I try to match his breathing.
The first breath catches halfway in. The second one stutters.
Cam doesn’t react.
He doesn’t correct me or slow his breathing down theatrically. He just keeps breathing the same way he already was, giving my body something consistent to follow if it wants to.
I hear Manny’s voice somewhere off to the side, low and controlled. The band has stopped playing, but no one rushes the stage. Someone dims the lights a fraction, softening the edges of the space.
No one crowds me. No one asks questions.
Cam's hand settles lightly on my forearm, warm through the fabric of my sleeve. My body responds before my pride can object, leaning subtly into the contact. Relaxing.
“Just breathe,” he says quietly.
This time, the breath goes deeper.
It still shakes on the way out, but it’s real. My lungs finally commit.
“Good,” he says, just once.
My shoulders drop. The roar in my ears fades to a dull hum.
“You’re safe,” Cam says. “He’s gone. Manny’s got it handled.”
I nod once. Small. Careful.
My hands are still trembling, but the shaking is receding now, leaving behind that hollow, overworked feeling that always follows. Like my nervous system ran a marathon.
I become aware, slowly, of how close he is.
Of how much space he’s taking up so I don’t have to.
I hate the weakness in my knees. Hate how familiar this all feels.
I’ve been on bigger stages than this. Louder ones.
I’ve smiled through worse comments hurled from closer distances and told myself it was fine.
I used to be able to handle this.
Doctors call it stress. They give me breathing exercises and hydration plans and tell me to slow down, as if fear only lives in muscles and not in the memories those muscles are guarding.
I should be better by now.
Cam doesn’t say any of that.
He doesn’t ask if I need water. Doesn’t suggest sitting back or standing up. Doesn’t rush me toward recovery like it’s something to complete and move past.
His hand rests lightly on my arm, steady and warm, a reminder of where I am without trying to steer me anywhere else. My breathing evens out fully now, the tight band around my chest loosening one notch at a time.
I notice things again—the low hum of the lights, the faint echo of footsteps somewhere backstage, the clean scent of the stage floor.
I notice him.
His brows soften slightly. His voice drops even lower. “Could happen to anyone,” he says. “It doesn't mean you're broken.”
The words slip past my defenses before I can brace against them.
