He doesn’t notice the silence until it’s been hanging between you for too long.

The kettle’s still hissing faintly from where you forgot to pour the water, steam fogging up the corner of the window. His socked feet are cold on the tile, but he hasn’t moved. You’re saying something—soft, patient—but it sounds like static in his ears. He’s still trying to piece together the thought he had a second ago. He squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them and thinks for a second that maybe it’s all a dream—this NIA bullshit is just some sick, twisted nightmare and when he opens his eyes he’ll wake up.

What had he been saying?

His hands tighten around the edge of the counter. It was right there. On the tip of his tongue. Something about the grocery list, or was it the movie you watched last night? No, no, that was last week—wasn’t it?

He swallowed, blinking hard

“What was I just…?”

Your voice dips, gentle. Asking if he’s okay.

Jude flinches. It’s not the question, it’s the look—the softness in your eyes that only makes him feel worse. Smaller. He scrubs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,”

he barks, too sharp—too hard, too rough to be the same Jude with the little fish tattoo against his ankle. Swimming with yours.

“Just—give me a second, alright?”

You go quiet. The kind of quiet that makes his stomach churn.

“I had it,” he mutters, half to himself, pacing a short, angry line from the fridge to the sink and back again.“I knew what I was saying, I—”

He cuts off. His breath catches.

It’s not just that he forgot. It’s that he keeps forgetting.

It’s the way he watches your face when he fumbles and knows you’re trying so hard not to flinch. It’s the way his reflection in the microwave looks a little hollower every time. Like the NIA is carving pieces out of him, and you’re still smiling through it.

You tell him what his birthday is, you kiss his forehead when he forgets your favorite colour, the season it was when you got married.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, voice low.

But he’s not.

You’re not—this is not.

And he hates himself for making you stand there with that soft, steady patience while he falls apart in front of you again.

“Just give me a minute. I’ll find it.”