This time I managed it, barely. My chest loosened just a fraction.
“Good. Again. In...two...three...four.”
We breathed together, her steady counts anchoring me. Slowly, painfully slowly, my heart rate began to decrease. The room stopped spinning. My hands stopped shaking quite so violently.
“Better?” she asked softly after several minutes.
“Yeah.” My voice was raw. “Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”
“Don't apologize. I'm glad you called.” More rustling. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the streetlight through my window. “Nightmare. About the injury.”
“The same one?”
“Worse.” I swallowed hard. “It's always the same, but this time... this time my knee was completely destroyed. Like, beyond repair. And I was alone on the field, and everyone was gone and...” My breath hitched. “And I couldn't play. I could never play again.”
“But you can play,” Rosalie reminded me gently. “You are playing. You had a great practice today.”
“I know. Logically, I know that.” I rubbed my face with my free hand. “But in the dream, it felt so real. I could feel my knee shattering. Could see the bone.” I shuddered. “And Sanchez was there, telling me I was never good enough anyway.”
“Fuck Sanchez,” Rosalie said with such passion that I actually laughed, a wet, broken sound. “He's a piece of shit who tried to end your career because he couldn't beat you fairly. But he didn't win, Derek. You're still here. You're still playing.”
“Am I though? Really playing?” The question came out before I could stop it. “Because most days it feels like I'm justgoing through the motions. Like I'm pretending to be the player I used to be.”
Rosalie was quiet for a moment. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“After my hip replacement, I had nightmares too. I'd dream that I was performing, that I'd made it into a company, that I was dancing the lead in Swan Lake. And then mid-performance, my hip would just... give out. I'd collapse on stage in front of everyone. And when I woke up, the loss felt fresh all over again.”
My chest tightened for a different reason. “How did you get through it?”
“Honestly? I'm not sure I have. Not completely.” She let out a soft sigh. “The nightmares still come sometimes. But they're less frequent now. And when they do come, I remind myself that they're just my brain processing trauma. They're not predictions. They're not true. They're just... fear.”
“Fear,” I echoed.
“Yeah. Fear of losing something again. Fear that we're not enough without the thing that defined us for so long.” Her voice softened. “But here's what I've learned: fear doesn't make us weak, Derek. It makes us human. It means we cared. It means what we lost mattered.”
“It still matters.”
“I know. And that's okay. You're allowed to grieve what you lost, even while you're fighting to get it back.”
I closed my eyes, letting her words wash over me. “Thank you. For answering. For... this.”
“Where else would I be at 4 AM if not talking to my almost-boyfriend through a panic attack?” The smile in her voice was audible.
“Almost-boyfriend?” I latched onto the phrase, needing the distraction from the lingering dread. “What does that make us now?”
“I don't know. Friends who almost kiss? People who are figuring it out?” she paused. “Does it matter what we call it?”
“No,” I admitted. “As long as you keep answering when I call.”
“Always. Even at ungodly hours,” she yawned. “Though maybe next time we could schedule your panic attacks for a more reasonable time? Like, say, 8 AM?”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Appreciated.” Another yawn. “Are you feeling better? Think you can sleep?”
