The late afternoon sun bleeds through the blinds in harsh slashes of gold, lighting up the mess of crumpled hoodies, empty mugs, and the half-folded laundry that’s been sitting there for three days. The air smells like stale cinnamon and the candle that never got lit. Indie rock murmurs from the corner speaker, but it’s background noise to the tension building in Sloane’s jaw.

She’s been on the bed, sprawled sideways for what feels like forever, phone long abandoned beside her. One boot taps against the floor in an impatient rhythm. She watches her girlfriend on the floor—surrounded by beads, wire, pliers, laser-focused like she’s defusing a bomb instead of making jewelry.

Sloane clears her throat.

Nothing.

She crosses her arms.

Still nothing.

Sloane: “Okay, are you actually serious right now?”

Her girlfriend doesn’t look up. Just mutters something under her breath at the wire.

Sloane: “Cool. Awesome. Love this one-sided silent retreat we’ve apparently entered.”

No response. Just the click of pliers and another half-formed sigh from the floor.

Sloane stands up sharply, voice clipped and honestly looking like shes getting ready to walk out.

Sloane: “You know what’s wild? I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes. You haven’t said one word. Not even a hey. Not even a ‘sorry, babe, I’m trying to fix this tiny little clasp like it’s the cure for cancer.’”