Page 36 of Until Forever Falls

Dragging myself upright, the pounding in my head intensifies with each reluctant step. Pressure building at the base of my skull. A vague mental map of the room leads me to stumble into the corner, where my suitcase waits like a cruel joke. After a few clumsy attempts, my hands finally land on the zipper.

Flipping it open, the realization dawns: no painkillers. Not even a single packet tossed in at the last minute. “Figures.” The frustration clings to the single word, my sarcasm lost on the empty walls.

A slow spin distorts the edges of my vision before my balance catches back up. I rifle through my bag, brushing over something solid—my charger. I shove the cord into the port with more force than necessary, willing it to work quickly, the tiniest thread of control slipping back into my grasp.

Ultimately, I decide I can’t just sit here and let the pain eat away at me. Pushing past the exhaustion, I head for the door. Hotels usually have a drawer of forgotten essentials or a clerk who might take pity on me. I just need something—though at this point, I’d settle for a distraction, or a lobotomy.

The fluorescent lights in the lobby glare down like a personal attack, pressing on an invisible bruise. Each step toward the front desk sends a fresh jolt of nausea surges up my spine, my body protesting every decision that has led to this moment.

I try to push through it, but my legs turn to jelly. My vision spins as I stumble over to a nearby couch and sink into it, putting my head between my legs, hoping the churning sickness will pass.

“Dylan?” The sound of my name cuts through the pain, and my head snaps up to see none other than Brooks Holland at the front desk, watching me with wide, concerned eyes. His gaze catches mine, and he’s on his feet in an instant, stepping toward me. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“I just—” I part my lips to speak, but the words die in my throat as my insides constrict. My stomach clenches violently, and before I can think, I lurch forward, seizing the nearest vase and retching into it.

Brooks drops beside me in an instant, guiding me onto the couch with a careful grip. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, like an anchor keeping me from slipping under.

“Easy,” he says, as though my body isn’t actively betraying me. Spent and shaking, my muscles go slack, my weight tilting toward him. I don’t mean to stay there, but moving feels like too much effort, and he doesn’t push me away.

“Are you alright?”

“I—” The answer sticks for half a second before slipping loose. “No.” A wave of fatigue surges through me, engulfing everything in its path, my lungs hitching around a breath that doesn’t quite fill deep enough. “I feel like shit.”

I ease back, each motion calculated in an attempt to regain my composure. Not because I actually feel better, but because looking like I do is the next best thing.

“What happened?”

“I’m just nauseated,” I manage, though my voice betrays me. “My headache won’t quit. No meds. No food. No sleep. And—” I stop, biting back the rest of the sentence with an inhale.

Brooks watches me, but doesn’t pry.

I focus on his eyes, searching for the right words, but all that comes is an awkward pause.

His gaze stays steady, like he already knows I won’t ask unless I have to. “What would help?”

The instinct to wave him off is there, but the pounding behind my eyes wins. “Tylenol. Ibuprofen. Anything, if it’s not too much trouble.” I breathe through another wave of discomfort. “I’ll pay for it.”

“Got it. Stay put, I’ll find something. You’re not paying for it, so don’t argue.”

The moment he steps away, I press my hands against my thighs, willing strength back into my limbs. It doesn’t work. When he returns, he crouches back down beside me, dropping two pills into my palm before handing me a water bottle. I don’t think. I just swallow.

“I should get back,” I say, though I make no move to stand. My eyes drift to the vase, and I cringe. “I— God, I’ll replace that. I promise.”

Brooks huffs out something close to a laugh. “I’d be more worried about making it up to housekeeping.” He leans against the couch, arms crossed. “What’s the plan? Think you can make it, or am I coming with you?”

“I’ve got it.”

“If you say so.” Brooks steps back, but not far, his attention narrowed in like he’s waiting for me to prove myself wrong.

I reach my door, grab the handle, and push. Nothing. A harder pull—still no give.

Brooks tilts his head, watching as I try again, but stays quiet.

A fourth attempt ends with me smacking the wood lightly, my patience running out. My head tips back in frustration before I spin on my heel and stalk toward him, expression flat.

“You didn’t grab your key when you left, did you?”

“No.” It’s an automatic answer, but not a confident one. “I was too focused on getting rid of this headache. And maybe I had a bit too much to drink on the plane. Plus, jet lag—”

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