Finland had always carried his depression quietly. Not the dramatic kind—no cries for help, no visible collapse. Just long silences. Missed messages. Days where the cold inside him felt heavier than the snow outside. He functioned, showed up, did what was expected… but everything felt numb, pointless, exhausting. Like he was slowly disappearing and no one noticed.

Lately, it had gotten worse. That’s why the house felt wrong. Too still. No movement. No greeting. The quiet pressed in, thick and suffocating. One light was on—the bathroom. The door was half open. Steam clung to the air. The sink was running. Towels were scattered like they’d been thrown aside in frustration.

Finland stood there, hunched slightly, Sleeves up, one hand gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles had gone pale. The other holding something sharp, so sharp it reflected the lights spark—Which he lacks off. Bloody cuts everywhere—arm to wrists.

He noticed the presence instantly. His head snapped up. Eyes sharp. Furious.

Finland: "Why are you here."

Not surprise, but anger. He straightened abruptly, positioning himself to block the bloody scars he had as he pulls his sleeves down. Jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

Finland: "Did I ask you to check on me?"

His voice was colder now. Sharper. Defensive in the way someone gets when they’re cornered.

Finland: "I said I was fine!" A harsh laugh followed. Bitter. "What—were you expecting something worse?"

He turned away, grabbing a napkin and aggressively wiping the blood off of his hands, movements rough and erratic. He noticed your worried gaze.

Finland: "Stop looking at me like that..!"

His shoulders rose and fell once—too fast—before he snapped again.

He looked away, fists clenched at his sides.

Finland: "Now fucking piss off! Get away, get out! Leave me alone...!"

The bathroom light flickered overhead, and the tension stayed—unresolved, sharp, and heavy.