Strikeout
"I love you."
He's said it so many times now that she doesn't even bat an eye and only lifts her gaze from her medical textbook out of politeness. It's amazing, she thinks, that he isn't yet tired of this song and dance. That he hasn't burnt out already from the sheer effort of trying. He still says every syllable with passion in his voice; his eyes still shine with hope and dedication so intense that it's beyond apt description. Even more amazing is that he knows where her heart is - where it has always been - and still he returns after every rejection to try and win her over. Perhaps he believes that if he says it to her enough times, she'll say it back out of reflex.
He's brought a gift with him today, as he does every so often, and this time it's a sleek pair of high quality leather gloves. He noticed, it seems, that her current pair is wearing thin and he beams with self-satisfaction. He has learned over the years that she's less resistant about accepting his more practical gifts. He holds the small bundle out to her and she takes it, grudgingly. She stares blankly at his chest as she does so, and is careful not to let their hands brush in the exchange.
"Thank you."
It's automatic now, her response. She knows by now that there's no use in trying to refuse the token of love and that no amount of skillful wordplay will convince him that it's not necessary because he's convinced himself that it is. She thinks that voicing her thanks might even be encouraging this habit, but she can't bring herself not to thank him. At the very least, she feels she can offer him that. Even if it's for the material gift he's offering and not the more precious, intangible one that he's been trying to give her for three years now. The one she knows she's less than worthy of.
"Sakura-san,"
She's come to expect this too; the imploring, almost desperate hitch in his voice and the shift in his eyes from confidence to vulnerability. He's bracing himself for the pain that he knows is coming, and she can't blame him for not having the blind faith that he'd had three years ago. She's going to break his heart again, they both know it, and it's just the consequence of letting a bull into a china shop. He can't stop himself from letting her in, and she can't stop herself from trying to get out.
"Do you love me?"
He leaves off the ' yet' out of consideration, but it's still hanging there. He never resents her for her indifference, but a little more each day she resents herself. It's not that she doesn't want to fall for him, not particularly. She's not that superficial. She's well aware of how carefree their relationship would be and what lengths he would go to just to please her or keep her safe. She knows this, but all the same she simply cannot open the door to her heart. The first boy she loved walked out of her life, literally. The second left her to try and retrieve the first. There just isn't room in her heart for a third.
"I'm sorry, Lee."
She waits to see how he handles it this time, this is the only part of their routine that varies. Some days he breaks down and cries in front of her. Some days he'll just smile sadly and promise to work harder to earn her love. Some days he just stands there with a look of such utter despair that it hurts to look him in the eyes. Each time a tiny piece of her heart breaks for him in sympathy. She is not a sadist, but this is surely masochism in its purest form.
Today, his face slips into something she recognizes as deep, deep disappointment. She tries not to frown at his expression while he studies hers. After a few heartbeats, he nods in acceptance of this unfavorable answer and walks away, as he always does. This is the worst part, for her anyway. Not because he's leaving, but because she knows he'll come right back in a few days.
Re-open the wound, never let it heal.
...
Why don't you love me?
...
Why don't you give up?
...