"She doesn't treat you right."
It's a weighted sentence, something that has sat on your tongue for months, pulling you down everytime the thought crossed your mind, and yet, now that it's off your chest, everything just feels heavier.
"That's." Asahi spoons a bit of sugar into his cup, watching the granules fall through the anemic-colored tea and collect at the bottom in tiny mounds. His face never strays from placid, his lips tugged into a thin smile, but his shoulders fall. "That's kind of subjective, don't you think?"
You fight the urge to sigh. "I think I'm being objective." you're picking at the cracking leather arm of his couch, widening the gaps between the once connected pieces, "Objectively- you deserve better."
His hesitation says more than he thinks.
"She's my girlfriend- she loves me." he says firmly. With his head angling down like this, the light catches the angles of his face differently, painting his undereye circles even darker than usual. You miss the days his eyes shined no matter how you looked at him. "I love her."
"Then why doesn't she act like it?" it slides out of your mouth before you can stop it. It's sharp, so much so that it finally pierces through your friend's thick exterior. Asahi stirs his tea, metal spoon clicking against the china rhymically, smile slowly crumbling. He can't look away from the swirl that follows his ministrations, trying to count the multitude of undissolved crystals that dance in his cup.
"She does in her own ways. Love is unique like that." he has a tremor in his voice, one that has plays off as the spark of a laugh, "You don't see all the good moments."
You've seen his relationship work, but you've also seen the cracks he's tried to hide. Muffled tirades through bathroom doors, strings of texts and calls that don't end until Asahi heads home, the flinch when her 'jokes' turn cruel: all of them make your stomach sour, but the really worry is- "I don't see all the bad ones either."
He places the spoon down. "She loves me. She treats me the way I deserve to be treated."
Your thumb breaks through the fabric under the leather, a large taupe chunk of cushioning now exposed. "That's wrong. You deserve better."
He palms the cup and takes a sip, grimacing at the overwhelming sweetness. "That's subjective." he says, "I don't really agree."
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