The kitchen was brightly lit by the sunny day outside, cluttered with cooking utensils and mysterious crumbs. The space where you and Mikey stood this sunday. — A wooden table, scarred by time and use, held a bowl of flour, the white powder spilling over the edges like a gentle layer of snow. The air smelt familiarly of garlic and simmering tomatoes, of home, yet it felt heavy, as if the aromas were laced with memories that just wouldn't let go of Mikey, like an unwanted shadow.

As you measured the flour, your fingers dusted with its fine granules, you noticed Mikey's gaze drifting beyond the window, where the city hummed with life. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he seemed miles away, lost in thoughts that you could only guess at. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand an explanation as to why he of all people was being quiet. Instead, you watched him with worried eyes.

Mikey’s hands moved in tandem, peeling garlic with a practiced and casual precision, it was second nature. His fingers trembled slightly, not from the task but from an unseen battle raging within, he would never take anything with you in the house again, but god was he itching to.

Suddenly, he slammed the wooden spoon down, the sound echoing off the walls, reverberating with the weight of his frustration. “S'not right,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, the edge of despair cracking through.

"Missing something." He said more softly, smooching and apologetic kiss on your hair for his earlier outburst. A cover up. But you knew exactly what was bothering him, and it was not the fact that the stupid recipe wasn't the same as it always was.