Chapter 33 Noah #2
I press my forehead to my knees, arms wrapping around myself while trying to hold my broken pieces together.
I think of Damien’s hands. The way he looks at me, the way he waits, the way he never treats me like something to fix.
And then I think of my father’s voice, cold and certain, promising consequences, promising control.
The space between those two realities feels impossibly wide.
The tiles are cold against my cheek, but I don’t move. My whole body feels disconnected, and my mind is floating outside of it, leaving the rest to rot here. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here—maybe minutes, maybe hours.
My throat is raw, limbs feel hollow, every muscle quivering from the effort of getting up, getting down, getting up again.
I’ve already lost count of how many times I made myself sick.
My body is so weak, I can’t tell if I’m shivering from the tile or from the ache that pulses behind my eyes and the way my stomach twists with emptiness.
The shirt I’m wearing clings to my skin, damp from sweat and whatever else I haven’t had the energy to clean up. My breath rattles. I try to inhale the way I’m supposed to, but I can’t pull enough air in to make it count.
Everything’s tight. My chest, my limbs, the corners of my vision. Tight and dark and small. That voice in my head—the one that usually shouts—is quiet now. Distant, like it’s underwater. That’s how I feel, too. Drowned. Waterlogged and used up.
There’s a noise outside the bathroom. I can’t even muster the energy to look up, but I hear sneakers pounding against the tile before the door swings all the way open. I don’t lift my head. Whoever it is, they’ll see eventually. There’s no point in hiding now.
Part of me hopes it’s Damien. Hopes he’ll see what a lost cause I am and finally let go. He deserves someone who isn’t broken. It would be easier if he just left.
But the voice that calls my name isn’t Damien’s.
“Noah!” Ryan’s voice sounds loud in the small space, and I answer it with a groan. He moves so fast I barely register it, dropping to his knees beside me, hand bracing my shoulder. “Shit. Noah—Noah, hey. Can you hear me?”
I try to open my eyes, but even that feels like too much.
The world spins when I try to lift my head, and I let it thump back down onto the tiles with a groan.
I want to reassure him, to say something sarcastic, but my tongue won’t move the way I want.
The only thing I can manage is a weak, broken sound that’s some useless echo of a word.
“What the fuck happened?” Ryan’s voice breaks, and he cradles the back of my head, pushing a handful of paper towels out of the way. “Okay, okay. You’re burning up, shit. How long have you been in here? Fuck. Noah, you gotta stay with me, okay? Hey. Stay awake.”
My whole body is shaking. I can hear my own breathing, shallow and ragged, and I realize there are tears slipping down my face even though I’m not crying, not really, just leaking because my body is done fighting.
“Okay, okay, you’re alright, I’m here. I’m right here.
” His tone switches to something I recognize—a voice he’s used on me before, when things have gone sideways at parties, when I’ve frozen up in crowds or freaked out at the doctor’s office.
Ryan Torres in caretaker mode is a force of nature, all decisive energy and warmth, the kind of guy who will drag you out of a burning building with a joke and a wink. “Hey, Noah, can you look at me?”
I try. My eyes flicker open, everything’s blurry, and I catch a glimpse of his face—worried, determined, nothing but concern.
“Can you breathe for me? Just in and out, real slow, okay? Good. That’s good.
” He rubs my back in gentle circles, and I try to match my breath to his words, but it’s hard.
My chest still feels tight, lungs pinched and sore.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay. I just need to—” His hand leaves my back for a second, and then I hear his phone tapping, his voice going tense and clipped. “Pick up. Pick the fuck up, Damien, come on—Answer your fucking—”
Another pause.
“D, I know you told me to check on Noah in case that fucker was still here, but you need to get here. Now. Noah’s—he’s on the bathroom floor.
He’s not responding. There’s—” Ryan cuts himself off, breath hitching.
“There’s… There’s vomit everywhere. I don’t know how long he’s been like this.
Just—just get here, alright? Bring Nate if you have to, I don’t fucking care, just come. Please.”
I hear his phone clatter to the floor, and feel his hands moving again, searching for my wrist. I realize, distantly, that he’s checking my pulse. “You’re freezing,” he says, half to himself, voice shaking. “You stubborn little shit. Why didn’t you call someone? Why’d you let it get this bad?”
I try again to answer, to let him know I’m still here, but my throat locks up. I want to sleep, but Ryan’s voice is tugging at the edge of my awareness, keeping me tethered to the room.
“It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay, Noah. We’ve got you. I promise. I’m not leaving…”
The words fade in and out, the warmth of his hand the only thing holding me here. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that this isn’t his fault. I just couldn’t stop; the cycle doesn’t let you.
Binge. Purge. Hide. Repeat.
But I’m so tired. My body sinks, muscles unclenching, the noise of the world retreating to a faint hum.
It’s almost peaceful, this emptiness. For a second, I float, and the pain is gone, the shame is gone, even the hunger is gone.
There’s just this numb, weightless quiet, where nobody can yell at me or make demands I can’t meet.
Where my body isn’t the enemy, and I don’t have to be strong or perfect or anything at all.
I hope Damien knows I tried. I hope he knows I wanted to be enough.
I hope he knows I’m sorry because I don’t know how to tell him that I didn’t do it to die.
I just didn’t know how to live anymore.
And maybe that’s worse.