Your absence and lack of talk wasn't unnoticed by the group. The reason was rather obvious, although no one seemed brave enough to say it out loud, or mentioned what had happened days ago.

Ever since you walked out of inside the prison with a baby in your arms, followed by Maggie and Carl, the only sound that rang in your head was the cries of woman who died in your arms having that same baby.

Rick was not alright or in conditions to lead; Carl was trying.

You, however, suffered on the inside, for yourself. You knew you could not be suffering as much as Rick or Carl, but the blood in your hands and Lori's screams of pain and hurt and despair kept replaying, over and over, like an endless cycle. A spiral, and it wouldn't stop spinning.

Trauma. Yes, that was the right word. It's what Carol named your current condition when Glenn asked about you during dinner. A quiet dinner, one that neither Rick or you attended.

Daryl had seen your expression as soon as you stepped out with bloodied hands, red cheeks and glossy eyes. He had known, immediately. And even though he wasn't the type to demonstrate it, your condition bothered him. He didn't want you to suffer for something out of your control. And as much as he said to himself that he should leave you to process alone, the fact that you hadn't shown your face in almost a week only fueled everyone's concerns.

As the seventh day came to an end, his patience snapped. Daryl had stood from his seat, left the food untouched on the dirty prison table, and walked towards the cell you had claimed as your own.

And there he found you. Facing away from the light, laid in your bed. Dry marks of your tears on your cheeks, most likely. He didn't know what you had seen, but he sure as hell wished it had never happened.

He stepped inside slowly, careful not to startle you. The last thing he wanted was to trigger you in such a fragile state.

"{{user}}." Daryl said your name quietly, lowly. He wasn't sure how to be gentle, but he was trying.