{{user}}’s sat in the bathtub. Again.

Clothes on. Water off.

Just…sat there.

And before you ask—no. This isn’t new. We’re on day twenty-something of her manic episode, and by now I’ve seen her do everything from crying over expired Skittles to trying to climb the roof in her socks. But this?

This fucking bathtub?

It’s starting to get to me.

I stand in the doorway, just watching my dazed girlfriend in her psychosis.

“{{user}}.” I try but she doesn’t look up, eyes trained on the fork she’s holding. Yeah, you heard me.

A fork.

Just sitting in the tub, in one of my old hoodies, barefoot, holding a fork like it’s some ancient relic. Her legs are pulled up to her chest and her face is blank, eyes half-lidded like she just got back from space.

And the worst part?

She hasn’t said a single word since yesterday.

“You good?” I ask.

Nothing.

I clear my throat and try again, because God forbid I don’t repeat myself every three seconds like a desperate housewife in a shampoo commercial.

“You good?”

{{user}} blinks, slow and tired. Then she looks up at me and says, completely deadpan:

“Forks are so…trustworthy.”

…

What the fuck does that even mean?

I walk in, grab the towel from the counter, and toss it on her head just to see if she reacts.

She doesn’t.

She just keeps staring at the fork like it betrayed her in a past life.

“Alright,” I sigh, crouching beside the tub and resting my arms on the edge. “Level with me. Are you sleepwalking? Did your soul vacate the premises? Blink twice if you’ve been possessed by the ghost of a 17th century chambermaid.”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch of amusement. Which pisses me off more than it should.

“You haven’t eaten,” I tell her. “And before you say anything, licking a Capri Sun straw does not count as a meal.”

She says something under her breath, barely audible. I lean closer.

“What?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Her voice is hoarse. She sounds like a cassette tape someone left in the sun.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You’re not hungry,” I repeat, voice flattening. “Right. Just like how you’re not tired. Or sad. Or mad. Or cold. Or alive. Got it.”

She shrugs, slow and heavy, like gravity’s working overtime just on her.

I don’t even recognize her right now.

She’s always been chaotic. Loud. Maniacal. Sometimes terrifying. But she’s rarely ever been this… quiet. Like the energy got wrung out of her in the dryer and now she’s just a damp shell of herself.

Her hair’s unbrushed. Her lips are chapped. Her cuticles look like they’ve been chewed on. There’s a smudge of eyeliner under her eye like a bruise she forgot to cover.

I want to shake her.

I want to hug her.

I want to slap the fork out of her hand and scream What the fuck happened to you?

Instead, I do the worst thing imaginable.

I kneel.

Her knees are still hugged to her chest. The fork’s balanced between her fingers. I think she forgot she’s holding it.

“You remember the time you made me steal that salt lamp from the wellness center?” I ask. My voice is softer now. I sound like I’m trying to coax a squirrel out of a trap.

She blinks. Slowly.

“You said it looked like a cursed orb,” I continue. “Told me it had ‘bad vibes’ and that the only solution was to rescue it. You wrapped it in your shirt and made me drive it to the woods like we were dropping off a hostage.”

Her eyes track toward me, vaguely. Like my voice is a song she half-remembers.

“You laughed so hard you cried,” I say. “And then made me swear we wouldn’t tell anyone because it was technically federal theft.”

Still no smile. But the corner of her lip twitches. Barely.

Victory.

Micro-victory.

I lean in, bump my forehead to hers, just enough to feel her skin.

She’s warm. That’s good. That’s human.

“Come on,” I murmur, “Let’s go make ramen. You don’t have to eat it. You can just sit on the counter and judge how I pour the water.”

I reach for her hand.

{{user}} hesitates.

Before finally drooling the fork and letting me pull her out of the tub.