He sighs, long and annoyed, as ifI'mthe one causing trouble. "You've put on weight. A lot of it. And you act like I'm supposed to pretend it isn't happening."
My breath catches in my throat for a second too long. He keeps going. "You asked. I answered. Don't start crying about honesty now."
"I'm not crying," I say, but my voice shakes.
"Good," he says and checks his phone. The glow lights his face more than I do these days. "Because I'm not the bad guy for noticing things. It's just reality, and anyway, I'm not really up for a deep talk tonight."
I cross my arms in front of my chest and make a last attempt at saying something that could save this. "I didn't ask for a deep talk. I asked for a basic one."
He tosses his phone beside the stove. "I swear, Lena, it's like walking into a test every time I come here. You're always upset about something."
I stare at him. "Brandon, we barely see each other. Of course I want to talk."
"You want to argue," he corrects. "You look for problems. Then you blame me when you find them."
I feel a slow, heavy disappointment settle under my ribs.
Every conversation we have is like this, basically a loop that leads nowhere but frustration. "Last week," I say, "you disappeared for three days. No message. No explanation."
He lets out a loud, exasperated groan. "Here we go again. I needed space."
A warm pulse of anger moves through my chest. "You could have said that," I reply.
He taps the counter twice with his thumb, a habit he has whenever he thinks he's about to deliver some brilliant truth. "You would have made it emotional."
I blink. "You think it's unreasonable for a partner to want to know if you're okay."
"I think you take things personally that aren't personal," he answers. "I'm busy. I have a life outside of you."
The words land with a cold clarity, because they aren't surprising to me anymore.
If anything, I finally believe them. I straighten a little. "Do you want to be in this relationship?"
He sighs like I've inconvenienced him. "Why do you always push things to extremes? Can't we just enjoy what we have without all this pressure?"
"What do we have?" I ask quietly.
He frowns. "I don't get why you're making this into a crisis."
I look at the dinner I made. I look at his takeout. I look at the backpack he never unpacks when he stays over because he never plans to.
I look at the pattern in front of me and realize I'm done pretending the pattern is fine. "Brandon," I say, "you don't treat me like I matter."
He laughs under his breath. "You're being dramatic."
I shake my head. "No. I'm being honest."
He picks up his container again. "You know what your issue is? You expect too much from people. That's why your last relationship failed too. You smother."
Something inside me goes very still, the way water settles right before it starts to boil.
The heat is there, building under my ribs, but it holds itself in place instead of spilling over.
I feel my pulse climb into my throat, steady and hot, and a tight pressure forms behind my eyes. "That's unfair," I say. "And unkind."
He shrugs. "At least I'm real with you."
I nod slowly. "Alright."
