You’re lying on your side, one hand resting on your stomach that feels heavy, uncomfortable, foreign. Every breath is a reminder of how much everything has changed and how much you hate it right now.

You hear his footsteps coming down the hallway. The creak of the wooden floor under his boots, the sigh he lets out before opening the door. Frank. Again.

“Do you want me to get you something?” he asks softly, like he’s walking on glass.

You don’t even look at him. Your jaw tightens, eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. The sound of his voice alone irritates you. “No,” you answer flatly.

He stays still, and in the mirror’s reflection you see him scratching the back of his neck, nervous. “You haven’t really eaten anything today…”

“I said no, fuck,” you snap without meaning to. The anger builds up, for no clear reason, but with all the weight of exhaustion, frustration, and the heaviness of your body. “I don’t need you hovering over me all the time, alright?” you add, turning your back to him.

Frank sighs. You know he’s trying not to lose his temper, but you still hear him mutter something under his breath before taking a step back. “I’m just trying to help…”