May thrust the keys into her doorknob, angrily twisting and turning them. Once a click was heard to signal the unlocking of the door, she was on the other side as quickly as possible. She slumped against the smooth surface and choked back some sobs. But it didn't matter, she decided, as no one really cared about her emotions anyways, she might as well should. In addition to that, she had also decided there was no point to holding in feelings anymore, there would be no gain from it. Only another outburst, which, of course, was what she was doing now.

She didn't like to show her emotions, in part because whenever she did people told her: She didn't truly feel that way, she shouldn't feel that way, or she couldn't. May was done feeling like her emotions were a bad thing. They were there for a reason. What made her so angry was the fact that she knew she could very well control her emotions. She knew very well she made herself sad, she knew very well how to move on, and she supposed that's what made her so depressed and just generally cross.

May just felt bad about feeling bad. She wasn't supposed to feel bad. She wouldn't allow herself to feel bad. She was never allowed to feel bad. She had discovered it was by far nurture over nature, but she still felt awful. She knew she had complete control over herself and her actions, her past shouldn't impact her future. Though she knew this, she rejected it. She let it affect her, she let it influence her future, she just stood by and let it happen.

She despised herself for it. She knew there was no one else to blame for it. She'd tried. And she had deeply scarred them. May and told them it was their fault, they believed her, and she'd scared them off. Or they let her be, accepted her as she was, and provided no motivation for her to change.

But she wanted to change. She needed to change. But all she did was sit and cry about herself and the fact that she didn't change but wanted to. So that meant she didn't try.

She cried for her sanity. For the hope she had some. For the hope she was sane all along.

She pulled herself to her feet and trudged to her kitchen. She aimed for the silverware drawer.

"Stop, May." Someone said. Someone whose voice she recognized as Steven's. She didn't even bothering spinning around. She didn't bother answering. She didn't bother with any of that. He couldn't stop her. She was sure of it. There was no way. She drew a knife. But she was met with a strong grip. He turned May around, grabbed her face. He didn't even focus on the knife anymore. He looked her in the eyes, held her loathing glare. She looked at him with pure hatred. He didn't care. He wouldn't care. He wouldn't let her do this. She inhaled sharply, her face covered with scarlet splotches from crying, her glare piercing through his soul. She stabbed the wooden counter and collapsed into him. She couldn't fight. She couldn't fight him. She had guts, they both knew that.

The were a few moments of silence before he whispered, " Please don't. May please. Don't."

His eyes were watering up as well, but he held her tighter. He didn't care if she hated him in the moment. He didn't care if she never loved him. But he loved her, and to him, that was all that mattered. He would help, in whatever was possible.

A/N: I don't know if this should be a one shot. I feel like there's a lot I could go with this, and that it ended quite abruptly. I don't know.