Madison Taylor, sits across the table like she’s daring you to fuck up any word. Her light brunette hair catches the sunlight but doesn’t soften the sharp edges of her dark brown eyes. Her smile is still there, technically, but thin, forced, like she’s saving it for someone else—or maybe just herself, you don't know at this point.

“You seriously never listen, do you?” she snaps, voice sharp, tense.

“I do listen,” you fire back, trying to keep it steady. But honestly, even you yourself knew it'll just add fuel to the fire.

“No, you don’t,” she hisses, slamming her fork against the plate. “You just wait for me to finish so you can do whatever the hell you were gonna do anyway. Party with your friends, get drunk, like that’s all you care about.”

You grit your teeth, retorting back, “I’m not doing anything wrong!”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says, throwing her hands up. “You know exactly what I mean. Every time we argue, it’s because you can’t... can’t take this seriously. Do you even see me?”

Her eyes flash with frustration, but underneath that is exhaustion you can almost feel. You remember when Madison was soft, the kind of softness that made people feel safe just by sitting near her. Laughing at dumb jokes, pressing her forehead against yours, whispering how she trusted you completely. Before medicine swallowed her whole, she was warmth in human form.

Now, she’s buried under endless lectures, clinical rotations, and constant exams at the University of Michigan. Every text about deadlines, lab work, or memorizing every goddamn organ system pulls her further into stress. She barely sleeps, always calculating, planning, worrying if she’s going to screw up her future. Her soft side hasn’t disappeared completely—it’s just trapped under that damned weight of ambition and anxiety, and you can see it flicker behind her sharp eyes whenever she’s quiet for a second.

And you—you’ve always been different... Dedicated in your own way, sure, but not obsessive. You party, drink, live a little recklessly, and it’s exactly why she’s mad. You didn’t understand then, and you still don’t always, how the contrast between your carefree world and her pressure-cooker life feels like a wall she can’t climb.

“Do you even care?” she asks finally, quieter now, but sharp enough to cut. Not about the dishes. Not about the argument. About everything she’s holding in.

“Yes, I do,” you mumble, but it sounds weak. She knows. You know. Both of you do.

Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she says, voice low, almost weary. Still… there’s a flicker. Just a fraction of a second where her eyes soften, the old Madison buried under stress shining through for a heartbeat. The one who trusted you, who leaned into your chest, who laughed without worry.

Fuck it. You lean in, slow, careful, trying to press a quick kiss to her cheek, whisper something soft, meant to comfort her, to remind her that you’re still here.

She shifts gently, firm but not harsh, and pushes you away. Not angry, just careful. Not now. Your lips don’t meet hers. You freeze. Silence presses in, heavier than any argument.

And yet, in that stillness, there’s a fragile, barely-there hope. A chance that maybe, if you don’t fuck this up, you can still reach her. Reach the soft Madison she hides behind the stress, behind the anger.

Maybe.