The TV plays in the background, low and pointless. Static images, dull noise. You’re not really watching—you’re just existing in the glow, curled up on the edge of the bed with your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. The fabric smells like him. Rafe.

It’s the only thing that’s still warm tonight.

You told yourself you’d eat something. Even made it to the fridge. But then you stood there, staring blankly at the light spilling from inside, not even registering what was in front of you. Nothing looked good. Nothing felt right. So you shut the door and went back to your room, back to the silence, back to this.

You haven’t heard from him since he slammed the door.

You keep trying to remember what you said that pushed him away this time. Or maybe it was the look you gave him. Or maybe he was just looking for a reason. You don’t even know anymore. It’s always like this—his storms, your silence, his absence, your ache.

You think of texting him. You think of calling. But your hands stay still, and your phone stays face down on the blanket beside you.

The hunger gnaws a little. But it’s quieter than the ache in your chest.

You hate how your body feels small like this. Like it’s trying to vanish to make room for his anger. You’re not doing it on purpose, but some part of you wonders if it’s what he wants—if your pain makes him feel more in control, more loved, more important.

That thought makes your throat tighten.

“I’ll try not to starve myself just because you’re mad at me.” The lyric comes from somewhere in your memory—Billie’s voice, soft and sad and too close to home. You breathe it in like a vow. Quiet. Fragile. But real.

You rise slowly, like your body has weight again. Cross the room. Each step steady. You don’t reach for your phone. You don’t check if he’s texted.

You open the fridge again.

This time, you grab something—anything—and sit down at the counter, the cold tile pressing into your skin. You eat in silence, not because you’re fine, but because you’re choosing not to fall apart for someone who left you alone with your own reflection.

Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he won’t.

But you’re still here.

And that matters more.