I locked myself in the guest room, silently immersing myself in writing lyrics and composing music, trying desperately to shift my focus.
But in the next moment, Abigail abruptly opened the door and walked in, catching me off guard.
She was holding a steaming bowl of chicken soup, its warmth rising in soft curls, and she gently placed it on the nightstand beside my bed.
Her gaze was cautious as she said slowly and softly, "Samuel, you haven't eaten much all day. Please have some soup. I just made it."
She then added in the same gentle tone, "Is there anything you feel like eating? I can make it for you."
I had never heard Abigail speak to me with such tenderness before. It felt almost unreal. She was probably trying to placate me, assuming my recent outbursts were excessive.
I waved her off calmly, my voice steady as I said, "I'm not hungry. You can eat it. If I get hungry later, I'll cook something myself."
But Abigail refused to leave. She looked at me intently and said again, "But you haven't eaten all day. Your health isn't in the best shape already. If you don't take care of yourself now, what will you do in the future?"
Her concern only fueled my irritation. I turned away from her, unwilling to say another word.
Abigail's face stiffened, unease flickering briefly across her expression at my reaction.
I fully expected her to snap at me, perhaps even yell at me in frustration.
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