It's always his fake tears,

That ring in my ears.

Now, let's make it real.

Story 01 : He Cried Real Tears

He's a bad man. 

A cruel man. 

A man who always cried but never feeling the sorrow, not once.

A man who got his ways in everything, in everyway, everytime, with his tears.

His fake tears.

And no matter how fake they were, I knew...yet he always got his way.

Because he's a bad man.

And I, I am innocent.

I wanted to be innocent, for as long as I live. I wanted to live, for as long as he want me. I wanted him to always want me, for as long as it's real. 

But it's all fake. Fake as his tears.

In front of them, he put on his sunny smiles and laughter, he claimed that we're both always in sync, agreeing to whatever he claimed we were. Friends, lovers, not lovers, acquaintances, insert every other word because it's just tiring. I'm tired.Tired of everything he had do say. Tired of everything he did that contradicted his claims. Tired of him. 

"Ye, Ye." I would only agree to whatever he said, providing the voice of support, the nod of agreement, the words of acknowledgement, for every bright scenery his lips painted to the rest of them.

Lips that painted lies to the rest of the world, and pain, to me.

And when he had decided(for that time being) that I wasn't what he wanted, he tried getting rid of me. Subtly at first.

"I'm busy."

"Somebody called me."

"I'll call you later."

He never did.

Later, it became clearer. So much clearer.

"You're just like a kind noona to me." Just.

"I hope you don't misunderstand our relationship."

"There's someone I really like." ("And it's not you")

And with time, it only became clearer.

"Stop acting childish and being clingy."

"Leave me alone."

"Please stop bothering me."

But when they asked, "There's nothing wrong with you two, right?"

He would put his arm around my shoulders and gave them his dazzling smile, mumbling 'of course'. I would smile my tired smile so the world would not hurt him, because seeing him hurt, would hurt me, or so I thought.

Once out of their kind eyes, he would let go and moved as far away as he could, like I was a plague that must be rid of.

'I'm sorry.' He would say that poisonous word that cured my burning wound, eased my exploding rage, and then I would smile and mumbled 'it's okay.'

And when he went to that person he liked(not me) and she turned him down, his pride made him unable to accept that he had just became the recipient of the humiliation usually only he would offer, to only me. It was satisfying. It made me want to smile.

But then he began to came back, knocking on my door.

"I'm hurting. Noona, I'm hurt." He sobbed, tears streaming down his glowing cheeks.

She hurt him. He hurt me. And never really felt bad for it, clearly not from how he decided to crawl back to me to say what he just said. Was he expecting me to invite him in, or to say 'poor thing'? Or was I supposed to offer him some advice or help him to get her? He pushed me away, hurt me, bruised me, broke my heart...without leaving any seen traces. And then he came running back just to say he's hurting.

It hurt me.

He probably could see it, clearly in my eyes that tried to express nothing, in vain.

"Can I come in?"

The one short question I hate. Because he always knew what my answer would be. Even if I wanted to give the other answer, he would make the answer change right there and then. He never failed on that. In fact, he never failed to get any answer he wanted from me. All with his tears.

His fake tears.

Even knowing it so well, his fake tears wormed their way, separating me from cruelty, from guilt.

Cruelty that belonged to him.

Guilt too.

But he's never