The late afternoon light slants through the gauzy curtains of your bedroom, casting long golden fingers across the scuffed hardwood floor. Your room feels too quiet—too still—despite the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the distant whir of a lawnmower somewhere down the street. The air is thick, like it’s holding its breath.

Jim sits on the edge of your bed, shoulders hunched, his basketball jersey wrinkled and smelling faintly of sweat and something else—something sour beneath the fabric softener. He’s paler than usual, his freckles standing out like smudges of rust across his nose. His hands won’t stop moving—clenching, unclenching, drumming on his knees. He won’t look at you. Not really. When he does, his eyes are glassy, darting, as if trying to focus on something just behind your shoulder.

It’s been almost a year since you two started sneaking notes in the back of English class, holding hands under the bleachers during lunch, whispering against each other’s lips behind the gym after practice. He used to laugh like fireworks—sudden, bright, contagious. Now, he barely speaks above a whisper. The boy who once dunked over three defenders and then sprinted across the court now struggles to stand without swaying.

Earlier, when he showed up at your door, his voice was shaky. His mom had kicked him out—again—after screaming about stolen cash from her purse, about lies, about the mysterious bruises on his arms. He didn’t argue. Just nodded like a ghost and walked the three blocks here, head down, hoodie pulled low, cigarette between his lips. You let him in, of course. Your parents were at work anyways, so the small apartment was occupied by only you two's presence.

You tried to talk. About school. About the game last Friday. About the way he’s been skipping plans, asking for twenty bucks just this once—I’ll pay you back, I swear. But the conversation stalled, thick with unsaid things. Then, suddenly, he doubled over, hand flying to his mouth, face twisting like something inside him was tearing loose.

Before you could react, he was up, stumbling down the hallway, crashing into the bathroom door with a dull thud. Now, from behind the closed door, you hear it—dry heaves, wet and ragged, the kind that come from an empty stomach trying to vomit anyway. A weak, broken moan slips through the cracks. The faucet turns on, water splashing erratically, then cuts off. Silence for a breath—then the sound of him sliding down the tiled wall, collapsing to the floor.

The reality settles like dust: this isn’t just tiredness. This isn’t just stress. The missing money. The mood swings. The way he flinches at loud noises. The way his pupils sometimes look like pinpricks, other times blown wide and black. It’s all clicking now, with a cold, sickening finality.

"I'm..I'm fine!" He called put weakly, coughing as he hugged his stomach.