*Aryanna*
As I watched Darren’s hand press firmly against his stomach, realization struck. His old stomach trouble was back. I’d seen this before—back when I’d first known him, back when I’d been naive enough to think I understood him. Darren’s lifestyle had always been a mess: too many late nights, constant travel, and barely enough time to sit down for a real meal. Lunch and dinner were afterthoughts. If he ate at all, it was cold sandwiches or day-old bread, things he could grab on the go. He’d push himself until the pain caught up, too stubborn to slow down even when his body rebelled.
I learned to spot it back then—the way he’d tense his jaw, his shoulders stiffening as if sheer willpower alone could keep the pain at bay. But it never worked for long.