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The feeling in your stomach curls in on itself, swirling up and up and up until it reaches your throat. You can’t make out the difference between nausea or tears until your mouth is already buried in the pillow, muffling whatever pathetic squeak your body releases. You haven’t cried like this in a long time— you cry when you’re sad, or lonely, but it’s not like this. You tend to blubber and ramble, loud and weepy and so, so much. You’re always so much. The last time you were nothing, it was the night Karkat left. You’d hugged the pillow just like you were now, pretending it was him even though you knew it wasn’t. You were quiet. You are quiet. Karkat was always the only person who could make you go quiet.
You squeeze your eyes shut and the pressure makes the tears fall in flood, dripping down your nose and into the crevice of your pressed-shut mouth. Crying always gives you a headache, and your head is already pounding. You want to hit something. You want to hit your head. Yes, your head, that’s the spot you've taken a liking to— it feels so final, like you’re really dying. You want to hit your head against the grate, your favourite grate, and you want a sharp piece of metal to scrape your forehead and tear the skin until it hits bone. You want to keep going, to find just the right angle where the most damage is done. You know the shelf, and you know the spot, the one with dent and the bars so perfect for holding yourself steady. You want to hold them. You want to keep going. You want it to be you who does it, more than anything. Not your boss, not karkat, not anyone else. The pain is yours, and you control it, and you decide when to stop being the rest of yourself. You want it to hurt. You need it to hurt. You need it to hurt so much that your brain and your body can’t focus on anything else, not the feelings or the ache or the metal on your neck.
You can’t, and you know you can’t, but the thought is enough to make your breathing even out. You promised, you promised that you would never do this when he could see, when your kid was around, and even though your skin is crawling you know you won’t break it. Everything else is ruined, even if just for tonight, but he won't ever be. You shuffle just enough to see him behind you, chest rising and falling and rising again because he’s alive. You focus on that, for now. He’s alive. You can keep him alive. You want him to be more than alive— you want him to be safe, and happy, and for him to never be scared again. You already know, as you sit up and stare at his face, shades still on, that you’ll fail in that regard. You’ll fail him again and again until he gives up on you. But you can keep him alive. Out of every version of yourself you’ve met, he deserves a life the most.
You carefully slide off his shades. You know you’re a light sleeper, but you also know how to be quiet and efficient, so his face only scrunches as you take them into your hand. Carefully, you creep out of the fort and place them on the break room table. A safe spot. As safe as it can be, here. You know the boss won’t lay low for long. Whatever had gotten her ego so bruised, she would be back eventually. You’ll figure it out before then. Keep him alive, you remind yourself. To keep him alive, you need to be alive, too.
You miss him. You aren't sure who you mean anymore.