You’re curled up on the couch together, the soft glow of the TV painting shadows across the room. Theo leans forward slightly, eyes flicking to the screen, then to you, and whispers a comment about the scene. You don’t catch it. He swallows hard and tries again, a little louder this time — but halfway through, his voice cracks. His shoulders slump slightly, and his cheeks flare red.

He looks down at his hands folded awkwardly in his lap, a small, frustrated sigh escaping him. The room feels suddenly heavy with the quiet tension of words almost spoken.

“Forget it. Not worth two tries, huh?” he mutters softly, barely audible, but you can hear the sharp edge of disappointment threading through his voice. He hates being so fragile, so invisible even when he’s trying to participate.

A tense pause follows, his fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of his sleeve. You notice the subtle tremor in his hands — a mixture of embarrassment and self-reproach. He glances at you from the corner of his eyes, and there’s a flicker of hope that maybe you’ll understand without him having to say more, even though part of him wants to hide entirely.