When Pride Fell In Love

"You healed me," Eshaal said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"And you broke me."
Zardan looked at her, truly looked - and for the first time, he had no defence left.
"I trusted that care," she continued. "I trusted the way you noticed when I was quiet, when I was hurting. I thought it was... real."
Her eyes glistened, but she didn't let the tears fall.
"I didn't know healing could hurt more than the wound itself."
Silence stretched between them, sharp and unforgiving.
"If it was pity," she said, finally meeting his gaze, "you should have let me bleed on my own."
That did it.
Zardan turned away, his breath uneven. He reached for the glass on the table - then slammed it against the wall.
It shattered.
The sound ripped through the room.
Shards fell, scattering like broken promises. Blood bloomed across his palm, vivid and unforgiving, dripping onto the floor.
Eshaal gasped. "Zardan-"
"Don't," he said, his voice hoarse.
He stared at his bleeding hand as if the pain was something he deserved - something he welcomed.
Because the truth was unbearable:
Hurting her had hurt him more than any wound ever could.
Blood slid down his fingers, staining the silence.
And in that moment, neither of them moved -
two souls standing in the wreckage of care that had gone too far, and words that could never be taken back.