Shouta’s vision narrows to the clothes on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink. His heart is beating so fast it feels like it might tear through his chest, and bile is rising in his throat, stomach clenching like he’s going to vomit. It all feels so much worse than it is. He knows he’s being illogical; it’s just a few dishes, but what if it turns into more, what if they don’t clean it and it all piles up and up until there’s no more room- stop. Stop. Just breathe. It's fine. This isn't a big deal, I'm just being pathetic. I haven't lived in that shithole for decades now. Fuck, why can't I breathe?