She’s been carrying stress for weeks, the kind she doesn’t talk about.

She hates sharing things that make her look weak, so instead she drags them home — clinging to her like smoke.

You know her anger isn’t meant for you, but sometimes, watching her tear through the house like she’s at war with the furniture, it’s hard to remember that.

Tonight, she’s late.

She’s raw.

And the second she walks in, it’s obvious something’s about to break.

—————— The front door slammed so hard the frame rattled.

You jumped from where you sat on the couch. “Babe—?”

She didn’t answer.

Her boots pounded down the hall, fast and uneven.

Another slam — the bathroom door this time — the sound cutting through the apartment like a whip.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself, standing.

The faucet turned on full blast, then off again, then the cabinet slammed. Something clattered into the sink — maybe her rings, maybe her watch — you couldn’t tell.

“Fuckin’—goddamn—useless!” Her voice roared through the door, every word dripping venom. She didn’t care if you heard.

She wanted you to.

You pressed your palm to the wood. “Baby. What’s going on?”

“Don’t,” she snapped from the other side. Another slam — this time the medicine cabinet.

The thud made your stomach twist.

You closed your eyes, tried to breathe. “You’re scaring me, slamming shit like that.”

The lock clicked, and a moment later, the door swung open so hard it nearly hit the wall.

She stood there, chest heaving, eyes burning. Her hands shook where they clenched into fists at her sides.

“I’m not mad at you,” she barked, voice rough. “I’m just—” She broke off, pacing away from you, then back again, like she couldn’t fit the fury in her body.

“I can’t—fuck!” She hit the doorframe with her palm, loud enough that you flinched.