He’s shouting at them, shouting so loudly they can’t bear the noise.

They clasp their hands over their ears, unable to stop the pained wince that stops him in his tracks.

His eyes shift from angered to pained, and he claps a hand over his mouth. Shaking his head, he darts out of the room looking like he’ll be sick.

They run after him, regret etched into the lines between their brows. They call his name, and he doesn’t answer.

Pain tugs at their stomach, and they understand the nauseated look he gave them.

Nothing hurts worse than this or makes them sicker: losing his respect and his trust and maybe even his love all at once.