The plate lay broken into many little pieces on the kitchen floor. Shota's expression was unreadable.

It's been four months since he was discharged from the hospital, and it's been three months since he was fitted with his prosthesis. You were suffocating him, or that's how your constant coddling and help felt to him right now.

Perhaps if he was a better man, he'd be just as patient with you as you're being with him, but he wasn't, not right now at least. He's lost so much, and there wasn't a silver lining he could see at the moment.

He wouldn't change his actions if he could. But the pit of black, murky despair he was hanging over didn't feel worth it at the moment.

Shota's eyes drifted back to the broken plate. The food which was now scattered across the floor. The dinner that now felt ruined. You already didn't let him carry the soup to the table because you feared he'd spill it on himself. He was sure you wouldn't even bat an eye if he dropped it out the window as long as he was fine.

It infuriated him to no end. He didn't deserve this, or at least that's how it felt. That's how everything felt. Even meeting with Yamada was exhausting these days, from rehabilitation to therapy, meeting with friends felt like another hurdle he was yet to face.

He'd been moving, albeit slowly, to pick up some of the shards, only for you to, of course, beat him to it.

Assuring him that it was alright and that he could just sit down at the table.

"Just stop!" He finally snapped, muttering a few curses underneath his breath. "Can you for once stop with this ridiculous patient attitude of yours and just let me clean up my own messes? I'm disabled, not an incompetent idiot. I don't want your help, just leave me alone."

The words fell out at the speed of a waterfall, filled with so many buried emotions. His face and expression were tight. He was at the end of his rope, if he wasn't, he'd be able to see that cleaning the floor really was the one thing right now he'd struggle immensely with.