My lungs seize in my chest, and it feels like all my insides are going to melt into each other.
Somehow, my bones feel brittle, a sensation entirely novel to me, my legs suddenly too weak to bear the weight of my paralyzed body.
I can’t even roll my eyes at the pseudo-chivalrous remark like I normally would an obviously sarcastic statement, the bulging pair glued to the door as my feet are to the cold floor, unmoving. Unyielding.
My heart races in tandem with my mind, my brain spinning with a million questions at once, all surrounding a single, primary one:
What’s behind the door?
I don’t think I want to know. Scratch that. I’m positive I don’t want to. But I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter, his seemingly casual words urging—no, telling—me to go in, and from the way he’s looking at me, it’s obvious that I’m going to find out whether I like it or not. And, if he has anything to do with it, it’ll be much sooner than later.
Sooner being right now.