"... No," Lyra muttered, petulant because he was right (in that instance, not about Patrick) and no, she'd never lost control so hard (at least, not on this side of the faery door) and never felt this wretched before. The only other time she'd needed a hospital had been eight years ago, and those eight years had dulled the memory of how bad it'd felt. This degree of bad was churning in her stomach and chilling her skin and the feeling of clawing her way back from death was clinging to every part of her body.
Her clammy hand was still clutching his, though, and she wasn't letting go of that. Wasn't looking at him right now, neither, but wasn't letting go. "I know, it sucks huh," she said, aiming for a tone that was a kind of ironic understatement, but she couldn't maintain it and her voice cracked on the sucks. Trying to fight back tears made her cough and coughing made her want to throw up again, waves of nausea rising to her fucked up throat, the whole thing a pretty miserable fucking failure at her attempt to make light.