Carefully, I lift his head and place it in my lap, brushing his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. Then I tap his cheek lightly, calling his name under my breath.
“Sebastian…”
Please wake up. Please be okay.
I give it ten seconds, long, endless seconds, then fumble for my phone with trembling hands, ready to call an ambulance,
when suddenly, Sebastian coughs and blinks, dazed.
“Remi… I… I’m sorry…”
His voice is faint and unsteady as he looks up at me, overwhelmed and unsure.
He tries to sit up, leaning on one elbow, but before I can stop myself, I wrap my arms around him and pull him gently against my chest.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Just tell me how you’re feeling. You scared me half to death… I really think we should take you to the hospital, just to be safe, alright?”
But he tenses almost immediately and pulls back, his hands resting on my shoulders. When our eyes meet, his gaze is steady. Resolute.
“No. It’s okay. Really. It was just a dizzy spell. I’m fine now.”
There’s something in his voice, firm, almost pleading,
and I already know there’s no changing his mind.
Still, I can’t just let it go.
“Seb, that wasn’t just a dizzy spell. You blacked out. We should at least get you checked out. Things like this don’t happen for no reason…”
His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head again, more gently this time. Then he takes my hand in both of his, his expression softening.
“Remi, I’m really sorry I scared you… But this isn’t the first time. I’ve had these… episodes before. Usually, when I’m under a lot of pressure or haven’t been sleeping.
They look worse than they are, I promise.”
I study his face, searching for what he’s not saying.
He looks away, bites his lip, nervous, but trying to stay composed.
“You’ve seen a doctor, right?” I ask quietly, still not entirely reassured.
He sighs, tired, but calm. Like he’s said all this before.
“Yes. My GP in Paris knows everything. He ran a bunch of tests, and everything came back clear. He thinks it’s panicattacks. I’ve already done therapy, but so far… it hasn’t helped much.”
His voice drops, and for a moment, he looks completely defeated.
I fight the urge to pull him back into a hug, but I keep my hand in his, holding it gently, waiting in silence.
“I know I should have told you earlier,” he murmurs, “but I’ve kept this completely private until now. If word got out that I suffer from debilitating anxiety… it could ruin everything.
My career would be over.”
There’s something in his voice, raw, quiet, terrified, that cuts straight through me. I can’t help it anymore. I reach out and pull him into my arms.
He doesn’t resist. He just melts into me, as if he’s been waiting for this, like it’s the only place he feels safe right now.
