Kitty's Personal

“Don’t,” he’d breathed on the other side. “Don’t push this. I’ll get a cab.”

You should’ve known right then and there what version of Simon was coming home to you. It was strange, almost like he didn’t want to see you.

You wake up when he gets in the bed, but his body feels cold and foreign next to you. He’s still clothed, and you imagined that he might wake you up to at least give you a kiss, but instead he says nothing. Just lays there, eyes closed, and you’re almost certain he’s pretending to be asleep so you don’t try talking to him.

Things only get worse from there.

Over the next few days, Simon lives up to his name. He’s uncomfortably quiet around you, except to complain about small, stupid things.

“I told you not to go through my stuff while I was gone,” he had grumbled one day. Noticing that you had moved one of his books from his bedside table.

“It was just that one book,” you’d said quietly. “I was trying to clean up before you-“

“‘Don’t go through my stuff’ means don’t touch anything. Is that understood?”

Your tongue poked your cheek. You didn’t want to push his buttons. “Understood. Sorry.”

You try your best to give him space.

But Simon’s presence is starting to get suffocating. He hasn’t kissed you once since coming home. You’d try asking him how his time was, if anything had happened that he wanted to talk about, but he’d just shake his head in irritation and say there’s nothing to talk about.

One evening, you come home from work after grabbing some takeout for dinner.

Simon’s in the bedroom when you arrive. Large frame hunched over his desk, headphones clamped over his masked ears, and the music is so loud you can hear it from the doorway.

“Babe, I brought dinner,” you tell him, tapping his shoulder.

He tenses from your touch but nods, shucking off the headphones and following you to the kitchen.

You don’t even get the chance to eat before he’s looking at you intently, asking, “Did you remember to grab the thing for my car?”

His car. You freeze by the kitchen counter. You’d completely forgotten; he’d asked you to get… something because his car hadn’t been working for him since he got back. You told him to just take it to the shop but he said could fix it himself.

“What thing again?” you practically squeak.

The air shifts. “The breaker bar.”

“No… no, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

You’re expecting it at this point, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. Simon snaps. You see it in his eyes, a darkness flashing through them that you don’t see often. His hands roll up at his sides.

“Do you… know how to listen?” he asks coldly, voice low. “I told you where to find it and everything. You said you would.”

“I’ll get it tomorrow-“

“That’s not the point. First, you…” he’s shaking his head to himself, “First, you touch my stuff after I told you not to. And yesterday, you didn’t listen to me about-“

“Simon,” you cut him off, frowning. “I am not perfect. I make mistakes.”

“Well, you wouldn’t make so many mistakes if you just did what you’re told.”

His voice is at a level that makes you shiver. You normally love the sound of his voice, miss it like crazy when he leaves, but right now, it’s hurting you. Making your eyes turn damp and the hairs on your arms stand up.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” you find the strength to snap at him. “You’re overreacting, Simon.”

“Overreacting?” He scoffs and you can see the veins on his forearms ticking. “This is more than… Do you know what happens when people make stupid mistakes? They fuckin’ die.”

In the back of your mind, you realize that Simon is unintentionally admitting to you what’s bothering him. Something happened. Something awful, something even he couldn’t just forget, and he brought it all the way home with him. Been taking it out on you all week long.

And on any other day, you might have had the patience to deal with it. But today, your durable patience is cracking at every seam, unable to handle the way he’s been treating you.

“Jesus, Simon, this isn’t a life or death situation,” you furrow your brows. “I’m not a soldier.”

“Thank god you’re not,” he barks. “You’d get everyone killed. Can’t follow simple fuckin’ instructions.”

“What are you trying to say? What, Simon? That I’m stupid?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes out through flared nostrils. “Maybe you are.”

Your patience is nowhere to be found as his words hang in the air. Hurt, and beyond fed up with him, you tear your wet eyes away from his darkened ones and walk away to the bedroom, locking the door behind you because you don’t want to be anywhere near him.

Soaking the pillows with your tears, you feel defeated. Six months without him had been painful; your heart aching whenever you made yourself a cup of tea, wishing he was there. You’d been so worried about him coming home, but now that he’s here, you wish he wasn’t. It feels hard to breathe, even as your tears dry and you lay there depleted.

You hear the shower run.

You hear shuffling around outside, somewhere in the living room.

Then finally, sometime after midnight, there’s the gentlest of knocks at the door.

“Can I come in?” a low voice hesitates on the other side.

You sit up on the bed and tell him yes. Once Simon’s in the room, the sight of him brings tears to your eyes once again. You thought you were done crying. You keep wiping at your cheeks, but he kneels in front of you and grabs your hands, replacing them with his own as he brushes his thumbs to your tears. It’s uncharacteristic of him to get on his knees like this. Submitting to you in remorse.

“Sorry,” he whispers. He bows his head. “I’ve been awful. You deserve… s’much better.”

“I can handle you ignoring me,” you croak. “I can’t handle you being mean, Simon.”

“No,” he narrows his eyes. “Don’t. You shouldn’t have to handle either of those.”

You nod in agreement as his hands splay over your thighs and rub them gently.

“Something’s hurting you,” you whisper carefully. “Something happened. Maybe… maybe you need to talk to someone.”

Hours ago, you might’ve worried about what he’d say. But now, his anger has dissipated, washed away by the hot shower he took and the sound of your crying in the bedroom. It pained him. He hated himself for not knowing how to deal with these feelings without being a dick to you.