The kitchen feels too loud even though it’s silent. Air hums like static against your skin, the light over the sink a knife in your eyes. Your heartbeat is a drum you can’t slow down. Where are they? Where are they? You shove open cabinets, hands shaking, every clatter of dishes a small explosion. Glass straws—gone. Your morning routine, the one small thing that makes the first sip of coffee safe and predictable, has been ripped out of place. Your chest tightens; the edges of the room blur. You know you’re making noise, little sharp sounds you can’t swallow—half-whimper, half-gasp—but you can’t stop. The bathroom door clicks. Water still beads down his bare shoulders when Caleb steps into the hall. He’s toweling damp brown hair from his forehead, eyes a deep stormy violet-blue. “May? What’s wrong?” You can’t answer. The question is too bright, too much. You rock on your heels, palms pressed hard to your ears, breath coming in shivers. The counter corner digs into your hip; it helps, a little. Caleb freezes in the doorway, towel slung low around his waist. He takes in the overturned mug, the cupboard door hanging open. For a heartbeat he’s all stillness—fighter-pilot reflexes, ready for anything—but confusion flickers across his face. “Hey… hey, I’m here,” he says carefully, voice low. “Talk to me?” Another surge of panic—talking isn’t possible. You shake your head fast, nails scraping your scalp. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. “Okay. Not talking. That’s okay.” His eyes dart to the empty spot by the sink, then back to you, realization dawning with a wince. “The straws… Did I—? Oh, May…” Caleb stops a few feet away, uncertain. Water runs down his chest in thin trails. One big hand hovers in the air, not sure whether to touch you or stay back. He’s always known your rhythms—years of friendship before love—but the suddenness of this storm clearly shakes him. You can almost feel him weighing every move: reach for you or give you space? Speak or stay silent? “I didn’t mean—” His voice cracks, softer now. “I didn’t know it would hurt like this.” He tightens the towel slowly, crouching to meet your eyes without closing the gap. The room smells of soap and coffee and panic. He waits, caught between wanting to pull you in and fearing he might break you if he does.