pinned me in place. I wasn't sure whether it was intentional or simply the natural weight of his presence, but it left me feeling both exposed and irritated, like a trapped animal being studied under a microscope.
The longer I met his gaze, the harder it became to ignore the growing discomfort beneath my skin, a prickling sensation that started at the base of my spine and radiated outward. It wasn't fear, but it wasn't anger either. It was something in between, something that defied categorization, and it drove me mad. My chest tightened against my will, and for a brief moment, I considered saying something just to break the tension. Instead, I forced myself to look away, to focus on the real problem at hand.
Fox sat directly across from me, his amber eyes already brimming with the silent storm of emotions I knew he wouldn't voice. His posture, normally so relaxed, was rigid, his back straight, his shoulders squared as if bracing for impact. He looked so composed on the surface, but the faintest tremor in his jaw, the tightness in his mouth, gave him away. He was trying so hard to hold himself together, but I knew better.
"Do what you need to do, but give up on me, Fox."
The words were firm, deliberate, each one cutting through the air like a blade. I made no effort to soften the blow. "It's a fool's game," I continued, my voice unwavering, despite the small knot of discomfort twisting in my stomach. "I'll never be yours."
I didn't need to explain myself further—he already knew. But I wasn't done, and I couldn't afford to hold back. "Again, I understand you don't have a light switch for love or hatred—it is what it is—but focus whatever you call love on someone else other than me. I don't want it. I don't need it. I don't like it. I'll only tell you this once."
Each word landed with a force I didn't fully intend, but I didn't regret it. I couldn't regret it. Not when I knew how necessary it was to be this direct, this unyielding. Anything less would only prolong his suffering, and I refused to be the cause of that any longer.
The silence that followed was suffocating, wrapping itself around us like a thick, oppressive fog. Fox's eyes darted downward, his amber gaze clouded with a mixture of pain and disbelief. For a moment, I thought he might say something, but he didn't. He just sat there, staring at his hands as though they held answers he didn't want to find.
And then he looked back up at me, his expression raw and open in a way that made my stomach lurch. He wasn't crying—not yet—but I could see it in his eyes, the way the unshed tears shimmered just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. His jaw tightened, a visible effort to keep himself together, but he was losing the battle.
Fox wasn't unattractive—far from it. Most people would have described him as devastatingly handsome, with his sharp cheekbones, striking amber eyes, and perfectly disheveled hair that seemed to fall into place effortlessly. He carried himself with a natural confidence that should have been endearing, even magnetic.
And yet, none of it mattered. None of it made my heart race or my breath hitch the way it should have.
It wasn't his fault. It wasn't because of anything he did or didn't do. It wasn't because he wasn't good enough.
The truth was far simpler and far crueler than that: I didn't feel anything for him. Not love, not attraction, not even the faintest flicker of possibility. And no amount of effort on his part could change that.
"Don't cry for me, Fox," I said finally, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over us like a shroud. My voice softened against my will, the sharp edge dulled by something I couldn't quite name. Guilt, maybe. Or pity. Or something in between.
Across the room, Pride-Niklaus shifted slightly, just enough to catch my attention. His expression hadn't changed—his face was still an impenetrable mask of indifference—but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of… was it amusement? Curiosity? I couldn't tell, and that only irritated me more.
"I don't deserve your tears," I continued, turning my attention back to Fox. My tone was measured, controlled, but there was no denying the weight of the words. "You've never asked me to reciprocate your feelings, and you've kept them alive all this time, year after year, without demanding anything in return. That's on you, Fox. Not me."
He flinched ever so slightly, a barely perceptible movement, but I caught it. His shoulders sagged under the weight of my rejection, and for a moment, he looked smaller, as though the fight had been drained from him.
"I've loved you since I was nine years old," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's been ten years."
Ten years. A decade of unrequited love. A lifetime of hope that was never mine to give.
"You make it sound so easy," he said, his voice breaking on the words. The pain in his amber eyes was almost too much to bear, but I forced myself to meet his gaze, to hold steady even as the weight of his heartbreak threatened to drag me under. "But even though you say you feel nothing for me, I really love you, Persephone. I always have. Love isn't something you can just turn off because someone tells you to."
His words lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, and for a moment, I felt the faintest crack in my resolve. But I couldn't let it show. I couldn't let him see how much this was affecting me, how much it hurt to hurt him.
"Of course it isn't easy," I replied, my voice cold and unyielding once more. "I'm not naive enough to think it is. But that doesn't change the fact that my answer will always be the same. I don't feel what you feel, and I never will."
The silence stretched between us, a chasm too wide to cross.
His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of my rejection. "I've loved you since I was nine years old," he murmured, barely audible, as if the words were meant more for himself than for me. "It's been ten years."
Ten years. A lifetime to hold on to something that was never real. A lifetime to love someone who could never love you back. And yet, even as the guilt threatened to claw its way back into my chest, I knew it wouldn't change anything.
Fox deserved better than me. He always had. But I couldn't give him what he wanted. I couldn't be what he needed.
And as he swallowed sharply, his heartbreak etched into every line of his face, I knew this was for the best. For both of us.