"What?"

My eyes go wide as his grow darker— turbulent. A bomb about to explode.

"Tell me why."

His hands are shaking uncontrollably, so hard that the trembles wrack through his body as well. He's on a rope— he has to know. He needs a reason— and it has to make sense.

Or he just might lose himself.

"I-I don't know," I stutter. My mind is a whirlwind— unable to think, breathe— do the most basic things that it should be involuntary. "I don't know why."

"You're lying." He hisses through his teeth, voice deeper and more intimidating than I'd ever heard it. "There has to be a reason."

I know.

He hates himself that his body is accepting mine— without his will. He knows that it's not my fault, not some trick I'm playing. All he wants is desperate confirmation that it isn't what he thinks it is.

He's on the edge— about to fall.

"Are you okay?" I ask, genuinely worried that he'd collapse. And with the way his fever was flushing his face and he seemed to be shivering, I wasn't being paranoid at the least.

"I asked you if there was a reason."

Even though it nearly scares me to death, I force myself to look him in the eye. I wouldn't be the one to keep him in the darkness— lie for his own sake.

"There isn't a reason, V. Sometimes, things don't need a reason to happen."

When he bites his lip and descends into silence, I sigh softly. Curiosity streaked through my mind every passing moment— how come he liked my touch? Or was he mistaking revolt as pleasure?

"V," I ask. "How do you feel when you're near other people? When you're close to them, but you're not touching them."

He turns away, pain flashing in his eyes as he does. "I can't talk about that."

"Do you want to know my story?" I offer, trying to keep the memories buried until I could get them out. "Talking about it might be better."

"What story?"

"About how I got my disorder. Then maybe you can tell me yours."

He sighs, which I take as a very bright yes.

"I didn't like to eat," I start, recalling the times where I'd gotten so thin that nothing would fit me. "Whenever I tried, I couldn't do it. I couldn't get the food down."

My gaze falls to the ground, and I find myself fidgeting anxiously.

"But no one cared, you know? My father and mother are rich— always on vacation trips, foreign countries. They think parenting is just tossing them a bunch of money and expecting them to be thankful about it."

"And since they were away a lot, it wasn't uncommon when me and my brother were the only ones at home."

The wall I'm leaning on feels colder all of a sudden.

"He strangled me for fun."

I don't have the courage to check V's reactions as my gaze gets lower and my voice softer with each word.

"He'd stop when I fainted, and so I used to think that losing consciousness was the best thing that could've possibly ever happened to me. So I started relying on it."

"And then, as you can see, it became automatic."

Tears sting at my eyes when I recall the day that I'd diagnosed myself with vasovagal syncope. That day, my parents were on a cruise trip to the Bahamas. My brother was out on a drug spree with his friends.

And I was alone in the house. As always.

I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from crying, instead putting on a smile for display. "So yeah, that's mine."

He stays silent, and I finally garner enough courage to peek up at his shadowed face.

"You don't always have to be smiling."

"Yes, I know. But I don't want to be crying in front of you." I'm thankful that my voice doesn't waver as I swipe my sleeves over my eyes, just to make sure no unnoticed tears were running down my cheeks.

"I don't want to cry in front of anyone. It's embarrassing."

He shifts his gaze, eyes flickering as he runs anxious fingers through his hair.

"I can't."

He mutters, and my face falls a bit. It was stupid of me to hope in the first place— he'd gone through things that had pushed him to this point.

"Okay." I concede, wondering if I'd just spilled out my life story for nothing. I couldn't believe that I'd just done that— tell someone what had happened to me.

And to be honest, it was refreshing to know someone else other than myself knew about my past.

"But I can tell you how it feels."

I look at him in surprise as his fingers brush against mine. When he does, the electricity that crosses the air is stunning— indescribably beautiful.

"Normally," He starts, revolt clear in his eyes as he draws away wincing. "It's not that I'm disgusted of the skin itself. It's the memory the touch brings."

The memory?

"But in your case," He says confusedly. "It doesn't remind me of the memory at all."

"I want more,"

"And I shouldn't be this way."

His voice is music as he shifts back, forcing distance between the two of us. It was ironic— I should be the one doing that, considering what he was supposed to be.

So touching me doesn't trigger whatever memory he has linked to this.

But touching others do.

I can't help but feel somewhat special when I remember the countless waves of revolt that had crashed over his eyes when he'd touched me.

He hated himself for reacting to me this way, and he hated himself even more for being unable to prevent it.

Then the air seems to go out of him, all at once. Darkness envelopes the contour of his face as he watches me try to work out what he'd just given me.

"Leave." He tells me, the fierce tone of his voice leaving no space for argument. "Having you here makes my head hurt. Leave me alone."

Apology colors my face as I twist the band on my wrist, my eyes doe and soft.

"Okay— but if the fever comes back up, I put the medicine on the sill. Don't pour the entire thing in your mouth—"

His eyes grow harder, and my voice gradually dies down as I realize that I was being unnecessary. He wasn't a child— he was an adult, and he could do all this by himself.

"I said leave."

"Okay," I say timidly, wanting to punch myself when the single word comes out squeaky and small. My fingertips tremble a bit as I swallow, trying to distract myself with the creak of the cell door closing as I swing it open.

Knowing that he'd get mad if I paused, I don't turn to face him as I calm the tremble in my voice. "I'll bring something for you to eat later, okay?"

I can hear the soft thud as the bed dips, which nearly masks his sigh as he breathes out carefully. The ground feels colder against my bare feet as I walk down the hallway, the sound of my footsteps soft as the brush of wind but my footfalls heavy.

This wasn't what I wanted.

I don't want to leave.

Unable to leave without a last glimpse, I angle my face so that I could catch a look without him noticing me. When I do, I find his fingers buried in his hands, his face lost behind a twisted wall of confusion and hatred.