Page 24 of Inevitable Endings
“You don’t have to do that in front of me,” she says after a long silence.
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re so tough.”
I don’t answer her. Not because I don’t have words, but because I don’t trust myself to say them without breaking. Instead, I just press the pill bottle back into the cabinet and shutthe door a little too hard.
Ada doesn’t flinch. She just watches me, her fingers still wrapped around her mug like she’s waiting for me to say something real. Something that isn’t a deflection.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest like it might hold me together. “I just need to sleep,” I mutter.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway, letting me have the lie.
I push away from the counter, my body feeling heavier with every step as I make my way upstairs. The walls feel too close, the air too thick. By the time I reach my bedroom, my skin is clammy, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The nausea creeps up fast, a sickly wave rolling through my stomach.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, heaving into the toilet.
The nausea comes in violent waves, my stomach twisting as my body rejects everything inside it. My hands clutch the cold porcelain, my forehead pressed to my arm, sweat dripping down the back of my neck. My breaths come out ragged, uneven, and for a moment, I feel like I might pass out.
Behind me, the floor creaks. Ada.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just the soft sound of her footsteps, the quiet turn of the faucet. A second later, a cool, damp washcloth presses against the back of my neck.
“Breathe,” she murmurs. “You’re okay.”
I shake my head weakly, eyes squeezing shut. “I hate this,” I whisper, my voice raw.
Ada crouches beside me, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s the meds.”
“I know,” I rasp, trying to steady my breathing, but the nausea lingers, cruel and unrelenting. “It never stops. Either I take them and feel like this, or I don’t, and everything falls apart.”
Ada doesn’t answer right away. She just sits back on her heels, watching me, considering. Then, carefully, she says, “Maybe your dose is too high.”
I blink, lifting my head slightly.
“You should talk to your psychiatrist,” she continues. “There’s no reason to be suffering like this. A lower dose might help.”
I close my eyes, the weight of her words settling over me. I don’t want to admit she might be right. That maybe this isn’t just something I have to endure. That maybe there’s a way out of this that doesn’t mean choosing between numbness and sickness.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence stretches between us. Then, quietly, she says, “Do you want me to stay?”
I hesitate. Then, finally, I nod.
Ada helps me to my feet, steadying me with a hand on my arm as I rinse my mouth out at the sink. I feel hollowed out, the nausea leaving behind a dull ache in its place. She doesn’t say anything as she leads me back to my bedroom, but she doesn’t have to. Her presence is enough.
The sheets are cool against my overheated skin as I slip under the covers, and a few minutes later, Ada returns with a bowl of soup. She doesn’t force me to eat, just sets it in my hands and climbs in beside me, tucking herself under the blankets. The soft glow of the bedside lamp makes the room feel smaller, quieter, like it’s just us and nothing else.
For a while, neither of us speak. The soup is warm in my hands, but I only take a few small sips before resting the bowl against my stomach. Ada watches me, her eyes dark with something I can’t quite place.
Then, her voice cuts through the silence. “Who was that man that arrested Aslanov?”
I blink, caught off guard. His name causes a fire within myveins.
Ada keeps her gaze steady. “Did you know him?”
I hesitate, my grip tightening around the bowl. “Why are you asking?”
