Until my Last Breath

59

I stare at the mess around me, feeling nothing.

Clothes are scattered across the floor, some half-folded, others forgotten in piles. Empty water bottles sit on my nightstand, alongside untouched snacks that expired days ago. My bedsheets are tangled, a reflection of the restless nights I've spent tossing and turning.

It's overwhelming. Not because of the mess itself, but because I just don't care.

Gavi, however, cares.

"This isn't you," he mutters as he picks up a hoodie from the floor, holding it up like it's evidence of a crime scene.

I don't argue. I don't have it in me.

He's been trying for days, easing me into small things-eating properly, getting fresh air, talking about anything other than racing. Now, apparently, it's this. Cleaning my room as if that will somehow put my life back in order.

I sigh, sitting on the edge of my bed. "I don't even know where to start."

He drops the hoodie onto a growing pile and turns to me, his eyes soft but insistent. "I'll help you."

"I don't-"

"Rita."

His voice is firm.

I press my lips together, staring at my hands. My nails are short, uneven from where I've mindlessly picked at them over the past few days.

"I don't feel like doing this," I mumble.

"I know."

He kneels in front of me, resting his hands on my knees, forcing me to look at him. "But you need to. Just a little. One thing at a time."

I swallow hard.

I don't know if it's the exhaustion or the fact that Gavi isn't pushing me the way everyone else has, but somehow, I nod.

"Fine," I whisper.

His lips twitch, the hint of a satisfied smile appearing before he quickly hides it.

He stands up and holds out a hand. "Come on. Let's start with the bed."

I stare at his hand for a moment before finally taking it.

The sheets are a mess, twisted and kicked to the sides. We strip them off, and he tosses them into a laundry basket before grabbing a fresh set from my closet.

"How do you even sleep like this?" he teases, shaking his head at the disaster that was my bed.

I shrug. "Barely."

He pauses, looking over at me. He doesn't say anything, but I know he heard the weight in my voice.

We keep going. Slowly.

Piece by piece, the room starts to look a little more normal.

It's slow, but the room is starting to take shape again. The piles of clothes disappear into the closet, the floor is visible for the first time in weeks, and the stale air shifts as I crack open a window. Gavi keeps an eye on me the whole time, subtly watching as I move from one task to the next, making sure I don't shut down completely.

I can feel his presence, steady and grounding.

As I wipe down my desk, he takes over dusting my shelves, reorganizing the books and small trinkets I had stopped paying attention to. I don't have the heart to tell him I don't care where anything goes anymore, so I just let him do it.

The room keeps coming back to life-laundry piled into baskets, furniture wiped down, stray objects put back where they belong. The dull ache in my chest remains, but there's the smallest sliver of ease settling over me.