As he finally stops, he slowly starts catching some air. Only after that, he takes the glass of water and slowly sips on it. I watch him all the time, my hand resting on his shoulder like I’m trying to assure that he stays here. He looks up at me, still angry, but shakes his head.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, but I’m not listening. I listened before and I would gladly do it again. But not now. This is not about what I did. It’s about Kir. And it’s serious.
“You’re sick. When would you tell me that you’re sick?” I want to know, realizing that my voice sounds just as stern as his did a few minutes ago. He lets out a long sigh, emptying the glass.
“Sit down. There’s nothing to worry about,” he assures me. I stare at him, having an internal fight between the part of me that doesn’
