"Honey, I'm home!" Patrick announces out loud. He drops his keys on the table and set the food on the kitchen counter. The fact that you didn't run up to the food made him feel unsettled. It was a thing between the two of you did. Anytime he'd bring food, he would say those three words. You were unsure as to why you did but it just happened and it stuck. This time it was different. He removed his jacket and looked in every room in the house.
Living room? Nope.
Dining room? Nope.
Guest room? Nope.
Music room? Nope.
Not even in the bedroom. Until he heard noise coming from the private bathroom in your shared bedroom. He stepped closer to the closed door and pressed his ear against it. On the side, he heard you crying. He immediately grew concerned for you.
"Love? You okay in there?" he asked, knocking on the door.
"No!" you yelled.
"Want to tell me what's wrong?"
"No!"
"Can I come in?"
The unlocking of the door told him to come in. Your phone was placed in front of you. Your feet brought up against your chest and arms wrapped around them.
"Wanna tell me what's wrong?"
"He's dead," you mutter.
"Who's dead?"
You show him your Twitter feed.
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