Hiro felt like part of him had died with Tadashi.
His whole body was consumed with a wracking numbness, and at the same time something deep inside his chest—his soul, maybe?—throbbed agonizingly.
He was constantly in pain.
He stopped sleeping.
He stopped talking.
He stopped eating.
Tadashi's old friends still came by sometimes—Go-Go, Wasabi, Honey Lemon, Fred—but seeing them only made him feel worse—if that was even possible.
And all he wanted was for it to stop.
But he didn't know how. He needed help.
So he asked the internet how to make the pain stop.
The first result he got was to jump. So he tried.
He stood on the edge of the Golden Dragon bridge, staring out over the calm, dark water hundreds of feet below, and he jumped.
At least, he tried. It didn't work out too well.
So he went to Plan b: pills. Lots and lots of pills.
He went to the drugstore and bought one of those big bottles of ibuprofen, the ones that come with over 200 tablets in a bottle. He snuck into the bathroom that night and swallowed half the bottle.
Of course, with his luck, all that wound up happening was him barfing his guts out a few minutes later.
Plan c was next—hanging. Hiro found a length of rope and he learned to tie a noose. He tied it to one of the beams on his ceiling, slipped the noose around his neck, and jumped.
The rope snapped.
So Hiro tried his last option—cutting.
He "borrowed" one of Aunt Cass' special extra-sharp knives and carved Tadashi's name into his inner left forearm.
This had an interesting result; it hurt—in a weird, good way—and made his aching soul throb more painfully than ever.
So he lied on his bed, sobbing, curled into himself, trying to smother the pain, clutching his bleeding arm close to his chest.
He wanted Tadashi. He wanted Tadashi to hold him, to run his fingers through Hiro's hair, to tell Hiro everything was going to be okay.
But Tadashi was dead. And that's why Hiro was in this mess in the first place.
"Ow," he whimpered—not at the pain in his arm, but of that in his chest, the deep, aching throb that never left him. "Ow, ow, ow."
There was the sound of a balloon blowing up, and then Baymax was there.
"Hello," said the robot, waving one hand in a small circle. "I am Baymax, your personal health care assistant. On a scale of one to ten—" a series of faces appeared on his stomach—"how would you rate your pain?"
"Z-zero," Hiro stuttered, shocked. "I—I'm fine. I'm fine Baymax."
"Commencing scan."
Hiro shook his head. "No, Baymax. Don't scan me."
"Scan complete."
Hiro rolled his eyes. "Unbelievable."
"Hiro, you are severely malnourished and are suffering an extreme lack of sleep. Your body's core temperature is low, and your blood cell count is far below average. You are suffering from several lacerations on your left forearm. Allow me to assist you."
"No, Baymax, stop. I don't want your help."
"Allow me to assist you."
"No, Baymax! I don't want your help! I don't want you! I—" His voice cracked. "I want Tadashi!"
"But what would Tadashi say if he knew I let you suffer? What would Tadashi do if he saw you in pain? Would he not wish me to assist you?"
Hiro felt a crushing pain in his chest, wildly different from the familiar throbbing ache that was his constant companion.
Hiro looked down at his feet as more tears spilled over. "Tadashi is dead."
