Self judgement

For the remainder of my journey, I existed in a haze of exhaustion so profound that I was scarcely conscious of the world around me. I spent my days either perched listlessly upon the carriage's cushioned seat—Tyler having joined me on the second day, his presence a silent comfort—or slumped against the side wall, eyes fluttering closed as I surrendered to bouts of unintended sleep. On the rare occasions when sleep eluded me, my gaze remained fixed on some indistinct point just beyond my vision: the intricate embroidery of my dress, the shifting shadows cast by the passing trees, or the blurred outline of the horizon slipping by. Anything, really, that would allow me to avoid the thought of lifting my face or uttering a single word.

By the third day, a small part of me dared to feel relief—no new complications had arisen, no fresh waves of nausea or dizziness—but that fleeting comfort was shattered when a sharp pang seized my chest, as though my very thoughts had summoned the pain itself. My hand involuntarily flew to the spot beneath my collarbone just as a harsh fit of coughing wracked my body. I coughed without pause, each spasm more violent than the last, until I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. The relentless convulsions left me gasping for air, and I was certain a seizure was imminent. Even more terrifying than the pain I anticipated was the dread of Teon discovering me in such a state.

…

When I finally opened my eyes again, I found myself in an unfamiliar room, stretched out on a bed whose linens smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant. Tyler lay beside me, his broad form curled protectively around the edge of the mattress, breathing steadily in sleep. Every movement I tried to make sent fresh jolts of agony through my torso, so I pressed my eyelids shut and closed my mind to the world, praying that the lingering effects of the seizure would ebb away by the time I dared rise again.

…

Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains the next time I awoke. I forced my limbs to cooperate, dragging myself into a sitting position. Tyler bolted upright at once, concern etched in the furrow of his brow. I reached out and wrapped my arms around him without thought—a silent plea for reassurance—and he held me firmly until my heartbeat steadied.

With unsteady steps, I lowered myself from the bed and shuffled toward the door. My hand trembled as I clasped the cold metal handle; I drew in a breath, steeling myself to face whatever waited beyond. Yet the words "I'm fine" felt impossibly inadequate this time. The lie caught in my throat.

Fortunately, the corridor outside was empty. I sank against the wall, relief and shame mingling in my chest. Just as I was about to turn back, Tyler nudged past me and bolted down the hall.

"Ty—" I called, but my voice barely rose above a whisper. I watched him disappear around the corner, then exhaled and retreated into the room, leaving the door ajar.

Scanning the space, I spotted the small chest where I kept my medicines. I retrieved my next dosage and settled onto the edge of the bed, the vial shaking in my hand as I weighed whether to take it on an empty stomach. My mouth went dry, and my pulse thundered in my ears.

Before I could decide, the door swung open. Teon stepped inside, his expression unreadable. My heart lurched; I set the bottle down hastily.

"Teon, I…" I began, but he raised a hand, cutting me off with a single question:

"Are you okay?"

The weight of his concern pressed down on me, as if my answer held the fate of the world. My throat tightened, guilt washing over me in hot waves. I dared not meet his eyes.

"I…" I looked down, struggling to find words. At last I whispered, "I'm better now."

He nodded slightly, offering no further comment. After a moment, he added quietly, "I was told you'd wake after a good rest. I'm glad you did," and then he turned and left. I watched his retreating form and could almost feel the distance growing between us. I wanted to call him back, to explain everything, but my voice had deserted me. Instead, I clenched my fist at my side as a maid quietly entered with a tray.

"You haven't touched your breakfast," she observed, placing it on the bedside table.

I managed an awkward smile. "I'm… sorry. I will," I stammered. I don't think I can eat anything now, I might throw up if I do but I don't have a choice.

Under her watchful eye, I forced down a few spoonfuls of broth and bread before excusing myself. After taking my medicine, I resolved to seek out Teon and apologize for my silence. Word had it he was training in the yard. Summoning what little courage I had left, I made my way to the practice grounds.

Through the open archway, I saw him sparring with a knight—blade flashing, movements controlled and precise. I took a step forward, then hesitated. My legs felt rooted to the spot. All my rehearsed apologies and explanations swirled through my head, but the act of speaking them felt insurmountable.

"I guess I'm still scared," I murmured to myself, shoulders sagging. The truth of it pricked at my heart: fear of judgment, fear of his disappointment, fear of my own weakness.

Rather than face him, I turned and retreated, each footstep echoing in my ears. Back in my room, I sank onto the bed and stared at the muted tapestry across from me. I told myself I would try again tomorrow. I owed it to him—and to myself—to bridge the gap my illness had made. But for now, I remained trapped by my own hesitation, wondering if I would ever find the strength to speak the words that weighed so heavily on my soul.