“Never mind,” I wheeze. “You’re not fine.”
My chest tightens further and my throat feels like it’s sealing shut, as if an invisible hand is wrapping around it and squeezing.
“No, no, no.”
My heart slams erratically, like it’s lost control, and I press my palm flat against my sternum as if I can physically steady it, but I still can’t breathe.
I open my mouth wider, dragging in air, but it feels like I’m breathing through a straw. My lungs won’t cooperate and I’m positive I’m going to pass out—or worse. My brain latches onto the thought instantly.
You’re having a heart attack,I think to myself.You’re dying.
My vision blurs at the edges and a cold sweat breaks out across my skin. Every sound feels amplified and I try to take a slow breath like I’ve done a hundred times before a big heat.
In and out.
But my body won’t listen. Each inhale feels choppy and my chest spasms because I can’t get enough oxygen. The fear becomes physical, like a wave crashing over me violently, I feel like I might drown in it.
I swing my legs off the bed and stumble to my feet.Move!I shout in my head, because if I don’t, I’m going to die.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m gripping the side of the sink, staring at my reflection. My eyes are wide, my skin pale and clammy, and my chest is heaving.
I look wild.
My hands shake as I turn the faucet handle all the way to cold, and the water blasts out. I shove my head under it without hesitation, gasping as icy water drenches my hair and face. The shock steals the breath from my lungs for a split second, and then I gasp again.
I grip the edge of the counter as droplets run down my neck and I force my eyes open, staring at my reflection again. I look unhinged, but not like I’m dying anymore. I suck in air through my nose, slower this time, and hold it for three seconds before I let it go.
My heart is still racing, but it’s no longer trying to break through my ribs. The pounding shifts from violent to frantic, then from frantic to just fast. The ringing in my ears dulls and the room steadies.
I drag the faucet off, water dripping from my hair into the sink as my shirt clings to my back. My hands are trembling like I just ran a marathon, and in a way I guess I did. I just outran my own mind.
I slide down the cabinet slowly until I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the wall.
“You’re fine,” I mutter hoarsely.
God. The way my brain can turn on me is terrifying. The way one simple thought can spiral into catastrophe.
I close my eyes and inhale again, this one filling my lungs almost completely, and the relief is so strong that tears prick behind my eyes. The comedown always hits hard after a panicattack—my limbs feel heavy, my head buzzes faintly, and I feel wrung out from the inside.
“What was that?” A quiet voice asks.
I open my eyes to find Zalea standing just inside the bedroom, staring at me in complete shock.
Fuck.
I never wanted her to see that. But I promised myself if I came back here, if I was going to try and fix what I broke, I’d stop hiding. I’d be honest and I’d ask the same from her.
“That was a panic attack,” I mutter, as I push myself to stand, legs still slightly unsteady but functional.
“When did you start having those?” She asks softly.
She watches me as I reach back and turn off the bathroom light, then walk past her into the bedroom. My clothes are still damp as I climb into bed, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.
I shrug like it’s nothing. “Since my first ever tour.”
Her jaw drops and she blinks like she misheard me. “Your first tour?”
“Yeah.”
