He's trying to follow Istredd's words, because they provide something to tie his fraying focus to — something other than the amorphous dread sloshing around inside of him, swallowing him whole. Give yourself time. Wilhelm is tired of waiting to feel okay. Every fucking day is an obstacle course to get through. He rubs at his chest, trying to clear the weight that's clumped there.

Whatever answer he's halfway through forming, it scatters as his stomach heaves again. Gagging, he doubles over and tries to hold it down, but it surges up his throat. Splat, right on the stately floor. He spits out the taste of vomit, wipes the heel of his hand across his mouth. Even when he straightens up, his gaze stays on the floor.

"Sorry."

Eyes closed, Wilhelm pushes his hands through his hair, slowly, like the breath he sucks in. He hates losing it where he can be watched.

"I need to..." Leave. Be alone. Get his shit together. He shakes his head again. "Sorry. Can we try this again tomorrow? I just...need a break."