[she looks back at him, not with judgement or pity, but with a deep and true understanding. as if she deserves anymore than him. as if she doesn't ask that question because she knows, deep down, she doesn't feel worth it. as if she doesn't think in the middle of the night that her happiness feels so fragile. a knowing where that shame comes from, where the desire to bury yourself in your work until you don't think lives. it isn't a scalpel's precise cuts - it's understanding in the way that only it being lived comes from.

only a look. but if he reads it, he'll see far too much, before she veils it again.

she lets him speak, and she doesn't give the sake back, and she listens. because, it really seems, no one does for him. he's always so quick to shove it off. so, he's allowed to speak.]

You're not on your own though. You think you are, and you're trying to cultivate something to fit that thought. But you aren't. You have allies, people who will follow you, your friends. You have me, for what that's worth.

You have him, though you want to believe you don't.

[if his hand is on the table, she'll move to take it. if not, then she leans forward, elbows on the table to prop up her head.]

The solution is so simple, Ryouma.