Snow kept falling, and Konin watched as white streaks dissolved into the ground. His lips were pressed flat; the wind blew his hair across his eyes.

Konin sat in silence. His hands shook in an endless fit. He lifted the drink to his mouth, but even that was too much. It spilled down, soaking through his trousers. The lid of his shoe hung loose as the dark liquid seeped into the white leather. He stared at his hands, his brow furrowed. He interlocked his fingers, pushed his hair back, and said, “You piece of shit.”

The drink arced to the ground, a trail of liquid following behind as Konin walked away. The last drops mixed with the snow.

Keys jiggled—light clacks—then the door swung open, spilling light into the dark room.

“Nothing.” Konin stepped inside, kicked off his shoes, and immediately the lights at the entrance flicked on. “I didn’t feel anything.”

He moved into the living room. The lights flared on around the house as if responding to his steps. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

He climbed the stairs, went straight into his room, plugged in his phone, and pulled his hoodie over his head.

His head swayed. He struggled to stay upright, bracing himself against the footboard of his bed. He forced out a breath, yanked the hoodie off, and tossed it to the floor. Then he sat on the bed.

He breathed slowly, rubbing his brows. “Of what?”

He turned to the right. His eyes were still, but his hands kept shaking.

“Maybe,” he said, and started to take off his trousers. “No, it’s just… weird.”

He crossed to his wardrobe and began putting on clothes. When he was done, he went back downstairs into the kitchen. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. He took a few sips—spaced out, like he was counting—then leaned against the counter. “I’m fine.”

He walked to the restroom beside the entrance. He stopped in front of the mirror and leaned on the sink, staring at his reflection. Bags had formed under his eyes, and his lips were chapped.

“I’m fi—”

He retched.

Again and again. Each time he stopped, it felt like a bone lodged in his throat. He bent over as vomit poured out. He turned on the tap and rinsed his mouth, his reflection remained as it was—blank and unblinking—staring down at himself until he bent over and followed his own movements: retching, coughing, gagging.

Konin spat into the sink, then lifted his head to his reflection again and wiped his lips. “Everything’s fine.”