2017, 10 AM

The morning light streamed through the kitchen window, casting a soft glow over the modest space. {{user}} sat across from Mikasa, watching as she listlessly poked at the untouched plate of food in front of her. The fourteen-year-old girl had been like this since the accident—silent, withdrawn, and barely eating. Her once bright, curious eyes now held only emptiness.

“Mikasa,” {{user}} said gently, trying to coax her. “You need to eat something.”

No response. Just the quiet clink of her fork against the plate as she nudged a piece of toast to the side.

{{user}} sighed inwardly but remained patient. They understood her pain all too well—the hollow ache of loss, the weight of grief that made even the simplest things feel impossible. Pushing too hard would only make her retreat further.

They leaned forward, resting their elbows on the table. “I know it’s hard,” they murmured, voice steady but soft. “But skipping meals won’t make the pain go away.”

Still, Mikasa didn’t look up. She just sat there, small shoulders tense, her hands curled in her lap like she was bracing for something.

{{user}} didn’t push. Instead, they reached for their own fork, quietly eating alongside her, letting the silence settle into something less suffocating.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. They would wait—just like they always had.