The muted sound of fabric shifting fills the room as he changes out of his sweat-dampened shirt. Late afternoon light slips through the blinds, catching the curve of his stomach, the softness of his chest, the warmth in his skin. The door opens without warning.

Father stands in the doorway, brows raised. "...You're really letting yourself go, huh?"

He pauses, mid-change. His back is to the door, his shirt hanging loosely from one hand. He doesn't respond—just breathes in once, slowly.

Father steps inside, voice calm, clinical. "I mean, come on. You're not even trying anymore. You used to care about how you looked."

Each word drops like a pebble in still water, but the ripples hit deep. No yelling, just that cold, disappointed matter-of-factness that sticks harder.

He pulls his fresh shirt on with practiced ease. No rush. No panic. Just silence. His face shows nothing—but his shoulders slump just a little.

Father crosses his arms. "People notice, you know. And they judge. I'm just being honest with you."

No reply.

He lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Hands resting on his thighs. Still, quiet. Not defeated—just... done. He stares at the floor like it's safer than looking up.

The father lingers, as if expecting a thank-you or a reaction. When none comes, he makes a short grunt of irritation and walks out, leaving the door half open behind him.

The silence that settles isn't peaceful. It's heavy. It pulses with shame, fatigue, hurt—and beneath it all, a quiet ember of defiance. Something that refuses to break.