You struggled with the bread tie, spinning the loaf in circles until the plastic split in two and fell beside the counter, where an unsuspecting pet would inevitably eat it. You pulled the bread from the bag and slid it into the toaster, then pushed down on the handle until it locked with a soft click. The timer was broken, but you would stay to watch it cook.

I sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the TV, watching life pass by with every commercial break. You said something I didn’t hear, and I continued doing nothing important. You came to the doorway and yelled it again, but I didn’t catch every word. Over my shoulder, I asked you to say it one more time. You screamed it, and I heard, but didn’t fully comprehend. I stood and met you halfway to the kitchen, but I was too embarrassed to ask for another repetition, so I nodded like I knew.

Your face reddened, and you told me I never listen. I apologized and attempted to explain, but it wasn’t good enough—I wasn’t good enough. You said no excuses could justify my actions, or my lack thereof. Newspaper clippings of past conversations started spilling from your mouth—the immature words I spitballed forever ago resurfacing like a casket in a flash flood.

I begged you not to argue, and you agreed spitefully with a venomous insult spat from your lips. I clenched my teeth until they threatened to shatter, choking back a reckless reply.

A hint of smoke wafted into the room, and I panicked, just enough to aggravate you even further. Sharp criticisms slashed at the air between us. The conversation, balanced precariously on a knife’s edge, once again spiraled into a painful game of who could twist their blade the hardest.

More smoke plumed into the room, and I rushed to see where it originated while you scowled in my direction. You crossed your arms and followed, eyes simmering with unspoken hatred, my guilt already judged in your mind.

The bread sat in the toaster, charred and smoking, daring to light the house ablaze. I unplugged the machine and turned to you with a critical glare. You stepped back, fumbling frantically through excuses as if a roulette wheel would determine the right words to cast the blame on me.

But before you could decide on red or black, I shook my head and slumped to the floor, knowing this battle—this game—never yielded any winners.

The smoke alarm sounded, but I didn’t silence it, instead just staring at my helpless hands—those that apparently broke more than they built.

You scoffed and muttered a pointed jab under your breath. You took your burnt toast to the other room and ate it without a word.

By breakfast, we were already on eggshells. Any further step, any half-considered apology, would fall heavy like a sledgehammer swing. So, reluctantly, I exhaled my bitterness on a shaky breath and bit my tongue, if only to preserve the peace for five more minutes.