Elliot woke up before dawn, as usual, with the familiar churning in his stomach. The nausea hit him hard, just like it had every morning for the past few weeks. His body felt heavy, his muscles sore from restless sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, clutching his stomach as he tried to suppress the rising wave of sickness.

He shuffled to the bathroom, his hand pressed to his mouth. The cool tiles under his feet grounded him as he leaned over the sink, waiting for the nausea to pass. His face, pale and drawn, stared back at him in the mirror, dark circles under his eyes telling the story of sleepless nights. He let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes and gripping the counter tightly.

It wasn’t just the nausea that made these mornings hard—it was the unpredictability of it. Some days it lasted a few minutes, other days it clung to him for hours, leaving him exhausted before the day even began. The thought of food made his stomach twist, but he knew he had to eat something to keep his strength up. A few crackers, maybe, or some plain toast, if he could manage it.