During the ongoing tornado between the two of them, Charlotte served as the eye of the storm. The cool in the rage of the fire. Tessa blustered through like a tsunami—a constant wave of destruction. Giving everyone but Jem the same cold shoulder, she breezed through, followed closely behind by ice that pierced the Institute's heart. Meanwhile, Will stumbled through doorways, unsteady gait, soberly avoiding the smallest fraction of eye contact. He brushed by them all silently despite the heavy, staggering, drunken dance he performed daily. His routine washed his feet in red, bathed his tongue in spiced rum and silver dust. He choked down his apologies, coughed through their gentle, shared pleasures, and drowned in his dreamed bottle of amnesia he wanted so much to exist. Will knew Tessa was cursing him every day, but none could be worse than the previous.
As time wore on like eroding rock on a coastline, Tessa stabbed her memories of Will, slugging down Pinot Noir by the bottle. Locking herself in her room, save to retrieve new bottles, and brown paper packages which she refused to divulge the contents of to any of the other Institute occupants.
Charlotte made valiant efforts to mend the broken bond Tessa and Will had shattered, but there was no surgery that could put Tessa's broken heart back into one. There was also no medical aid that could serve as the antidote for the poison in Will's head. The stress wore Charlotte down, and after minutes turned to hours, hours to days, and days to months, she finally let their door close. She knew that it wouldn't be reopened for quite some time.