Fuck’s sake. Just breathe.
Who am I without him? I’ve made myself so busy at work since that fateful day that I haven’t allowed myself to stop and let it sink in.
Now it feels like I’m actually sinking.
Ugh. God, I can’t breathe.
I run one hand over my chest to see if I can somehow swipe this pressure away and find that my playsuit is damp. The sea is calm tonight so it can’t be sea spray.
It’s me.
I’m crying.
Hysterically.
What a fucking embarrassment!
I wipe at my cheeks, cursing myself.
Breathe. Just breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
I lean even further over the railing, listening to the hum of the engines, the chop of the waves. Blood rushes to my head. I try to control my racing heart, but I swear with each breath it gets harder and harder to find any air.
“Uh, excuse me, miss?” a voice comes from behind me.
I can’t even turn at this point – too afraid it will steal the last bit of oxygen from my lungs. Blood is rushing in my ears, making every sound gargled.
Just stop crying, you imbecile. You have an audience!
“You know,” he continues, “you really don’t want to do that.”
“Wha-at?” I practically choke out.
“That water is much colder than you think.” I don’t know why he’s telling me this. Does he think I’m going to jump? I attempt to take a deep breath but I’m officially out of air.
I’m going to die.
“Er, can I help you to the bench?” he asks. I don’t respond, but a moment later, I feel a large gentle hand on my shoulder. “It’s ok,” he says. “I’m just going to help you take a seat, alright?” I allow him to pivot my body away from the railing, leaning into his touch. I find myself nodding, clutching my chest. I can barely see through the tears.
I allow him to guide me towards a bench, where I manage to collapse, panting, sobbing, utterly beside myself.
“Hey, I need you to focus on what I’m about to say, ok?” he says, crouching down in front of me. “We’re going to explore your senses. Ground you again. If you can, tell me what you can hear.”
I gasp for air. “My heart… beat,” I manage to get out. The blurry shape in front of me places two soft hands on my shoulders. The gesture is weirdly stabilising.
“Good. What else?”
“Your voice.”
“More. Close your eyes if it helps. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”
I do as I’m told, finding solace in this man’s voice.
“The hum of the yacht. Waves. People in the restaurant.”
“Good. You’re getting it. What can you feel?”
“My playsuit. My hair on my shoulders. The bench.”
