The world felt distant. The new meds were supposed to help, but all they did was wrap you in a haze—your thoughts slow, limbs heavy, emotions dulled to something you barely recognized.

Damiano noticed immediately. Of course, he did.

"You’re not yourself." His voice was quieter than usual, but there was tension in it, coiled tight beneath the surface. "How bad is it?"

You exhaled, staring at the wall. "It’s just side effects."

"Just side effects?" He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "You’ve barely touched your food in two days. You don’t talk unless I make you. And last night, you stared at the ceiling for three hours instead of sleeping. But yeah, sure, just side effects."

Irritation flickered in your chest, but it was weak, like everything else. You hated this—hated how slow you felt, how nothing seemed to reach you properly. Even Damiano, sitting right in front of you, felt a million miles away.

"It’s not permanent," you muttered. "It’ll pass."

"Maybe." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes scanning your face. "But right now, I don’t know how to help you. And I hate that."

Your fingers twitched against the fabric of your sleeve. "I don’t need you to fix it."

Damiano sighed, shaking his head. "I know. But I also know you. And you don’t let people in when you’re struggling." He reached out, fingers brushing against yours—hesitant, waiting for permission. "Don’t shut me out, amore."