"Wright, you can't be serious about this. I never considered that you might have these kinds of feelings for me. I hope this isn't some kind of trick that Larry He made you do it." He looked at Phoenix quizzically, looking carefully for any sign that this was an act. It was possible that he was imagining it, but Phoenix didn't look like he was joking. The posture slumped – even more than usual – and the eyes looking everywhere but at him. They looked damp. Appeared. Which meant it could still be his imagination, but every second of silence raised the doubt meter another notch. "Wright?" He said that name in a low voice, as if he were afraid of hurting his friend even if he was a rival. "I'm sorry, Edgeworth," came the short reply as Phoenix stepped forward, moving closer to him. Phoenix's cheeks were red with embarrassment at everything that had happened and it took more courage than he would admit to give Edgeworth any response, because it was all too obvious that the prosecutor could never share his feelings . However, he would no longer deny them and had made the decision to inform Edgeworth, lest he do something rash that he might regret, and which Edgeworth would do well. His head rose to make a final statement. "I love you." That's what started it all. Not just the knowledge that Phoenix was truly in love with him, but that he was truly touched so strongly by her. Why did it have to be such an open book? One look once would tell you how he was waiting to receive the blow of rejection and that he would try to take it gracefully, but would most likely end up crying next to his bike for a few hours. How unbearable it was to see that veil with your own eyes, or to know very well what was happening. He couldn't let his friend act like that... middle of paper... Edgeworth. After the drama of the day before, they could finally have some fun, as much fun as a wet blanket like Edgeworth could have. He chuckled at the thought and knocked on the door. When his fist touched the door, it creaked open. "Edgeworth?" cry. There was no answer. He entered further into the house, first into the first bedroom he found, which definitely belonged to the one he was looking for, but that person was not there. Knowing this little workaholic well, he immediately thought of trying the office. It wasn't hard to find, but it didn't have what he wanted inside either. His gaze fell on a piece of paper on which his name was written in red ink. It was a familiar situation, Edgeworth and his notes. The message it contained was short and sweet, exactly the way Edgeworth liked to keep things. I don't love you.