I shake my head rapidly at his words, at his request. I can't. I just can't. He would take it too hard. Or see it as something he has to fix.

He can't fix this. He would try, and hate himself for failing.

My stomach lurches, and I scrape at the floor again, splitting my fingers further, trailing blood. I can't even feel it. Not even the slickness as my fingers glide.

"I'm going to be sick."

It's all I can get out. All I can manage. I curl further inward. He should leave. He should leave me to my guilt and misery.