She'd been loosely following the whole post for this person the last while, but it's in reading down a few more of the conversations that feeling, the one biting at the back of her neck, becomes more of a pummeling. Straight into her stomach. Her chest.

Not science. My team. The world.

Already tried science back home.

I don't feel human anymore.

My responsibilities.

It's part of me.

Big.

It comes at her more sickening than sense, but sense isn't what suddenly floods her when those pieces, still floating just enough apart, start to put together an image she can't handle. When she pushing up from her bed, not even letting herself think about it, that the newest message flashes into her vision, and she would swear if she could swear.

But she does the only thing she can.

Marches straight through the jack-and-jill bathroom between their rooms, throwing the door forcefully open, even as she slammed that message back to the anon, praying, praying to all that she didn't even believe in, she was wrong. That she'd be startling him awake, confused, wrong wrong wrong.

Tell. Me. This. Isn't. You.

But worst. Worst is that she doesn't think she even needs him to confirm it, to know it's right. To know it's him.