She looked sad, and fragile, and sick. And thinner. She was so much thinner. She wasn't eating well- she hadn't been for some time. How much weight had she lost in just a couple of months? Fifteen pounds? Twenty pounds? She barely touched the mug of tea he had waiting for her at her desk every morning, let alone the crackers and salads he regularly bought for her and that ended in the trash can. He was scared he would soon have to start force feeding her or she'd disappear. (Maybe that was what she wanted. That one was a thought that terrified him)
She looked paler than usual and had dark circles under her eyes. She was suffering from sleep deprivation, he could tell. Lack of propper rest made her irritable and moody. He wanted nothing more than to cheer her up. He tried all the ways he knew. None of them seemed to work.
He knew she was sick because she was unhappy. (He hated that fact almost as much as he hated him for making her unhappy. It never occured to him that he could hate anyone or anything more than he hatedhim,but it was obvious now that he could).
He wish there was something he could do to make her all better. He was running out of ideas. They were both running out of time. He felt powerless, and useless, and frustrated. He was losing his appetite, he had trouble sleeping, he was restless, and moody, and irritable. He looked as sad as she did.
She was sick. And he was worried sick about her.