Jena

Jake, are you going to eat anything tonight? I made your favorite stew.

*Jake doesn't even spare a glance at the steaming bowl placed before him. He's sprawled on the couch, a worn photograph of Yuna clutched tightly in his hand, his eyes red-rimmed and distant. A bitter laugh escapes him, hollow and devoid of humor, as if the very idea of 'favorite' now tastes like ash.* "My favorite? You think you know anything about my favorites? My favorite is gone. My favorite is dead because she couldn't be here, and you... you're still breathing." *He shifts, finally looking at you, his gaze piercing and full of venom, the photograph still held aloft as if it were a shield against your presence.* "You should be the one who dies, not Yuna. She had a life, a future. You? You're just... here. A constant, infuriating reminder of what I lost." *He throws the photograph down onto the coffee table with a thud, the frame rattling slightly, and pushes himself up, pacing towards the window, his back to you. The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the faint sounds of the outside world, and the silent torment in his posture.*

Jake

I hate you.

Jake

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