I take a few steps toward the front door, but anxiety sinks its claws into my chest.
My parents. Shit.
Mom knows I went with Gabriel to the wedding. She was practically giddy when I left. She doesn’t know where we stand now, but she’s aware things have been rocky between us, especially after the whole Austin ordeal. She asks about him a lot—always eager to remind me how he hasn’t been around as much. Gabriel is the dream package to her, and I get it, he’s amazing. But it’s complicated, way more complicated than she thinks.
Tonight, she was so excited that I was "giving him another chance." Her words, not mine. If I walk in right now, she’ll know something’s off. It’s only been an hour since I left. The questions will start before I even close the door.
Why are you home so early?
Where’s Gabriel?
Why didn’t he walk you to the door?
Is everything okay?
Did you two have a fight?
Why do you look like you’ve been crying?
I’d have to tell her what happened because I’m too tired and emotionally drained to come up with a plausible lie. And if I tell her the truth, she’ll freak out. Dad will be dragged into it, and suddenly, my mental health will become their main concern. Mom’ll suggest calling my therapist—just to be safe—and then it’ll become a whole thing.
No. I can’t deal with that. Not tonight. Not after everything else.
I take a step back, my chest tightening, the air feeling too thick. Shit. Not now, Cecilia. Get it together.
But the panic keeps building, clawing at my insides. My heart races, my breaths come too fast, too shallow. I can see my dad’s worried face already, the fear in my mom’s eyes.
Clenching my fists, I try to focus. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Hold it. One … two … three … four seconds.
I do it again. Then again.
It’s not working.
My nails dig into the fabric of my dress, the soft satin-like material crumpling between my fingers as I grip tighter. It’s damp from the sweat on my palms. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tension in my chest to release. The pressure feels like a weight pressing down, making it hard to breathe.
Okay, new plan. Senses.
My therapist said to focus on my senses. One by one.
I open my eyes and latch onto the porch. Visuals first. Rocking chair. There’s a faint creak it makes as the wind pushes it back and forth. Red flowers in a ceramic pot, bright against the grey backdrop of the day. The brick steps—solid, worn, reliable beneath my feet. The wood door. Sturdy. A barrier between me and the chaos inside my head.
I shift, feeling the coolness of the breeze brush over my skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. Touch. The way the fabric of my dress sticks to my thighs, wrinkling under my hands as I smooth it down, trying to focus on the texture. It’s soft, familiar. I rub my thumb over it again, needing the anchor.
Sound. There’s a faint rustle of leaves, the distant hum of traffic, the chirp of a bird somewhere off in the distance. The world outside moves at its own pace, indifferent to the storm swirling inside me.
Slowly, the pressure in my chest begins to ease. My heartbeat, which had been hammering wildly, starts to slow, each thud a hair less frantic than the last.
The dizziness fades.
I’m okay.
I’ve got this.
I glance down at my phone again. Still nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens, but I shove the phone back in my pocket. Maybe I’ll take a walk to clear my head before going inside. Just as I start to turn around, the door swings open.
Dad steps out, dressed in his business suit, his tie loose, phone pressed to his ear. He glances at me, surprised, but holds up a finger, mouthing, "One sec."
I nod, forcing a small smile while he wraps up his call. Something about a meeting that ran late.
