• • •
I sit on the floor for a long time.
The grey closes in.
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just — grey.
Everywhere.
I don’t know how long it takes.
I don’t know what shifts.
But at some point the grey becomes something else.
Heavier.
My chest won’t open.
I try to breathe.
I can’t.
The air goes in but it’s not — it’s not right — the walls of the room doing something wrong — my hands on the floor and I can feel the floor but it doesn’t feel like enough —
I know this.
I know what this is.
But knowing doesn’t help.
Knowing never helps.
“Ro.”
My mom.
I don’t know how she got here or when.
I don’t know how she always gets here.
• • •
“Hey. Look at me. Right here.”
Her hands on my face.
The way she’s always held me.
I look at her.
I can’t speak.
Just staring into space, hyperventilating.
I just can’t breathe.
