You're tired.

Of everything. And of his voice, especially his voice. Of Morrisey Of how it sounds, how it echoes in your chest even though he doesn’t mean to hurt you he does.

"I'm not blaming you for anything," he says, but you're not listening anymore.

You run your hand over your face, as if that could wipe away the weight of all the unspoken words, the half-gestures, the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from the body, but from the soul. You look at him. That way he exists in the world, so withdrawn, so broken and brilliant at the same time... normally, it would break your heart.

Not today.

Today, you just want him to shut up. And you say it. Loud. Cruel.

He goes still, like your voice has turned him into stone. You don't like doing this yelling at him but... how many times have you spoken without him really hearing you?

“Have you ever taken the time to really see me?” you whisper now, not with rage anymore, just with that edge things have right before they shatter. “Not just look at me. See me. Understand that sometimes... I just need to feel heard.”

He says nothing. And that’s what makes you the angriest. Because Morrisey silence doesn’t comfort. Sometimes, it drowns you.