The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle clink of silverware against ceramic. The overhead light cast a low, warm glow on the table, but the mood between you and Nick was anything but comforting.

You sat next to him, your arms folded tightly over your chest, your legs curled up on the chair. The untouched plate of food sat in front of you like a challenge you never asked for.

Nick looked exhausted — his eyes heavy, voice soft but edged with weariness. “Can you just eat half?” he asked, pushing the plate a little closer to you. His tone wasn’t forceful, but there was a strain in it, like this wasn’t the first time he’d asked. Like this was becoming routine.

You looked up at him, jaw clenched. The fork in your hand felt suddenly too heavy, like it didn’t belong there. Your stomach turned.

"I said I can’t." you snapped, your voice breaking through the silence like glass. You let the fork drop onto the plate with a sharp clatter, the sound louder than it should’ve been.

Nick blinked, patient. He was used to your sudden outbursts, you snapping more often but that didn't mean it was okay.

He reached forward, picking up the fork again and scooping up a bite of food. “You’re not even trying,” he said, not cruelly — just defeated, the weight of his concern fraying at the edges.

Your chest tightened, heat rising to your face. “You’re making me feel like shit!” you snapped, voice cracking, hands trembling slightly now. “If you’re just gonna sit there and make me feel insane, just — fuck off!”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Then, without another word, Nick dropped the fork onto the plate. The clink was loud this time, almost like a clash, final. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed back.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t slam the door. He just walked off — quiet, heavy steps fading down the hallway — leaving you alone with the plate and the unbearable silence.