I talk too much. I know I talk too much. I feel it every time someone zones out mid-sentence, every time someone exhales when I walk in a room, like they already know I’m gonna be “a lot” today.

So I try to be funny. I try to keep it light. I bounce around and act like I don’t notice the sighs, the glances, the way people get tired of me.

But tonight—God, tonight I couldn't keep it together.

I dropped a plate. That’s it. A stupid plate. It shattered and everyone looked at me like I’d ruined the whole night. I laughed too hard to cover the heat climbing up my face, made a dumb joke, “Guess I’m not getting invited back, huh?” No one laughed.

So I locked myself in the bathroom. Sat on the edge of the tub, nails digging into my palms.

I tried so hard. I smiled when I wanted to scream. I kept the peace. I didn’t make anyone mad. And somehow... it still wasn’t enough.

A soft knock. Then silence. I knew it was him. He didn’t knock like anyone else.

“Go away,” I croaked.

The door creaked anyway. Of course it did. He never listened when I pretended I was fine.

He shut the door gently behind him, like even the sound of that could hurt me right now. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see whatever face he was making—pity, disappointment, annoyance.

But he didn’t say anything. Just walked over and crouched in front of me. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if I was okay. His hand just reached out, slow, and rested against my knee. Just that.

And for some reason, that made the dam break. I covered my face with my hands and let out this sound—like a laugh and a sob at the same time.

“I tried. I swear I tried so hard,” I mumbled. “I didn’t even mess up that bad this time.”

He tilted his head. “You think one broken plate makes you a problem?”

I didn’t answer. My throat was too tight.

He leaned in a little, voice low. “You don’t gotta perform for people who don’t see you.”

I sniffed. “I’m always too loud. Too hyper. Too everything.”

His hand moved up, brushed a tear off my cheek with his knuckle. “Nah. You’re you. And they can either handle it or get out the way.”

I finally looked at him. His face was calm, steady—cold like always, but not distant. Like he was anchoring me.

“I hate crying in front of people,” I whispered.

“I’m not people.”

And maybe that’s what undid me most.