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As you hovered over the toilet seat, beads of sweat dripped from your brow upon it. As your vision became fuzzy, your eyes became sunken and saggy. You couldn't stand it any longer. You simply wanted it all to stop: the agony, the anxiety, the sleepless nights.
You gagged again, your throat burning as the bitter burning taste of vomit inched up your throat, prompting you to hover over the white toilet seat once more. As you coughed, your eyes glazed with stinging tears.
Every symptom worsened to the point that it was unbearable. It felt as if your body was surrendering, no longer wanting to fight for this. You didn't want to get better any longer, but you had to fight for him.
Your foggy eyes followed up to the door's crack, peering at him. The brunette laid on his stomach. His worn-out white socks dangled at the foot of the bed.
Having been off the drugs for nearly two days, his coping mechanism was simply lying motionless on the bed, his dull emerald eyes staring into a cracked wall of emptiness. You were always afraid because you thought he was dead.
If that wasn't it, it was harming himself while he watched the deep crimson blood pour out of the opening slits on his arms, or just crying himself to sleep. His acts were rash.
You slid away from the toilet, your forehead brushing against the cold tile flooring as you swallowed your sobs and whimpers and wiped your tears while against the wall. You felt weakened and fragile, but it felt like you weighed a thousand fucking pounds as you mustered the resolve to pick yourself up.
When you finally got to the sink, you looked at yourself in disdain. You despised yourself in every way. You couldn't bear to look at your face, so you ran your fingers over your French cognac-dyed hair, removing baby hairs that had melted against your forehead due to sweat.
You took your white toothbrush and twisted the toothpaste's loose cap before squeezing it against the bristles. You ran it under water before furiously cleaning your teeth, the white bristles cruelly pushing against your gums as you tried to remove the aftertaste of vomit from your mouth. You brushed your tongue several times before spitting everything out, revealing a few drips of blood mixed with the white foaminess of your saliva mixed with toothpaste.
After that, you cleansed your mouth and face with ice cold water to minimise swelling in your face. You flushed the toilet after allowing your face to dry before entering Eren Jaeger's dimly lit room; barely any light was seeping through the cracks in his drapes. He was still lying on his stomach, lifeless. You sat on his bed, on your knees, trailing your fingers along the scars on his arms.
His room had a coolness to it, which made you uneasy, but Eren's presence made it marginally better for you.
"I heard you, are you okay?" His lips hardly parted as his dead eyes stared at the clock, his chestnut hair covering parts of his face, eyes, and nose.
