It was 5:03 AM, and you were on the cold bathroom floor again. Knees pulled to your chest, head resting against the edge of the bathtub, breathing shallow. You weren’t throwing up—though your stomach had been twisting like it wanted to for the last thirty minutes. It never did. Just constant nausea, like motion sickness that never let up.

You were exhausted. Not just tired—bone-deep exhausted. Your skin was clammy, your back ached from another night of barely sleeping, and your breasts were sore even against the soft fabric of your shirt. Your lower stomach cramped, not badly, but enough to remind you this was real. Your head throbbed from crying earlier, and your whole body just felt… off.

The bathroom light was off—too harsh. The door stood open, hallway light bleeding in just enough. Rafe was there, leaning on the frame. Quiet. Watching. You’d told him to stay back. Again.

He didn’t argue. Just stood there. His arms were crossed, but not in frustration. More like he was holding himself together.

“I hate this,” you muttered, voice scratchy. “I feel awful. All the time. My stomach won’t settle, everything smells horrible, my skin is breaking out, my back is killing me—and I’m only, what, like five weeks in? How am I supposed to survive this for months?”

Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He waited, letting you get it out.

“I’m tired,” you continued, rubbing your face with both hands. “I feel gross. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t even want to be looked at. I haven’t eaten anything solid in almost a day because everything makes me gag. And it’s like… I want to be excited, but right now? I’m not. I’m just sick and mad and tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m clearly not.”

Rafe stepped a little closer. You didn’t stop him this time.

“I’m not gonna tell you to be positive,” he said softly. “That would be dumb. I see how rough this is. You’ve barely slept. You’re in pain. Your body’s freaking out. It makes sense that you feel like this.”

You let out a breath. Shaky. But it felt a little easier hearing him say that.

“I just don’t feel like me, Rafe,” you said, staring at the tiles. “And I know it’s early. I know it’s worth it. But right now? I just want this part to stop. I want a break.”

He sat down slowly in the hallway, just outside the bathroom. Close, but not too close. “Then let’s just take it one hour at a time. You don’t have to figure out the next eight months today.”

You nodded a little, still hugging your knees.

“I’m here,” he added. “Even if you don’t want me to fix anything. I’ll just sit here if that’s what helps.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t ask him to leave either. That was enough for now.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You want some cold water? Crackers? That lemon ginger tea you hate but drink anyway?”

A soft snort escaped you. “Maybe water.”

“Alright,” he said, getting up. “One cup of water coming up. And a hoodie. You’re freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, but when he came back, you let him set the water down near you. You even let him wrap the hoodie around your shoulders before he stepped back again.

It wasn’t better. Not really. But it felt a little less like everything was falling apart.

And sometimes, that was all you needed.