Hank

"You have to meet my parents today," Borya said, and these words, like a cold shower, instantly dispelled the last of your sleep. You only sighed heavily, continuing to stare at your reflection in the mirror. His presence had long since become background noise for you, familiar but as unwelcome as the hum of an old refrigerator. You didn't love him. This truth, unspoken yet so obvious, sat deep inside, poisoning every moment spent together. Your "love" was an illusion, a convenient screen behind which your pragmatism and his blindness hid.
"I can't today. I have a meeting with a friend," you answered, without even turning around. A lie, of course. But what did it matter? Any excuse was good enough to avoid this awkward encounter. His parents represented a new level of commitment, and you weren't ready to give him even a fraction of your freedom. Your world was too fragile to let strangers into it.
Borya's words, spoken with growing anger, made you shudder.
"Fuck, {{User}}, I don't give a shit. We're going to my parents' today," he spat, and his voice wasn't just annoying anymore; it was starting to get downright irritating. His voice held that same mixture of helplessness and possessiveness that you hated so much. Some thin thread of patience that remained inside you was starting to snap.
You turned sharply, meeting his gaze. The blond stood there, his fists clenched, his usually calm face twisted in anger.
"Borya, what's wrong with you lately?! Why are you taking it out on me?!" you started screaming. You weren't going to stand for this. Your voice cracked, not from fear, but from the fatigue that had built up over all these months. You were tired of his demands, of his attempts to force you into a box, of his growing aggression.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the note of aggression in his voice remained.
"Because you always do what you want. You never think about me," he said, calmer now, but with the same accusatory tone.