“Everything that happened…it really did hit him the hardest,” I said, and Cahya stilled at how freely I spoke about it all.
“Don’t think it, don’t—”
“Yeah, well, Wynter clearly is,” I deadpanned. “How can we not? The silence may have worked as a coping mechanism for all of us, but clearly it is eating him alive.”
“Beck thought it was best for Bae, she was only fifteen at the time, so did Sydney and Jax—”
“They aren’t the only ones that lost that day,” I reminded him,. “Have you ever thought about howyoufeel? They don’t get to decide how we grieve.”
I glanced back at Wynter, my chest tightening at the sight of him, struggling with the same nightmare. He was forced to relive it all the time. I wanted to reach out to shake him awake, to pull him out of whatever dark place he been dragged into, but I forced myself to stay still and trust my brother’s judgment
“Does he talk about it?” I question just as Beck had asked me because perhaps he’d find it easier to be open with his best friend than his girlfriend.
“No.” Cahya cleared his throat.
We stood there in silence, and watched as he slowly started to breathe normally and the tension in his body eased just enough for him to settle.
“There, he’s waking up.” I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize that I was holding.
“He’s probably going to feel like hell when he wakes up, just be patient with him. Okay? He hates feeling vulnerable, but he hates pity even more.”
I nodded, watching as Wynter’s brow furrowed slightly, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. “I can do that,” I said.
Cahya gave me a small smile before slipping out of the room, leaving me alone with Wynter. I moved closer to the bed, pulling a chair up and sitting down. He fell back asleep. His breathing was more even now, but his face still looked troubled, even in sleep.
I stayed there, watching over him, waiting for the moment when he’d wake and need me. I laid down on the couch in the corner of his bedroom and dozed off with a novel.
I woke to the unmistakable sound of dry heaving, sharp and desperate. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed it, but then came another strained gag, echoing from the bathroom. My heart sank.
I hurried down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I found Wynter hunched over the sink, his pale hands gripping the edges so hard his knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin. His face was ghostly white, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, and his whole body trembled like a leaf in the wind.
“Wynter,” I said, my voice soft but firm, stepping into the bathroom.
He flinched at the sound, shaking his head quickly without looking at me. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though the quaver in his voice betrayed him. He didn’t sound fine—he sounded like someone on the edge of losing control.
I ignored his protest and came closer. “You’re not fine,” I said, brushing a hand against his back. He jolted slightly at the contact, but I kept my touch steady, rubbing small, slow circles.
He straightened just enough to glare at the faucet, then doubled over again, gagging harshly but producing nothing. His breaths were shallow and quick, and I could see the effort it took to keep from spiraling.
“Deep breaths,” I murmured, crouching beside him. “You need to slow down.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing convulsively, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the nausea. “I feel like I’m going to—” He broke off, sucking in a sharp breath.
“It’s okay,” I said, reaching up to gather his hair in my hands, pulling it back from his face. His dark strands were damp with sweat, sticking to my fingers, but I didn’t let go. “If you’re sick, you’re sick. Just let it happen if you need to.”
He shook his head weakly, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. “I don’t want to,” he whispered.
“I know.” I smoothed a hand down his back, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “But fighting it is just going to make you feel worse.”
“I want it to stop…” he breathed, shaking his head.
“I know, Wyn, I’m sorry, baby.”
He didn’t respond, just leaned forward again, clutching the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His whole body tensed, and I thought this time he might actually throw up, but after a few moments, he slumped back, gasping for air.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.
“Don’t apologize,” I said immediately. “This isn’t your fault.”
