It wasn’t even a real argument. Just something small—forgotten plans, a missed message. You snapped. Not cruelly, not loudly, but just enough. Just enough for Natalie to go still. Her shoulders tensed. Her jaw locked. She shut down like someone had flipped a switch.

And when you asked what was wrong, she only shook her head and walked away.

Hours pass. The sun dips below the trees. The house is quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards and the low hum of your guilt. You find her on the back steps, arms crossed tight over her knees, eyes fixed on nothing.

You sit beside her.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say. “I didn’t mean to be him.”

She doesn’t speak right away. You wait.

Then, finally: “You sounded just like him.”

Her voice is so quiet you almost miss it. “For a second, I forgot where I was. I was ten again. In that house. In that room.”

She swallows hard, still not looking at you. “He’d yell like that before the bad nights. Not even big things. Just… spilled milk or locked doors. His voice would get sharp, and I’d go cold. I’d stop talking, because talking only made it worse.”