sooner rather than later would be nice.

It's not even a thing. I mean, it definitely totally is not any kind of a thing, so she's not allowed to feel this way . . .
but she does.

Like being queasy but higher up, somewhere in the . . . oh. That spot between and to the left of her lungs. Heartsick is the term, isn't it?

She's about to cry from wanting to know. It's none of her business, and she knows it, and she's not gonna ask because of how very much she understands that, but the nausea is still pulsing, spreading with her blood flow down her arms, into her stomach, stinging at her toes. Pouring through tear ducts onto her cheeks.

With a quick breath, she sucks it back up into the bottle where she keeps all stuff of this sort, labeled "Unacceptable for Public Display"; corks it tightly.

Shakes off the lingering tingle of despair.