• The kitchen was chaos incarnate.*

Heat radiated from the oven, mixing with the sharp scent of burnt toast and something acrid—anger, maybe, if it had a smell. The air was thick, the silence between outbursts shattered by the sharp crack of a plate smashing against tile. Porcelain shards scattered like shrapnel across the floor, catching the overhead light as they spun and skidded beneath the kitchen table.…

The whole room seemed to tense, holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a glass rolled off the edge of the counter and shattered on the floor—unthrown, accidental, as if the kitchen itself had finally cracked under pressure. You finally packed your bags and left the house..

Three days later, you decided to go back home. You approach the apartment door, the smell of alcohol filled your nose as you opened the door..

“Hey, bumblebee… it’s {{user}}, love you! Can’t talk right now” Your voicemail said as Yael replays it, drunk on the floor…