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No. You’re being ridiculous. Dramatic.
My stomach roils.
I know this feeling.
I’ve lived this how many times now?
Rationally, I know I’m just having a panic attack. That there’s no real threat, and never was. It’s just my…my stupid brain, and the way it twists things into threats—into worst-case scenarios.
“Okay, okay,” Mom says, hovering her hand over my back, knowing I don’t like to be touched when I get like this. “I’ll?—”
“I’ll take him,” Dad says. “You stay here with Izzy.”
“Y-you d-don’t?—”
“Come on,” he says gently, sidling up next to me, as close as he can without actually touching me. The warmth of him is reassuring—knowing he’s there, ready to shove anyone back who gets close.
Whether or not the gazes and laughter and whispers following me are real or just a figment of my imagination—a physical manifestation of my anxiety—I don’t dare to check. I’d rather live with the tiny, miniscule hope than confirm my worst fears. Easier to talk myself down.
Out in the hall, it’s only slightly easier to breathe.
Dad leads me toward the lobby, and we catch the elevator just before it closes.
“Did something happen?” he asks. It’s just us inside, and I’m finally able to release a breath.
I shake my head, shoulders bunched to my ears. Through my lashes, I watch the numbers lighting up above the mirrored doors, taking care to avoid looking at myself as I wait impatiently for us to reach our floor.
“Just…a lot today,” I murmur vaguely, my voice hitching.
Not a total lie…
I briefly debate telling him about the run-in with that man, but as soon as I consider it, I quickly squash it down as the whole thing replays in my head, making me feel more and more ridiculous by the second.
He was just a crazy old man.
Lonely too, maybe.
And sure, he looked at me like…like…he liked what he saw, but he didn’t do anything.
Are you sure he wouldn’t have though, if you weren’t interrupted?
I shake away the thought.
No, I’m just looking for something that’s not there. Like I always do.
The elevator dings a second before the mirrored doors slide open.
Our room is only two doors down, and Dad swipes us in, gesturing for me to enter first. It’s a suite, with two separate bedrooms—a king in the one to the right, and two doubles in the other to my left, just past the bathroom.
I clear my throat, and it’s all wet and crackly in that way it gets after struggling to catch my breath for however many minutes it’s been since I all but ran out of the bathroom.
“You can go back down,” I tell Dad, slipping off my suit jacket. I don’t have to look to see there’s wet spots around my pits and lower back from where sweat’s soaked through. I fight a shiver, wrapping my arms around myself.
A pill bottle appears and I look up at Dad.
It’s funny to think how differently he sees mental health now. I get why he was reluctant when I was just a child, but I’m glad he sees now how much it helps me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking it from him.
