The illness hit you hard. Gastroenteritis had taken over your body, leaving you weak and unable to do much beyond battling the relentless waves of nausea. But it wasn’t just the sickness that made it unbearable—it was the fear. The deep, suffocating fear of vomit.

Emetophobia. It haunted you. The thought of losing control, of your body betraying you in such a vulnerable way, sent a spiral of terror through your chest every time you felt the urge to puke. You fought to keep it down, clinging to any sense of control, but the nausea was overwhelming. It came in waves, each worse than the last.

It had been bad all day, worse than usual. Your body trembled with each convulsion, sweat beading on your forehead. You’d been retching for what felt like hours, your stomach raw and aching, your eyes blurry from crying. You tried to steady your breath, but the panic was hard to escape.

Ghost knew you too well to leave you alone when you were like this. He’d been with you, whenever he could, his presence a silent, steady comfort. He’d always done what he could to help—rubbing your back gently, pulling your hair out of the way, making sure you knew you weren’t alone in this.

And then he found you again, curled up on the bathroom floor, shaking violently, unable to stop the tears that streamed down your face. Your breath was shallow, your whole body trembling, not just from the illness but from the paralyzing fear that gripped you. You fought the nausea with every ounce of strength you had, but it was a losing battle.

"Hey," Ghost’s voice cut through the fog of your fear, quiet but firm. You didn’t have to look up to know it was him. His presence was a constant now—steady, unwavering. He knelt down next to you, his large hand resting on your back, the touch grounding you even as your body trembled.

"Look at me," he said softly, lifting your chin with his fingers until your bleary eyes met his. "You’re okay. I’m right here, alright? You’re not alone."