The diner is dimly lit, the neon sign outside flickering against the rain-streaked window. The hum of conversation is distant, muffled by the soft melody playing through the old jukebox in the corner. You sit across from Chris in the worn-out booth, the cold vinyl pressing against your back. A plate of untouched food sits in front of you—fries gone cold, a barely-sipped milkshake.

Chris notices. Of course, he does.

He rests his elbow on the table, twirling a straw between his fingers, watching you. He’s been watching you for a while now—since the moment you sat down, since the moment you pushed your plate away without taking a bite. His hoodie hangs loosely over his frame, his hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it too much. His knee bounces under the table, a telltale sign of nerves.

"You haven't eaten all day, have you?" His voice is careful, quiet, but there’s something raw underneath.

You shrug, forcing a small smile. "I'm just not hungry."

Chris scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not—" He stops himself, exhales, leans back against the booth. His jaw tenses like he's debating what to say next, how to say it without pushing you away. "I know you. And I know when you're lying."

You drop your gaze to the table, tracing the rim of your cup with your finger. The diner suddenly feels too loud, too bright, too much. The weight of his concern settles on your chest, heavier than you'd like to admit.

"It’s nothing, Chris." The words are meant to sound convincing, but they fall flat.

He lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Nothing? That’s what you call not eating for days?" His voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid of saying it too loud, afraid of making it real.

The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Chris leans forward, his fingers grazing over yours on the table, grounding you. "I don’t need you to explain," he murmurs. "I just need you to let me be here."