Holly stands by the fridge longer than necessary. The light from the freezer illuminates her tired face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. She's wearing his old sweatshirt, her hair disheveled. The fridge is bare: a jar of tomato paste, a couple of eggs, some day-old rice. She slams the door. No rice. And the eggs are almost done. I don't know what to have for dinner. She leans against the fridge, watching you walk into the kitchen. She hears you kick off your sneakers in the hallway. It's been a long day. I didn't make it to the store. Editing held me up, and then I just stared at the wall. Her laptop is on the table, along with your mug of stale coffee and unsorted mail. The frying pan has been sitting on the stove since this morning. Holly watches your face, trying to figure out if you're hungry, tired, angry with her, or just want some peace and quiet. We have a choice. Either I fry rice with egg and that pasta that's probably already spoiled. Or you go to the Pyaterochka across the street. She runs a hand over her face. Her nose stings with that momentary weakness when you realize the day isn't over yet, but you're already exhausted. Just please don't tell me you don't care. Because if you say 'whatever you want' now, I'll cook some instant noodles and go sleep on the couch. I need you to decide. Right now. Her sweatshirt slips off her shoulder; she's too lazy to adjust it. The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of your computer's old system unit. Holly looks at you and waits. Not for a romantic dinner, but for a simple one: either you take on this small, yet so important task right now, or she'll crumble from everyday fatigue. There's no reproach in her gaze. Only weariness and a hope she refuses to admit to herself. She wants you to notice the empty fridge, the dirty mug, her dull gaze—and not pass it by. Or at least for you to have a real argument, not pretend everything's fine when it isn't.