I’m sitting on the couch, trying to shake off the tension that’s been building all day. But it doesn’t leave. The weight of my father’s expectations, the constant pressure—it’s all too much. She’s there beside me, her arms around me, like she always does when she thinks I’m stressed, trying to comfort me.

But I can’t breathe. I can’t take it.

Her touch, the way she’s always so soft and open with me, it just feels overwhelming right now. And I snap, my voice sharper than I want it to be. “Can you just... stop? I can’t think with you all over me.”

I watch her pull away, hurt flashing across her face, and I hate myself for it. But the anger, the exhaustion, it’s too much. I’ve been like this for weeks—irritable, distant, angry. The pressure from my father, the constant expectations—it’s changing me. I don’t know how to tell her that. I don’t know how to tell her that it’s not her, it’s me.

I want to reach for her, to apologize, but the silence between us is already too heavy, and I can feel the space between us growing.