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He'll always fight for you.
It's a decision he made years ago, when he asked you to be his. It was a snowy day, he was in his second year, and you followed him everywhere.
Attached to his hip since early childhood, he learned to love you and treat you like he never treated anyone else. He held you on your bad days, and laughed with you on your good days.
He's loved you for so long, so why would he get rid of you so easily?
Why would he let you go, when his heart screams your name and begs to be held by you? When his mind races of thoughts of you and you alone, and his body has devoted itself to you?
So after five long years together, why would you let him go?
Tell him you're not good enough, that he deserves better. Who are you to tell him that? Tell him that what his heart yearns for his not enough?
He promised to love you, so why would he stop? Why would he not fight?
He’ll always fight for you, so he stands at your doorstep. A month after you left him, he comes back for you. To show you that he still loves you, misses your touch, misses your hold, misses you.
“What are you doing here?” Your voice is especially weak. Faint, and he's never heard this tone come from you.
“What does it look like I'm doing?”
You sigh, “Kei, please. We broke up.”
“I know.”
“So why are you here?” Your voice is tired, and he knows he's the cause. He can't find it in himself to care. Not when his soul burns for you.
“I want you back.”
“Kei...” you start, but his words soon interrupt you.
“I love you. All of you. Even the parts that are ugly and seemingly unlovable, I love them. How could you doubt that?”
“Its not about doubt,” you sigh, and lean on your doorframe. He's right in front of you, but you're so far. He can't grasp you, bring you to his chest, and declare his love.
“I know you love me. You always have been good at showing me that,” you reach for his hand, “but you need to let me go. Try new things. I'm just someone from the past that you like being around you.”
He feels his blood boil. How can you demean yourself so much? Undermine the importance you have in his life? In him?
“Don't say that,” he pulls his hand away from yours, “if you didn't mean anything to me, I would've left you a long time ago. But here I am, at your fucking doorstep, asking you to let me love you again.”
You're soon pulled into his chest, the scent of him clouding you. It's a familiar fragrance -- the faint aroma of vanilla. You've always told him that you love that smell on him, for it reminds you of home. (He is your home.)
“Don’t let me go,” his hand is on your back. Smooth circles are drawn on you, and you feel your head calm. “Not when I have so much love to give to you.”
You believe him. There is still so much love you have to give to him, anyway.