“There’s nothing to do but laugh,” she said.  Her voice was sterile like the room holding us.
She smirked and cried instead.

“Trust.”  She rocked her head, lamenting the word.  “I should have listened to myself.”

I agreed but wouldn’t tell her.

She felt her body, hugged where it was, then stared.  “So this is what shock feels like.”

It wasn’t until she threw up.

That night, the nothing ate through her eyes.  
She breathed. She lived. She sat. She thought.

I was afraid of breaking her trance, reminding her of what made her stop time.
I couldn’t follow her into the void.  
I can’t understand what scared her.  
I don’t know how to fix it.
So I sit with her in timelessness. I cradle her hand and focus on how she smells.

"Tomorrow," I said.  "Tomorrow, we'll wake up, and the sun will shine, and the breeze will kiss your face.  We'll spin around the sun again, just like before."

"That's what I'm afraid of."