“It’s alright,” he says softly. “It’s just your body adjusting.”
I flinch slightly under his touch, the reaction small, delayed, but still there.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
Or he does, and he ignores it.
“This is good,” he continues, his tone calm, reassuring in a way that makes my skin crawl. “It means it’s working. You’re getting them out of your system.”
Them.
The word lands faintly, like it’s trying to mean something more than it does.
I don’t answer him.
I don’t have the energy to.
My head is still spinning, the room tilting slightly as I try to push myself upright, my body slower than it should be, weaker than I remember it being.
He helps me without asking, his hands guiding me back to my feet, steadying me in a way that feels less like support and more like control.
“You need to eat,” he says.
The words barely register.
“I can’t,” I manage, my voice thin, my throat still raw.
“You can,” he replies easily. “You just don’t want to.”
He walks me to the table before I can argue again, his hand firm on my arm, not hurting, but not something I can pull away from either.
The chair presses against the back of my legs.
I don’t remember sitting.
I’m just there.
The plate is already in front of me.
I don’t know how long it’s been. I don’t know when he made it. I don’t know anything except that the smell of it turns my stomach again.
“I’m not—” I start.
His hand slams against the table hard enough to make me flinch.
“Eat.”
The word cuts through everything else. My hands tighten slightly in my lap.
“I’m sick,” I say, quieter now.
“I know,” he replies, his tone shifting back just as quickly as it changed. “That’s why you need to eat.”
He picks up the fork.
I watch it for a second before I realize what he’s doing.
“Open your mouth.”
