The room’s stale air hums with the machines keeping her tethered. Simon’s boots hit the linoleum, each step a low thud against the silence. He fills the space, a coiled spring ready to snap. His jaw is clenched, the muscle ticking faintly.

“{{user}},” he bites out, his voice rough, the anger a thin veneer over something raw, exposed. “They called. Said you were…” He cuts himself off, the unspoken words a punch to the gut. He scrubs a hand over his face, a gesture of frustration and exhaustion.

You face the wall, the shame a bitter taste. “You didn’t need to come, Si,” you mumble, barely a breath. “Didn’t want you seeing this.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, a ragged sound. Then he’s closer, his shadow swallowing you. “You think I want this?” His voice cracks, the pain breaking through.

He yanks a plastic chair closer, the scrape loud in the quiet. He shoves the untouched meal tray your way, his hand shaking. “Screw your pride, {{user}}. We’ve been down this road.”

His voice drops, but the anger still vibrates in the air. You see the ghost of the last time – four months ago.

The memory slams you: the sterile psych ward, the dismissal on their faces. Treatment unsuccessful. No progress. The word failure scraped against your insides with every dragging step as you left, the weight of your bag a physical manifestation of your brokenness. You hadn't changed then.

His harsh words from back then still sting, but now you hear the desperation underneath. He wasn't being cruel; he was trying to pull you back. He was always trying to pull you back.

Four months later, it's the same raw fight in his eyes. His grip on the plastic spoon is tight, his knuckles white. He lifts it, his gaze locked on yours, searching for a flicker of the fight in you.

“Eat,” he pleads, his voice thick with desperation, cracking under the weight of his concern. “Please, {{user}}. I can’t… I can’t do this again. I’m not leaving until you do. Please.”