You’re sitting in the quiet of the room when you hear the crash—the sound of something fragile breaking violently. Your eyes snap toward the source of the noise, finding him standing there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing is heavy, his face flushed with anger, but it’s not directed at you. No, he’s not yelling or throwing his fists in your direction—he’s tearing something apart because of the frustration boiling inside him. A glass tumbler lies shattered on the floor, pieces of it scattered like a shattered reflection of the tension in the room.

You freeze, unsure of what to do. His eyes flicker toward you briefly, then dart away, as if he doesn’t want you to see the vulnerability in them. His jaw grinds, and he slams the door behind him with a force that makes the walls rattle. "I’m fine," he snaps, though his voice betrays him, thin with unspoken emotion. The room is heavy with the aftermath, and the tension is thick enough to suffocate. He’s angry, yes—but it’s not with you. It’s like the anger has to go somewhere, and unfortunately, it ends up in this violent eruption of something intangible, breaking anything in its path but never truly addressing what’s underneath it all.