I know all too well that he and I can and will never be together in this life or the next. Because we're nothing more than a therapist treating his patient. His patient who suffers from a mental disease yet to be diagnosed. Now that I think about it, this is making me seem even more pathetic and pitiful than I want to realize it is.

"It's about fucking time you realized, you goddamn son of a bitch! He's only helping you to get something out of it. There's no other reason!"

He has a valid point. He may just be doing this out of pity and because he may feel like he's responsible for the reason as to why I'm as sick as I am now. I can't seem to find any other reason I can agree with that makes more sense than that. There's no sane person who would dedicate so much time to taking care of someone like me. There's no one at all.

"You're finally making sense, you ass pastry! He's not doing it because he has an interest in you. He only pities you."

Pity? Am I even worthy of such a thing anymore? I deserve nothing more than disrespect, dishonesty and any other negative emotion that can sum up everything I've been dealt with until this point. I can't say I would enjoy being treated like a normal person. The more I think about it, the more I want to know why someone like him would want to be around someone like me.

Something emerges from the darkness surrounding me, taking form as a pair of hands, and aims for my throat. They clasp onto it, their grip tightening around it with each second that passes. The remainder of the air inside my lungs fades into nothing as I sit still, waiting for the sweet release of death.

As horrifying as this should be, it doesn't faze me in the slightest. As much as I think I should fear for my life even though I'm hallucinating, I can't seem to find something inside me that can match the intensity of this situation. I welcome them to kill me faster or to at least put me in a coma for the rest of my life by holding the pair of hands around my throat down.

"Go ahead and end me. I don't care anymore."

Who knew that after only 28 years of enduring everything life's dealt to me would lead to this moment? Even now, I can't seem to think of anything other than his eyes. Those radiant electric blue eyes of his...

"Cyrus!"

The spoon I hold in my hands falls into the bowl with a loud clang, the hot soup splattering on the area around it. My eyes remain glued to the TV hanging on the wall ahead of me. The sight of the black screen sickens me to the point where I can't get any words as if I'm nauseated at the thought of using it for once.

Without warning, a wave of nausea washes over me much worse than the last ones did. I jump out of bed and sprint to the toilet, not wanting to mess the room up anymore than my actual room. I make a few attempts to force down the bile, but it seems a bit too late for that.

Hunched over the toilet with the seat up, chunks of partially digested chicken soup and its broth spews out of my coughing, choking mouth. My stomach continues caving in on itself and forcing everything up and out. Vomiting is already a nasty thought itself, but seeing it before my eyes and being so close to it makes it seem much worse than it needs to be. The stench doubles me over as my stomach caves in once again.

Hot tears cascade down my cheeks as the vomit comes flowing out of my mouth. It bursts from my throat, choking me in the process of letting it out. Once I feel as though I've gotten it all out, I lean back against the wall, panting, and sink to the floor in exhaustion an disgust.

A foul taste of vomit rests on my tongue and my throat burns from the acid risen from vomiting up everything in the pits of my stomach. I wipe the remainder of the acidic residue off my lips before glancing at the bathroom's entrance.

"It seems you're much worse than I thought. How did you manage to get this bad? He asks me a question I don't think I can answer right now.

He walks towards me, getting down on one knee beside me, and picks me up as though I'm some sort of princess in a fairy tale. Oh, I wish that much is true. As a reflex, I wrap my arms around his neck and hold onto him as though my life depends on him with the last bit of energy I can muster. The weakness in my body overwhelms me much more than I hoped it would.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me out so much?" I ask him the most important questions I need a response for.

"Because I want to help you when you're ill. If I don't do it then who will?"

"Help? That's a gentle way to put it. I guess he doesn't want to admit that he pities you at all."

I don't want to believe he wants to help me all because 'there's no one to help me' as though Alexei isn't a friend of mine.

"Some friend." He scoffs, holding back another one of his famous chuckles.

"Alexei is on a mission. He won't be back until tomorrow morning. Besides, he would help me get better if he was here."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Although, I doubt you would get much sleep after dreaming about lover boy over here."

"I don't dream of him."

"Yet."

I roll my eyes at his response while I bite back the rising hope that maybe, just maybe, things would work out for us. Not as lovers, but as sex friends. I would want to know what he's like in bed since I haven't had the pleasure of experiencing it just yet. It's a guilty fantasy of mine.

"Among others."

"Would you shut up already?!"