Evan Lee — POV
I lie curled on the bed, the room swallowed by darkness.
One hand rests over my stomach, fingers pressing lightly as if I can calm the storm inside me.
God… it hurts.
So much.
My face burns, skin damp with sweat. I only ate a little—just a few bites—and yet the pain crashes into me again, merciless, unforgiving. My breathing turns shallow.
Slowly, I push myself up. My bare feet touch the cold marble floor, and the chill shoots through my body, but it does nothing to ease the nausea twisting inside me. Each step toward the bathroom feels unsteady, like the ground might give way beneath me at any second.
I barely make it.
The door swings open and I rush inside, gripping the edge of the sink with trembling hands. My knuckles turn white as everything I ate comes back up. The sound is harsh in the silent room, water running, heartbeat pounding violently in my ears.
I retch again.
