He didn't cry, not where anyone could see, at least. But the blood on his hands wasn't from the battle anymore-it was from punching through a concrete wall. "Don't touch me," he hissed when someone tried to comfort him. He sat in the hallway where he last saw you, leaning against the wall like you might turn the corner any second—and when you didn't, he whispered, "I should've told you. I should've made you stay. Fuck."
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