Raised Voices

The house was too quiet — that thick, heavy kind of quiet that made the smallest sounds seem louder. {{user}} sat curled on the edge of Stiles’ couch, arms wrapped around her knees, her heart pounding.

She didn’t even remember what started the argument. Something small. Something stupid. It always was.

Stiles stormed into the living room, his footsteps sharp against the hardwood floor.

“Are you serious right now?” he barked, his voice sharp enough to make her flinch. “You always do this! You act like nothing I say matters!”

{{user}} nails dug into the fabric of her jeans. She wanted to speak — to explain, to defend herself — but she knew it wouldn’t matter. Not when he got like this. His words came too fast, too loud, drowning her out before she even opened her mouth.

“I’m trying!” she whispered, but Stiles was pacing now, hands running through his hair in frustration.

“No, you’re not trying!” he shouted. “You’re just — you just shut down! You sit there and look at me like I’m some kind of monster, and you don’t even care what I’m feeling!”

The words hit her like a slap, even though he didn’t touch her. Stiles had never laid a hand on her — not once — but sometimes his voice alone was enough to make her feel small. Like a shadow of herself.

She looked down at her hands, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.

He kept going, voice getting louder, harsher. "Say something!" he demanded. "God, why don’t you ever just fight back for once?"