The set of Zombies 5 was usually loud with music, laughter, and crew members calling out directions. But right now, the only sound Malachi could focus on was the one coming from the bathroom in their shared trailer.
Flush.
It was the third time in an hour.
Malachi was sitting on the small sofa, script in hand, though he hadn’t read a single line in minutes. He frowned, tossing the pages onto the cushion, and walked over to the closed door. He hesitated for a second before knocking lightly.
"Hey babe? What's wrong,?" he asked, keeping his voice casual, though the worry was creeping in. "You've been in there ages."
The door creaked open a moment later. Freya stepped out, looking pale, her usual bright energy completely drained. Her hair was messy, and she clutched a bottle of water in one hand. She didn't look at him immediately, walking slowly to sit down, her movements sluggish.
"I don't know," she mumbled, her voice sounding tired and shaky. "My stomach just... feels weird. It’s been like this every morning lately."
Malachi sat down beside her immediately, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. He noticed how tired her eyes looked. He’d been noticing the pattern for weeks now. Every single morning, without fail, she’d make a beeline for the bathroom. He’d hear the rush of footsteps, the sounds of her being sick, and then that distinct, quick sound of the toilet flushing.
At first, he thought maybe she had caught a bug, or maybe the long filming days were just getting to her. But this was different. It was too consistent. It wasn't going away.
"You're throwing up a lot, Freya," Malachi said, keeping his tone gentle, though the confusion was clear. "Like, every single morning. And you're rushing to the bathroom so fast... I hear you flushing it every time. It’s kinda scaring me, dude."
Freya pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her chin on her knees, staring at the floor. She knew he was right. She knew it wasn't just a stomach bug. She’d been feeling it, too—the exhaustion, the sickness that hit her like a wave the second she woke up, the strange flutter of anxiety in her chest that had nothing to do with filming.
She looked up at Malachi. He was looking at her with those wide, concerned eyes, still her "guy," still trying to keep things light even when he was confused. But looking at him, she felt the tears start to prick at her eyes again. She didn't want to say it out loud. She didn't want to make it real.
But the sickness, the fear, and the sound of that flush every morning were already making it very real indeed.
"I don't know what's happening," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "But it doesn't feel like just being sick, Malachi."
Malachi frowned deeper, leaning in closer, his hand finding hers. "Hey, whatever it is... we’ll figure it out, yeah? But you gotta tell me what's going on in that head of yours. You're scaring me a little bit here."
Freya just squeezed his hand, the silence stretching between them, broken only by the distant noise of the set outside—and the lingering memory of that sound from the bathroom. The sound that was starting to tell them a story they weren't ready to hear.
