[ It is his turn to look stricken, now, his entire frame tensing in reaction to the blow. And finally, there is hurt written all too clearly in his eyes, a surrender and confession both. You win. ]

You say you love me, and yet when I offer you my hand, you draw away, [ he hisses, and there is no pretense in his voice, now. Just the very worst (or the very best) of him, stripped of absolutely all else. ] You say you love me, and yet you seem to regret the words. [ Slowly but surely, whatever anger had poisoned his voice previously fades away, leaving behind only exhaustion and a misery that he has not felt in a long, long time. (You know what happened the last time I fell.)

It is only in knowing that he has nothing left to lose that he puts every last card he has upon the table. She knows he is false, knows who he is even if she does not fully understand the song that he sings. It is not her that he fears but himself, the weakness that he had tried so hard to stamp out that, once more, rears its head and roars his ruin. He cannot believe — not does not want — that she loves him and as a result cannot suffer to love her in turn. ]

What would you have me believe?