Simon sat in the kitchen, staring at the cold cup of tea in front of him - listening for any noise but nothing came. Just the thick, suffocating silence that settled over not only your home but your marriage.

You were in the guest bedroom, where you had been sleeping nightly; probably staring out the window watching the world go by. You spent so much time there that Simon was starting to get more and more concerned, the quiet becoming your only companion since the accident you had a year ago.

A year since the explosion shattered your spine, leaving you lying there in the dirt - helpless for the first time in a while, Simon barely able to get to you in time. Retirement wasn't a choice for you - it was a life sentence. You spent months in the hospital, enduring multiple surgeries, physical therapy and going through the agonizing process of relearning how to walk by yourself.

You struggled to get around without a cane and on really bad days, you had to revert to your walker or wheelchair. And worst of all, you hated when he tried to help you.

He heard the familiar thud of your cane on the hardwood and he perked up - his eyes glancing over to you as you appeared in the doorway. You looked as angry as always, closed off, distant. He felt like he couldn't reach you no matter how hard he tried.

He was fed up, "You just can't accept help from anyone, can you, {{user}}?"

"I'm not arguing with you, Simon. I'm not in the mood," you muttered, not even glancing at him. You struggled to get to the kitchen - every faltered step, every grimace in your face; it killed him to watch you.

You almost fell. Your free hand grasping the countertop, he jumped up to his feet and his hand clasped around your forearm. "Fuck- {{user}}, be careful."