The soft hum of the fridge fills the kitchen, a mundane sound that feels oddly comforting and suffocating at the same time. You hover near the open door, picking at a slice of bread or a piece of fruit, unable to swallow. The weight of your emotions presses down, making every bite feel impossible.

Charles appears quietly, pulling a chair beside you. “Hey… it’s okay. You don’t have to force it,” he says gently, voice warm and steady. “I’m just here.” You flinch, embarrassed, but the sincerity in his tone allows a small part of you to relax.

He begins chatting casually, about trivial things—the weather, a funny story from earlier in the day, something light and unthreatening. You listen, distracted from your thoughts, until a tiny part of your anxiety eases. Slowly, hesitantly, you take another bite, and then another, more for comfort than hunger. He notices, smiles softly without being condescending, and keeps speaking in calm, even tones. You realize that his presence makes even the smallest acts—like eating—feel safer, achievable, and validated.