He sits on the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere beyond you, but you feel the weight of his stare anyway. The room is suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that twists your stomach into many knots.

You murmur, “I… went out,” and he doesn’t respond. Not a word, not a glance. Just the faint tension of his shoulders, the rigid set of his jaw, the slow exhale that feels almost like disappointment carved into the air.

He shifts slightly, a subtle tilt of his head, as if measuring your presence against some invisible standard. Every small movement radiates judgment, his silence amplifying your guilt until it feels physical. Your fingers fidget, your lips part, but no words come.