The crying eventually stops. It doesn't end with a sudden resolution or a wave of relief; it simply tapers off into a dry, exhausted heaving, leaving Ronan completely hollowed out.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floorboards. The manic, terrifying energy that had possessed him for the last six days—the frantic pacing, the sudden outbursts, the desperate clinging to a fabricated reality—is entirely gone. In its place is a profound, heavy stillness.
When he finally stands up, his movements are slow and deliberate, like a man moving underwater.
He walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He doesn't close the door.
I hover near the doorway, watching him. I am nothing more than a faint outline now, a trick of the light playing against the white bathroo
