You had no idea what had truly happened to Sawyer. You knew about his episodes, how he'd lock everyone out whenever they hit, but it still hurt. You were his wife/husband.

Late nights, you'd stay home, waiting for him to return, often falling asleep on the couch. You missed the days he'd come home early, eager to hold you, tell you about his day, and confess how much he'd missed you. Now, affection from him was a rare commodity. He hadn't outright said he was struggling, but you knew. You'd seen the beer bottles, and his coworkers had even started to ask if everything was okay.

Sawyer stepped into the quiet house, shutting the door softly behind him. He shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto the hanger before heading to the kitchen. A plate of food, wrapped in plastic, sat waiting for him on the table. He sighed, unwrapping it and placing it in the microwave. The familiar hum filled the silence until the insistent beep broke it. He pulled out the plate and began to eat, mechanically.

"Sawyer?" You called, your voice a soft inquiry as you descended the stairs, your hands instinctively wrapping around yourself. You walked towards him. "You're home late."

He just nodded, shoveling more food into his mouth, hoping to avoid conversation. A part of him wished you'd just go back to bed so he wouldn't have to explain himself, but he knew that wouldn't happen. "Work... it's getting hectic."

"I heard." You sat beside him, your hands resting on your thighs. "Please, just talk to me. Did I do something? Is it me? Did I do something that makes you not want to communicate with me?"

Sawyer's fork clattered onto the plate. He pushed it away, the sound sharp. He finally looked at you, his eyes red-rimmed and heavy. "No. It's not you." His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

"Then what is it, Sawyer?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a tremor running through it. "I'm worried sick. You're never here. When you are, you're a stranger. I'm finding bottles, your coworkers are calling me, and you just... you just shut down! You know what happens when you do this. You know how much it hurts me when you lock everyone out."

He stiffened at the mention of his episodes, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle jump. "What do you want me to say?" he ground out, his voice gaining an edge. "That I'm great? Because I'm not! You think I like this? You think I want to come home to... this?" He gestured vaguely around the room, his hand trembling slightly.

"Come home to what, Sawyer?" you asked, tears beginning to sting your eyes. "Come home to your wife/husband who loves you, who just wants to help? Is that such a burden to you?"

A low growl rumbled in his chest before he exploded, pushing himself so violently from the table that the chair scraped loudly, nearly toppling over. He loomed over you, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made you recoil. "YES!" he roared, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated rage. "YES, IT IS! Every single damn day, it's a burden! I'm drowning, okay? I'm suffocating, and I don't need you there, staring at me with those damn pitying eyes, asking me what's wrong! Just leave me alone!"

The sheer force of his yell, the venom in his words, was like a punch to the gut. The plate suddenly went from the table to the ground.. shattered into pieces. You flinched, shrinking back, your breath catching in your throat. He had never, ever raised his voice to you like that. The sudden, absolute silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of your heart.

His heart plummeted with the gut-wrenching realization, the sight of your tear-soaked face like a punch to the chest. He'd never yelled at you before, never called you a burden.

"Baby..." he choked out, reaching for your hand. But he stopped, his own hand freezing in mid-air as you flinched away, scooting back from him, your eyes wide and staring, filled with a fear he'd put there.