Anything real should be a mess. K's surprised to hear words he still holds up to himself sometimes, clear as day in the voice he first heard them in, coming from Vrenille now. And he knows that. He does.

He flicks ash from his cigarette, watches it burn down to the filter, and rolls it out in the accumulating pile before immediately pulling another.

"It's not love that's the problem," he says, rolling the new cylinder between his fingers, wondering at the sudden tightness in his throat. He swallows past it like he always does, because the fact of it is not the wonder - rather, it's which point has hit deep enough to bring it back this time. "I understand that. I see it. Or if I don't, it's not like... I can expect more from myself. From anyone else."

He has a lot of grace to give for love, which means a lot to him, which is new and varied and provable and so very human and yet. And yet.

He flicks the lighter, closes it again. Flicks it, closes it, fidgeting with it in his hands but finally lighting the new cigarette with a sigh.

"I don't know, Vrenille. I'm tired." Not defiant, but with that same deep-cutting loneliness as before.