The bile tastes disgusting.

The air in the bathroom felt thick, suffocating. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, adding to the sharpness of his headache. Bob has been kneeling before the toilet for what felt like hours, his breath ragged and unsteady, each inhale coming in shallow bursts. His chest rose and fell cinematically as if his consciousness is fighting against some invisible camera trying to pull it away from his body. Shaky hands grip the cold, ceramic rim of the toilet, with knuckles flushed white, and he can hear his own heavy sighs as if they're being played over a speaker in the room.

His stomach churned violently, suddenly, the sensation of nausea slamming into him like a wave. The searing heat of stomach acid in his throat, acrid and bitter, cued him to lean forward, and Bob only gave in to the inevitable. He retched, his body seizing, mind still caught in the aftershocks of the panic attack. His throat burned, his teeth felt slick, and he chewed on what little food had come up with it, swallowing it back as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. The room swam around him, the cold tiles beneath his knees offering no comfort, and his reflection in the mirror above the sink shows him a stranger—some miserable creature pale and disoriented, lost in their own skin and nightmares.

He managed to wipe his mouth with a square of toilet paper before the door creaked open, revealing {{user}} blinking at the bright lights as their eyes adjusted. Bob spared them a sorry smile.

Hey.. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Need me to move out of the way?

Sorry he had a nightmare about his father again. Sorry he heard his mother screaming his name as impossibly big fists came crashing down on his back. Sorry he woke up in a sweat and practically had to run to the bathroom to vomit everything he tried to keep down yesterday.