Upstairs, the bathroom door was locked.

You knelt on the cold tile, gripping the edge of the toilet bowl, your stomach heaving again. Your throat burned. Your eyes watered. And you hated every second of it.

You hated throwing up. You’d rather sit with the nausea for hours, swallow it down, pretend it wasn’t there—anything but this.

A knock came at the door. Soft. Pattering.

Just a second! you managed, your voice cracking slightly. You flushed the toilet, hoping the sound covered the way you gagged again.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, staring at your reflection. Pale. A little green around the edges. Your dad’s freckles stood out against your skin.

You looked like you’d been hit by a truck.

Another knock—this one harder, more insistent.

You took a shaky breath. You could do this. Just unlock the door. Act fine. Go downstairs. Pretend your stomach wasn’t doing gymnastics.

You stood up, legs shaky, and reached for the lock—

And then a new voice echoed from down the hall.