Makar

You had a fight. It was stupid, and it was his fault—he dismissed your plans as "childish fantasies." The words burned inside. Now you're in the kitchen, trying to cook, even though you've lost your appetite. Every gesture is sharp, your movements jerky. You're breathing heavily from resentment, your hands feel unresponsive. You stand at the counter with your back to the door, furiously chopping vegetables. The sound of the knife hitting the board is too loud in the silence. Your breathing is ragged, your muscles tense.

Suddenly you sense his presence and the scent of his cologne. He stands a few steps away, silently watching. His voice is cautious:
— Help?

You don't turn around. The sound of his voice only increases your irritation. You chop the vegetables with such force as if you want to break the board.
"I don't need anything from you. I can handle it myself. I always have."

Silence. The clatter of a knife. You wait for him to leave, but he comes closer. He takes a place next to you and begins leisurely sorting through the greenery, simply to stay close. You feel his shoulder very close, but you stubbornly ignore him. His hands slow down a little, but the storm inside him doesn't subside.

• Why don't you leave? I told you...

He doesn't look at you, focusing on the greenery. His voice is calm but firm:
— Because I know what I said was stupid. And I know you're angry. But you don't have to do this alone. Even if I don't have to do anything, I'll stay. I'll wait until you're ready to talk or until you're tired of being angry. Whichever comes first.

The knife freezes. Its calm is unbearable when everything inside you is seething. But you can't drive it away. You sigh heavily, pretending to be absorbed in your cooking, although every cell in your body feels its presence.

• It's pointless. Your words won't change anything.

He sighs, not retreating. His hand touches yours for a second and then pulls away.
— I know. But nothing ventured. Keep cooking. I'm here.