My body feels like lead as I stand, and I’m lucky that there’s a counter for me to grab on to when I slip. The walls are a beige color, and there’s a painting of a sailboat looking back at me. It takes all the energy I have to focus on it. Michael’s apartment. I’m in the right place, and I can only hope it’s the right time.

Someone says my name. The voice is muddled, like they are speaking through water and I’m at the bottom of the sea, but I can make out those two syllables. It’s a man’s voice, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. I’d know that touch anywhere.

Michael.

He helps me stand up and helps me walk to the couch, although it’s more like he’s carrying me. I focus my vision on him as best I can, but there are five different versions of him, all spinning around a center version. It takes all the energy I have to make the versions come into one.

And that says nothing of how my body feels like it’s not my own.

“I’m going to get you some water,” he says. I can make out that much. My head lobs back and rests against the couch.

Focus, Andre, I demand. Focus on why you’re here. Focus on the roughness of the couch. Focus on each drop of sweat that trickles down your body.

Focus on anything other than the pain.

Because if I focus on that, I’ll want to scream—and I probably will. Or cry, or even die.

Can someone die from pain? Who knows.

When Michael returns, my body is a little better. All, or at least most, of my cylinders are firing. I can make Michael out. His voice sounds clearer, and the concern on his face? That’s evident.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

“Hey,” he says back. He raises his hand and strokes my cheek. “First of all, before I say anything else, I want to say I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me, but I need to say it. Second of all, what did you do.” It’s a question but spoken like a statement.

“How long have I been gone?”

He looks over at the clock. “Almost twenty-four hours exactly. Long enough for me to calm down and understand how stupid I was.”

I take a slow drink of water, and the cool liquid feels like heaven against my burning throat. It takes effort to drink—something I’ve never experienced before—and it makes me envious of each time that breathing, talking, thinking came easily to me.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say once I put the water down. “I said things I shouldn’t have said too.”

He grins—that adorable, charming lopsided grin. “So we’re both idiots, then, huh?”