He knew what this was.

He’d seen it before, listened to you warn him about them, researched, the whole nine yards. But he never expected you to actually hit one this bad.

You’d have some days where getting out of bed was a little tough, days were you just didn’t want to do anything without his help or do everything and snap at him when he tried to, but this was different.

It was the third week and you still hadn’t emerged from your shared room after a dip had dragged you to your bed one morning, never to get back out. You weren’t talking, you weren’t eating unless he forced the food into your mouth or drinking unless he somehow managed to do that too, and your meds were hidden somewhere he was oblivious to. He was hitting a roadblock, hard, and as hard as it was watching him hold himself together by craft glue and his CO demeanour, speaking still wasn’t on the table even if he was begging you at this point.

“What is it, beau, c’mon…What’s keeping you here? I can make it go away, baby, let me help…” He pleads, looking at the wall behind him in hopes of seeing where you were staring off into space.