Somehow, he makes it through the work day. Despite no sleep, despite an unprecedented level of distraction, despite a supposedly unwarranted outburst at George about what his closed office door meant, Nathaniel somehow survives the day after.

He's not hungry, and the cracker he forces down makes him feel ill. Then he catches sight of the pie Rebecca has left in his fridge and feels empty self-destructive. He's two bites in before he feels stupid, four bites in before he feels sick, half the pie gone before he realises that emotionally eating isn't going to make him feel better.

Half a bottle down he realises that's not helping, either.

Replacing the lid on the bottle, he pushes the whiskey out of reach and leans forward in his chair, putting his head in his hands and pulling at his hair as if pulling it out would somehow be the thing that made this feel better.

The problem, though, was that he knew this was the right thing.

Well, he knew two things, knew them with all of his heart.

He knew that Rebecca was good for him, that he could be good for her. She made him feel things in a way that no one ever had before, made him think about things like happiness and love and family. He was sure - no, he knew, that she could have a normal kind of happy with him, that, aside from his family drama, his life was pretty normal and stable and maybe they could balance each other out.

But as much as he knew all of that, he also knew that she wasn't just spontaneous and eccentric, that the things that made her seem so were actually a bigger deal than it seemed at face value. He knew that nothing was more important to her than getting better, than finding a balance in her own life, than figuring out how to regulate herself in a healthy way.

Which meant that was the most important thing for him, too.

She'd told him exactly what had happened over the last few days, and why she'd done it and how she'd felt, and for a moment his heart had done a little flip at the thought that she cared about him that much, until he'd realised what she was saying.

Being with him was turning her right back into the person she was trying not to be anymore.

He didn't want to think it was true, wanted to think he could do something to make it better for her, but he knew that it was entirely out of his hands. As soon as he'd actually made himself think about it, he'd known she was right. If she was starting to exhibit the behaviours that were her warning signs, then she had to back off until - hopefully, until - she'd figured out how to manage them.

He'd known, going into the relationship, that it would be in part dictated by her self care and by her therapy. He just hadn't thought it would end it so soon.

Picking the bottle back up, he takes it to bed and leans back against his pillow. As Rebecca's scent on his sheets reaches his nose he regrets the decision immediately and brings the bottle to his lips, hoping to drown it out, drown everything out.

A moment later, he puts the bottle on his nightstand and slides down in the bed until his face presses into the pillow Rebecca had favoured.

At least I don't have to see her at work everyday, he thinks, then immediately calls himself out on the lie. Perhaps he's a glutton for punishment, but as long as he could see her smile every now and then it would be worth it.

As long as he doesn't have to see her sad because of him, anything would be worth it.

This is what happens when you let yourself feel things. But he can't even bring himself to regret it.

Instead, he just wishes things were different.