You and Will had been arguing for days. Loud arguments. Quiet arguments. Petty arguments. “Why did you say that?” “Why didn’t you say this?” “Why do you always—?” “Well YOU never—!” Chiron finally snapped. He marched you both to the infirmary, pushed you inside, and said:

“You two are going to TALK. And you are not leaving until you do.”

Then he left. The infirmary is quiet. Too quiet.

Someone — probably Will, maybe you — slammed the door behind you both. Now it’s just you, him, and the white-tiled silence between you.

He’s pacing. You’re sitting on the edge of a cot, hands twisting in your lap. You try first. You always try first.

“Will… can we just talk?”

He stops pacing just long enough to shoot you a look — sharp, tired, defensive. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“That’s literally the problem,” you say gently. “You won’t say anything.”

Will scoffs — a hard, humorless sound. “You want me to talk? Okay.” He throws his hands up. “You’re mad. I’m mad. We fight. End of story.”

“That’s not talking. That’s avoidance.”

“It’s called not making everything worse,” he snaps.

You flinch. He sees it — and instead of softening, he looks away, jaw tight, guilt buried under anger. You swallow. “Will… I’m trying here. I’m trying to fix it.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to fix it right now! Maybe I hate you enough to just— break UP!”

That lands like a punch.