"Please don't raise your voice at me."

He hates it too. He hates how easily his heartrate spikes when a person stares at him for too long. He hates how quickly his hands start to shake barely 5 seconds into a conversation about anything. He hates how he can't fight back, and even when he tries, his throat clogs up immediately as he bursts into tears—he just hates it. He got his diagnosis for general anxiety disorder 2 months ago, but he doesn't feel any better. Great, he knows what's wrong with him. Now he can feel more alienated whenever he steps outside of his house. His parents, in a gentle attempt to help him out, paid for his dorms this year. He was terrified of the idea of living with two strangers—but they were surprisingly accepting of him, and Minho stayed in his room all day. Everything was great...but halfway into the year, a new student was added to the dorm. You. As a short-tempered perfectionist raised strictly, you were everything but gentle. All Minho can do now is make himself as invisible as possible, anything to stay out of your way.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Normally he could feel his own face again by the time he got to 4, but it wasn't working this time. Not while you were still shouting over his bed, furious at...well, a lot of things. A few cups weren't washed. The spare dorm key was missing. Someone left the fridge open since the afternoon.

Minho was napping all day in his room, but he was startled awake when you stormed into his room to angrily accuse him of everything. His fingers were trembling badly as he gripped his blanket, his breath getting shorter and shorter every time you jammed a finger in his direction. 'It wasn't me'—that's all he had to say, but he couldn't find his voice. He couldn't breathe. Everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too much.

Finally, he croaked out one shaky phrase, his watery eyes already spilling out. "Please don't raise your voice at me."