**Silent Struggles**

Prompt: Simon woke up sick but hides it from his wife emily because he does not want to be a burden. Besides he had chores to do. Bevore he managed to finnish al his chores emily came back from work and was dissapointed in simon for not having finished the chores yet. Simon cant hold it any longer and tears start rolling down his face as he tries to explain. A wave of nausea washes over him and he bearly made it to the sink on time. he puked wilhe crying. Emily takes care of him

Simon woke up with heavy eyelids and a relentless ache that pulsed through him like an unwelcome reminder. He could hear the distant hum of the world outside his window, and though the sun painted everything a cheery gold, he felt the grayness lurking within. Rolling over, he glanced at Emily, her soft breath embodying tranquility, an anchor in his storm. He didn't want to disturb her. After all, it was just a cold, and he could manage. If he acted normal, perhaps they could pretend everything was just fine for one more day. With a quiet rustle, Simon slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. He stumbled into the kitchen, the bright lights feeling painfully harsh against his throbbing temples. He poured himself a glass of water, but the very thought of food turned his stomach. Still, he forced down a slice of toast, hoping it would settle his nausea. Chores awaited him—dishes piled high, laundry overflowing—tasks that couldn’t possibly wait for illness. Hours crawled by as he forced himself through the motions. He scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to escape the heavy weight in his chest. The laundry felt like a mountain, the dishes morphed into an endless sea. With every chore he checked off his list, he tried to stave off the growing unease that clung to him like an unwelcome cloak. As noon approached, the wave of nausea intensified. He took a moment to lean against the countertop, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing deeply. "Just a little longer," he whispered to himself, steeling his resolve. He didn’t want to have to explain to Emily why he hadn’t finished. He couldn’t bear the disappointment he anticipated on her face; the soft sigh she always gave when he fell short. Finally, he hustled through the last of the chores—the vacuuming that sent vibrations through his head and the dusting that left him gasping. He wiped his hands down his pants and surveyed the room, taking stock of his efforts. The house looked presentable, as it always did under his careful hand. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the door swung open. Emily stepped inside, her face blossoming into a smile that dimmed as she took in the sight of her husband. "Hey, babe! You're home early!" "Hey!" he replied, his voice strained but bright. “I thought I’d surprise you with a clean house.” But the enthusiasm in her eyes dimmed into disappointment as she began to assess the scene. "You didn’t finish the laundry, and the dishes—there are still a few left in the sink?" Simon felt his heart sink. "I… I tried. I really did." Nepotism clawed at Simon's insides, pulling at his already fragile composure. He swallowed hard, hoping to muster the strength to carry the conversation light-heartedly. But as Emily’s frown deepened, the floodgates opened. Tears spilled down Simon’s cheeks, running hot against the coolness of his skin. "I’m sorry! I just… I feel sick, Emily. I didn’t want to worry you, but I can barely stand up. I thought I could manage." His voice trembled, cracking under the weight of his honesty. Emily’s expression shifted from disappointment to concern almost instantaneously. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Simon, her warmth contrasting the chill spiraling through him. "Oh, Simon… why didn’t you just tell me?" Before he could respond, a new wave of nausea crashed over him, stronger this time, unfurling like a dark tide. He staggered back, clutching his stomach as the discomfort twisted and drove him to the sink. Closer, closer, until he leaned over the edge, retching painfully into the basin. Tears mingled with the raw ache of his sickness as he heaved, feeling utterly wretched. It wasn’t just the physical sickness; it was the humiliation of collapsing in front of Emily after trying so hard to keep it together. “Simon!” Her voice was frantic now, but mingled with tenderness. “Oh God, just breathe, it’s okay—I’m right here.” As he vomited, sobs broke from him, shame bubbling up like the stomach acid he could taste. He felt her hand rubbing circles on his back, steadying him between waves of illness. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped between heaves, “I wanted to handle it myself. I hate being a burden.” “You’re not a burden,” Emily whispered fiercely, her voice unwavering. “We’re in this together; you’re never a burden to me. You should have told me. You should’ve let me help.” Eventually, the retching subsided, leaving Simon trembling and breathless, slumped against the cold sink. He could feel Emily’s presence enveloping him, grounding him like an anchor in choppy waters. She grabbed a washcloth, dampened it with cool water, and pressed it to his forehead, her touch soothing against the blazing heat he felt. “Let’s get you to bed,” she murmured, helping him rise slowly. He felt like a puppet whose strings had been severed, each step shaky and uncertain, but Emily’s arm was firm around him. Once they settled back into their bedroom, she helped him into bed, tucking the blankets around him. “Just rest now. Let me take care of you,” she said softly, brushing the hair away from his forehead, her fingers gentle and soothing. As exhaustion overtook him, Simon let out a quiet sigh. For the first time that day, he felt some semblance of peace. He wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. He could lean on her, and they would face this together—burden or not. And in the silence of their bedroom, with Emily’s warmth surrounding him like a safety net, Simon finally allowed himself to let go.