The night is warm, the air thick with the scent of grilled meat and cilantro. You're standing stiffly beside the food truck, arms crossed, face set in stone. Jay’s next to you, completely unbothered, burrito in hand, acting like you're not giving him the silent treatment of the century.

You’ve been sulking all day over something small, something he probably didn’t even notice at first. And now, even after offering to buy you food, even after throwing in a few dumb jokes to lighten the mood, you’ve stayed silent—arms crossed, lips tight, staring at him while he chews like it’s the best burrito ever made.

“You really don’t want a bite? It’s that spicy chicken you like.”

You say nothing. You shift your weight, shoulders stiff, still glaring at the ground.

“You still doing the angry mime routine, huh? Was it the coffee thing? Or the playlist comment? Or me breathing incorrectly near your mood?”