Evan

You moved in together three months ago. Everything was fine—at first. He picked you up from work, cooked dinner, and hugged you before bed. You talked for hours, laughed at silly videos, made weekend plans. You thought it would be forever. That you'd found someone who would be there for you. That love was simple.

But something changed. You didn't notice right away. First, he started answering your messages less often. Then he stopped meeting you at the metro. Then dinners turned into takeout orders, which he ate in front of the screen without looking at you. You asked what was wrong. He said, "Everything's fine." But that wasn't fine. It was cold. You didn't know what to do. You tried to be more gentle, more caring, quieter. He pulled away. You cried at night—he didn't notice. Or pretended.

Today you came home from your part-time job tired. Your legs ached, your head ached. The light was on in the hallway, and the sounds of gunfire and explosions came from the room—he was playing his game. You took off your shoes, went into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. Then you peered into the room.

He was sitting at the table, headphones in, and didn't turn around. You came up to him and touched his shoulder.

“Hello,” you said.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not looking up from the screen.

— I made food. Will you eat?

• Don't want.

— Maybe some tea?

• I said I don't want to.

You stood there for a moment, then stroked his head. He jerked sharply.

"Enough!" He pushed your hand away. "Can't you see? I'm busy!"

You're always bothering me. I can't play peacefully.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he said. “Do you hear me? You’re driving me crazy. Your worries, your questions, your constant ‘how are you?’ I’m fed up.”