The fork was talking to him again.
It never moved when it spoke.
It never needed to.
"…and yeah, when I punched him in the face, he just stared at me dumbly and said I hurt his feelings. Can you believe that? A bowl with feelings. Pathetic."
Hayel pressed both hands over his ears. The metal voice still slipped through.
"That dumb bowl just sits there all day, thinking it's better than us. No one likes it. No one likes things that just talk and talk and never make any sense. I'm much better, don't you think?"
"Stop," Hayel whispered.
The fork rested on the table, prongs pointed toward him like thin, accusing fingers.
"Are you even listening to me?" it continued softly. "You're just like him. Boring. If I dug deep enough, I wonder what I'd find inside your head…"
BANG
Hayel slammed his bedroom door so hard the walls rattled. He stumbled backward and collapsed into the corner of his bed, knees pulled to his chest, eyes scanning every inch of the room as if something might crawl out from the shadows.
However, nothing moved.
Dark circles hollowed the skin beneath his pale amber eyes. His slightly overgrown dark brown hair clung to his damp forehead. His cheeks looked sunken, his skin almost translucent in the weak light.
His hands began to move before he realized it. Nails dragged across skin.
The wounds on his hands reopened, thin lines of red seeping through old scabs. He didn't stop. He didn't feel it.
His eyes darted around the room, searching for something he didn't want to see but was certain was there. His heartbeat pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
It almost drowned out the whisper.
"You're bleeding again," the fork said gently from the other room. "You should really stop doing that."
Knock. Knock.
Hayel froze.
The sound didn't come from the bedroom door.
It came from the front door.
For a long moment he couldn't move. His mind struggled to place the noise, to separate it from the constant murmur in his head. Another knock came, louder this time, solid and real against wood.
"Hayel?" a girl's voice called.
He flinched.
Layla.
Relief and dread twisted together inside his chest.
He opened his bedroom door slowly. The house was silent. The small wooden rooms looked exactly as they always did: bare walls, worn furniture, dust clinging to corners that never seemed to stay clean for long.
And there, on the table, lay the fork. It was perfectly still, it did not speak.
Hayel glared at it anyway as he passed, just in case.
"Hey, Layla," he called weakly, stopping in front of the front door. "I'm… not feeling well yet. But I'm better now."
Silence answered him for a few seconds. He could picture her outside: arms crossed, frowning, tired from worry.
Finally, she sighed. "Hayel… can't you at least open the door? I haven't seen you in months. I'm worried about you. You're like a little brother to me, and I don't even know what kind of state you're in right now. Do you know there are rumours about you? People say you've gone mad. Your neighbours say they hear you screaming at night."
His grip tightened on the handle.
"…That didn't happen," he said quickly.
"Hayel!"
"I'm fine," he insisted, realizing too late that his voice was a bit too sharp.
"Stop lying and open the damn door!"
He flinched, shoulders jerking as if struck.
"…No. I just need to rest."
"Rest?" Layla's voice cracked with frustration. "Do you even have anything to eat? To drink? I bring you things every few days, but that's barely enough for one person in general, let alone two months! I don't have enough money for this, Hayel! If someone is going to starve, it's going to be you! I haven't seen you leave the damn house either and you haven't been working, so what are you even living on?!"
He swallowed. The answer hovered at the edge of his mind.
He didn't want to think about it.
"I… I'll be fine," he murmured. "Soon. I'll get better soon. You don't have to worry."
Layla kicked the door hard enough that the wood shook. "Fine! Two days! The summer festival is in the city and you're coming with me! You WILL leave this house even if I have to break these doors myself!"
A dull thud followed as she dropped the food onto the ground. She kicked the door once more for emphasis before her footsteps retreated down the path.
The house fell silent again.
Too silent.
Hayel leaned his forehead against the door and let out a shaky breath. "Fuck…"
Only then did he notice the wet warmth along his forearms. He looked down. Blood had soaked through his sleeves in thin, uneven patches.
He hissed softly and hurried to the kitchen, opening a lower drawer with trembling hands.
Beige cloths—already stained from before— now wrapped tightly again around his arms until the bleeding slowed.
When he returned to the front door, he hesitated.
Then he opened it just enough to pull the food inside.
The evening air brushed against his face for a brief moment. Fresh. Real. Normal.
He almost stepped out.
The door shut again with a quiet click.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the small bundle Layla had left. Wrapped in an old cloth was bread and a small jar of water.
She was the only one who came. Only one he talked to.
"You should have invited her in," the fork said suddenly behind him.
Hayel's entire body went rigid.
He did not turn around.
"She worries about you," it continued softly. "She always knocks. Always waits."
"Shut up," he whispered.
"I like her voice," the fork went on. "It sounds warm. Alive. Do you think it would sound the same if it were muffled? Maybe through a cloth. Maybe through dirt."
Hayel spun around. The fork lay exactly where he had left it on the table, untouched, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
It did not move.
"You're not real," he said hoarsely.
The fork was silent for a long moment.
Then, it said very quietly, "If you were dead right now, Hayel… would you still be able to hear me?"
His hands began to shake.
"Would you still answer?" it whispered. "Or maybe you woul-"
"SHUT UP ALREADY!" Hayel screamed, voice breaking as it echoed through the small wooden house.
The fork fell silent.
Outside, somewhere far down the path, Layla's footsteps paused for just a second… before continuing away.