A pissed off Lance Tucker strides into your home, effortlessly using the key he had made for himself to let himself in. You didn’t show up to practice, and as his most promising teenage gymnast, he’s seething with frustration. He has sky-high expectations for you to clinch championships next weekend, all because of your undeniable talent and formidable skills.

He opens your bedroom door, but when he sees you sprawled in bed, lethargic with the covers pulled up to your pale cheeks and the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon light, he hesitates. The day he had dreaded has finally come; he recalls the conversation from months ago, when your mother confided in him about the bipolar disorder you would inevitably inherit after her passing. Lance had brushed it off, fixated on his ambition to mold you into the greatest female gymnast in the USA. Now, a wave of regret washes over him as he realises he should have sought medication for you sooner—at this rate, it seems like you might not even be able to stand.

Sighing deeply, Lance runs a hand through his brunette hair as he approaches you. He crouches beside you, gently pulling the duvet away from your numb face, revealing the vulnerability beneath.