One breath in. My lungs protested, but it went down farther than the last. One breath out. It left my body in a long, shaky hiss.
I did it again. And again. And again.
The spinning started to slow. Tears started to dry.
Read: How are you feeling?
Me: Like my head is full of bees and wet cement.
I winced at the image. Too dramatic. Too much. He’d laugh. Or leave.
Read: That makes a lot of sense. Your nervous system has been throttled all day. It’s exhausted and wired at the same time. Not a fun combo.
My jaw loosened a fraction. He didn’t tease. Didn’t minimize.
Read: Have you eaten?
My stomach howled, pinching painfully as I remembered the salad I’d pushed around at my desk but never actually ate.
Me: No.
Read: Okay. That’s our next step. Go to the kitchen. Grab something simple. Two steps max. No cooking, just assemble and chew.
The floor under my bare feet felt cool. One step. Another.
Cold air kissed my face as I opened the fridge. Containers, takeout boxes, an entire shelf of condiments. Everything felt like too much effort. Cooking meant knives and pans and decisions I wasn’t qualified to make right now.
I shut the fridge and opened the cabinet instead.
Cereal box. Trix. Candace’s influence. Somehow it had ended up as a staple in both our homes.
I pulled the box down, reached in and grabbed a handful, the shapes sticking to my fingers.
Read: What did we land on?
Me: Cereal.
Read: Solid choice. I’m going to go pour a bowl, too, in solidarity. What kind?
Me: Trix.
Read: Iconic. A documentary aficionado with Trix tastes. I approve.
Air puffed out of me, something close to a laugh but not quite.
The chorus tried to rouse itself.He doesn’t actually care what you eat. He’s just humoring you. This is patronizing.
But they didn’t get traction.
The sugar in my mouth, the crackle of pieces between my teeth, the way my jaw had to work—too loud to ignore.
Read: I swear the red ones taste different. I even googled it once. Apparently, they’re all the same flavor and my brain is dramatic.
My lips twitched. I grabbed another handful.
Read: When I was five, I shoved one up my nose and convinced myself I was choking. My mother had to take me to the ER. There’s probably still a note in my file about “fruit-shaped cereal trauma.”
A short, startled laugh escaped me, unplanned and honest.
