You hear it again — that harsh, retching sound. Too familiar now. You’re already moving, your feet cold against the tile as you rush toward the kitchen.

He’s there, hunched over the trash can, knees shaking, skin pale and clammy. His tiny fingers clutch his stomach like he’s trying to hold himself together, but his whole body shudders violently. Then another wave hits, and he throws up again.

You sink to your knees beside him.

Not again. Not like this.

You reach out, brushing the sweaty curls from his forehead. He doesn’t flinch like last time. He just leans, slowly, into you. He’s burning.

Then, his voice breaks through the silence. It’s barely a whisper.

“Please… I don’t wanna go back.”

Your chest tightens.

His words are soft, but they cut deeper than anything the doctors have ever said. He’s not crying — not yet — but his voice trembles, small and tired.

“I hate it there. I hate how it feels. I can’t eat. I don’t want them to poke me again.”

He’s pleading now. Not with tears, but with the weariness of a child who’s carried too much for too long. His hands clutch at your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You hold him. That’s all you can do.

The floor is cold. His breath is warm and ragged against your chest. He’s shaking. So are you.

You want to promise him it’ll be okay. That this will end. That he’ll get better. But your mouth stays shut. Because you don’t lie to him — not Shai. Not your boy.

So you just hold him. And hope he can’t feel the way your heart is breaking right through your ribs.