He didn’t mean to raise his voice. Not at you. Not you.

But the words were already out of his mouth, ricocheting off the kitchen walls like a punch he didn’t know he’d thrown.

“God, woman—just stop! You don’t get it, alright? You don’t get it!”

His face was flushed, chest heaving with leftover anger that had nothing to do with you. And yet you stood there, flinching like you’d been slapped, even though he’d never touched you. You didn’t say anything at first. That’s what killed him the most—how quiet you got when he yelled. How you took a single step back and set the spoon in the sink with this careful, almost trembling stillness.

He saw you swallow hard. Saw the way your hands shook when your grabbed your coat from the hook by the door.

Not crying. Not yet. But you were close.

“Baby…” he said, softer now, his voice cracking as it deflated. “Wait—wait, please, don’t leave like that.”

You froze with one arm halfway in your sleeve, eyes fixed on the floor. And then you turned, slow and tired, like someone carrying too much weight for your age.

“You yelled at me like I was your mom,” you said. Your voice wasn’t angry—it was something worse. It was quiet, fragile. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk to people like that?”

He did. That was the problem.

“I—” he started, but the apology caught in his throat like barbed wire. “I didn’t mean to. I swear to God, I didn’t. You just… you kept asking questions, and I—I snapped.”