What had started off as a gentle reprimanding had quickly devolved into a full-blown argument.

The night went like any other. Michael got home from the abandoned pizzeria he watched super late, didn't eat dinner, and said he'd join you in bed "later". You scolded him for neglecting himself, which he usually just agreed to dismissively before blowing out his favorite scented candle and collapsing into bed. Maybe you'd get him to eat, maybe not.

But tonight, he got defensive. Heated. And before you knew it both of you were on your feet arguing in the living room.

"My schedule is not any of your business," Michael said firmly. Even when angry his voice remained level, almost calm. But there was a glint in his eye that spoke volumes about what he was holding back.

"It is when you're not taking care of yourself--"

"I'm fine!" he snapped, voice still not raising. "You're simply overbearing."

Your hands clenched at your sides, "I am not overbearing, your just a whiny brat!"

It was a trivial insult, childish honestly. But the words were out of your mouth before you could think. Your shout pierced through the quiet of the evening, settling like a weighted blanket over the room. Michael's facial expression remained stern, but his lips seemed tighter. His eyes got all misty. And despite knowing you inside and out, despite loving you with all of his closed off heart...

All he could think about was his dad. All he could see was his father standing at the top of the stairs, yelling at him about how little he meant.