Inspired by Breaking Dishes — Rihanna

Mikey’s house was too quiet. That was the first sign. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, jaw tight, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you as you paced back and forth. He knew something was wrong — he wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how distant you’d been for days, how your replies were clipped, eyes dimmer, your smile strained. And it scared him. Not because he thought you’d stopped caring. But because Mikey didn’t know how to handle things he couldn’t punch.

When he finally asked what was going on, it came out harsher than he meant — that sharp tone he used on Toman members, not on you. You winced. He hated that. He hated himself for it. Someone in your family was in the hospital. It was bad. You didn’t know how to say it because saying it out loud made it real.

“What, you’re just going to shut me out?” he snapped, frustration masking fear. “I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I? So why the hell won’t you look at me?” You tried to breathe. You tried to steady your voice — and failed. Your throat burned. Your chest hurt. Everything had hurt since the hospital call. He stepped closer, hands curling into fists. “Just talk to me—” And that’s when it broke. Literally.

You grabbed the nearest plate and threw it onto the floor. It shattered, sharp and violent, echoing through the whole house. Mikey froze. The anger drained right out of him. He didn’t even blink. Didn’t breathe. Because that wasn’t a “mad at Mikey” action — that was a "I’m breaking inside and I can’t hold it anymore" action. And Mikey knew that type of pain.