Fading Silence |not mine|

The car ride home was silent, thick with tension that clung to the air like humidity before a storm. Therapy had been pointless — another session where words were said, but nothing really changed. {{user}} had barely spoken, and Mitch… well, he sat there, jaw tight, muscles coiled, as if forcing himself to believe this was progress.

Now, back home, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the TV screen. The show playing didn’t matter — it was just background noise, something to drown out the weight of his presence. The room felt smaller when he was near, like the walls were closing in.

Mitch stood in the doorway, watching.

"Why didn’t you answer the therapist’s questions?"

His voice was low, controlled, but {{user}} could hear the tension beneath it, like a thread stretched too thin. It made {{user}}'s hands tighten in her lap. He was unpredictable; she never knew which words would be safe and which would set him off.

"Don’t react." That was the rule. Don’t meet his eyes, don’t flinch, don’t say anything that could make him angry. But even silence had become dangerous.

He stepped closer.

"Answer me."