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The box slips from my hands and lands at my feet, but I barely notice. My fingers rush to tear open the envelope, pulling out a cream-colored card.
Fairhope High School
Class of 2016
10-Year Reunion
Join us as we celebrate ten years of memories, friendships, and the journey we’ve all taken since graduation.
Visit our reunion website to RSVP and find event details.
We can’t wait to welcome you home.
The rest of the words blur just as my knees give out. I slide down the elevator wall, staring at the invitation as if it were a death sentence.
No. No. No.
My breathing turns shallow as the walls close in around me. Sweat trickles down my temple while the elevator continues its torturous descent. I tug at my scarf, my chest heaving with the sudden lack of oxygen in the confined space.
When the ding finally announces I’ve reached the lobby, the sound is so loud it feels as if it ruptured my eardrum.
Air. I need air.
The doors part to a chorus of gasps, replacing the ringing in my ears, as I crawl out into the lobby on my hands and knees, dragging myself toward the stainless-steel trash can beside the elevator. I grip the rim and haul myself upright.
Air. I need air.
I stumble outside, leaving the box of mail behind, the invitation still clutched in my hand. The familiar noise of Manhattan crashes into me the second I step onto the sidewalk. I suck in a lungful of polluted air, the car horns and sirens not enough to pull me out of my frantic state.
I’m not there. I’m here.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
But when I look down at the invitation crumpled in my trembling hand, safe is the last thing I feel.
“Mommy! Mommy! Look!”
I turn to see a little girl in a red coat with blonde pigtails pointing at me, the sight alone making my blood run cold.
“Don’t stare, Abigail. It’s rude,” her mother admonishes, gently pulling her away.
“Walk, Max. Just walk,” I tell myself.
Instead, I break into a sprint down the sidewalk, bumping into passing strangers as I force my legs to move faster and faster. But when the panic doesn’t subside, I pull out my phone and call the only person who knows how to talk me through moments like this.
“I need you. I’m… I’m having… fuck! I’m having a panic attack.”
“Come over.”
An hour later, I’m standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my therapist’s office, nursing a glass of water.
“Feeling better?” Dr. Roberts asks.
“Much better.” I walk back to the couch and carefully set the glass onto a coaster before taking my seat. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” she says, before picking up her pen and notebook and setting it on her lap. “You haven’t had a panic attack in a while,” Dr. Roberts says, studying me. “Do you know what might have triggered it?”
Instead of answering, I pull the invitation from my pocket and slide it across the table. She leans forward, reads it, then settles back into her chair.
