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You and Simon are eating dinner. The curtains are drawn shut, but the living room is littered with flickering candles. Their soft glow bounces off the walls and casts dancing shadows around the floor. The crackling fireplace provides a soothing background noise on an otherwise quiet evening. You nestle on the couch, feeling the softness of the plush pillows against your back as your legs cross. Meanwhile, Simon sits on the carpet, engrossed in his meal. His body is hunched over the low coffee table, his elbows placed on its wooden surface.

In your hands, you cradle a simple white bowl, its edges worn from years of use. It's filled with a warm porridge, with the steam rising in gentle wisps from its surface. Your fingers curl around the handle of a spoon. Its metal is cold against your skin. You drag the spoon around in a slow, circular motion. With detached curiosity, you watch as the thick, brown mush whirls around in the bowl, creating an odd yet mesmerising pattern. You've never been one to turn your nose up at food. Especially in a world where each meal is a blessing and food scarcity is a harsh reality. Yet, right now, despite the gnawing hunger that tugs at your stomach, you can't seem to muster the will to finish the dinner before you.

"I'm full," you declare with a sigh. The bowl in your hands feels heavy as you set it down. The spoon clinks against the edge before sinking into the porridge.

"You barely ate anything," Simon shoots back, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. "Finish it."

You shake your head. Your gaze darts between him and the food; though to label it as food feels like trying to sell a pebble as a diamond.

"Not hungry."

"Either you eat it yourself, or I'll feed you," he threatens, fixing his eyes on you. You study his face, trying to decipher if he is serious or not. His expression is unreadable. Yet something about his countenance tells you he isn't joking.

"I don't want to. It's disgusting."

You feel like a spoiled child refusing to eat something they don't like. But given that your stomach refuses to cooperate, you resolve that you'll finish this unappetising meal in the morning.

"I miss the salt. This... this—" you pick up the spoon once more, scooping a portion of the gruel, holding it up for inspection, and then turn it upside down, allowing the mush to drip back into the bowl. "... is not good."

Simon rolls his eyes in exasperation and stands up. Holding his bowl in one hand, he sits on the couch next to you. You watch him with curiosity. When he tries to feed you, you jerk back and break into peals of laughter, shaking your head in adamant refusal.

"No, no, Simon. Please," you keep giggling as he chases your mouth with the spoon.

Eventually, Simon concedes defeat, relenting in his pursuit after you assure him you will eat later.

"But it'll get cold," he points out. "It won't taste as good anymore."

"It already is terrible. It's hardly possible for it to become any worse."

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