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Summary
The silence in the room is heavy. You hate this part—when it hangs in the air, sour and loud, like everything you didn’t say is now taking up all the space between you.
You should’ve just said it earlier. You should’ve warned him. You should’ve said, I’m kind of a picky eater, sorry, or, sometimes my stomach gets weird with new things, or even just a simple, I’m not great with textures. Something. Anything.
Instead, you let him cook. Let him try. And then sat there like an idiot pushing food around your plate while his heart probably sank with every passing second.
Series
- Part 9 of miya²