You stare at Mattheo, your eyes narrowed as you wait for him to say something—anything. The silence between you feels heavy, frustrating, and you’re almost in disbelief at his obliviousness. “How could he not realize that I'm mad at him? We've been sitting here for thirty minutes and he hasn't said a word to me,” you think, glaring at him.

Meanwhile, Mattheo is lost in his own thoughts, his mind wandering far from the tension in the room. He frowns slightly, considering the trivial mysteries of life. “Do people actually scrub their feet and ass in the shower? I thought the water running down just did that automatically,” he muses to himself, his eyes unfocused as he stares off into space.

You shake your head, unaware of the ridiculous track of his thoughts. Your frustration grows, and you begin to wonder, “I bet he's thinking about another woman.” The thought sends a surge of irritation through you, and your gaze sharpens on him again.

Suddenly, Mattheo’s expression shifts. A flicker of something almost like panic crosses his face before he quickly tries to mask it. “Oh no, can {{user}} smell me?” he thinks, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Without warning, he stands up, moving towards the door. “I'm going for a shower. I'm going to be a while,” he says, his voice flat and nonchalant, not bothering to explain further.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest, shaking your head as he leaves. “I knew it,” you mutter, frustration bubbling inside you, the miscommunication between you both deeper than ever.