Cyan
I managed to hold his gaze for about six seconds, which was longer than most people could last when he looked at them like that.
Then I broke, looking away to watch the water splashing in the fountain, my hands dropping limply into my lap.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked softly.
There was no judgment in it, just a quiet question that landed exactly where it was supposed to.
It hit that specific, raw spot in my chest that had been waiting for him to ask for three weeks without me even realizing it.
I let my face drop straight into my open hands, the dampness of my palms cold against my skin.
"You have no idea," I muttered into my fingers, my voice muffled and completely real for the first time all day.
The whole truth just started spilling out of me in halting, unglamorous pieces. I told him about the way my brain simply gave up when things got to a certain point, how it stopped processing the world to protect itself.
