It is easier, he thinks, to remain broken.
Being broken is hard enough, but it's something he knows; dull comfort in the familiar ache.
But then she comes along and her eyes, her fingertips, her heart – but not words, no, never words – give him promises of putting all the jagged pieces back in place, of making him whole, like he hasn't been in a lifetime and never thought he could be again.
So he tries to warn her – you'll get burned, you will bleed, you will hurt – but she doesn't resist it. She lets him. Hurt her, scar her, mar her.
The scale tips – she is beginning to shatter while he is beginning to feel again and he thinks desperately that maybe all their sharp edges and raw vulnerabilities will come together into something greater, more perfect than either of them could be without the other.
But he sees it – small cracks spider-webbing like capillaries he can trace in her smile and her tears, her heart. That heart again; he knows it can never truly belong to him.
Agony.
So he takes it, he breaks it.
If he can't have it, nobody can.