No, I love you. I just don't know how to not make you cry.
Even after years of knowing her, the sight of her eyes shining still shored him more than he cared to admit. There was something so inherently wrong with Mimi crying, and knowing that he was the cause of her tears never failed to floor him.
There was that time, on her birthday, when he had slept right through the whole party; by the time he'd woken up he had figured it was too late to call and rolled over to go back to bed. She had cried all night, as evidenced by her red-rimmed eyes the next day. Then there was that one time he'd gone out with another girl ("We were on a break," he'd argued) and brought her along to Taichi's birthday party. She hadn't wailed as they had expected her to, but he later found out from Miyako that she had locked herself in the bathroom for an hour before she finally left.
Those were the big things, but they were not the important ones. It was the little things he did, like saying he'd call her and forgetting; making dates and then cancelling without letting her know first; slamming the door after he left each one of their arguments; refusing to apologise for those little trespasses. It was how she'd wait up for him and then he'd come into her bed, drunk and stumbling to wake her up with urgent hands and lips. He would whisper he loved her and she'd say she loved him too. But the next night, he'd make her wait again.
Once, Mimi had told him she was utterly unafraid of loving him with all her heart. He politely asked her not to, telling her it was better to love him with measure. He hadn't known it then, but it had wounded her deeper than he ever intended. And now she asked what he wanted from her and he did not know how to tell her everything without being selfish. He saw the tears pooling in her eyes and it pained him that he would not to reach out to touch her.
Yamato had always loved her and tried so hard not to hurt her, but had long since forgotten how to do one without the other.