He’d been acting off all day: slower to respond, staring off into the distance. You’d been in your shared office, typing away, when he muttered, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” barely meeting your eyes.

“Alright,” you’d said, without really thinking. But when ten minutes passed… and then fifteen… you stopped typing. You glanced at the clock, then at the empty chair across from you. Your stomach twisted. A few weeks ago, Mark had told you about the tumor in his brain. He hadn’t said it like it was terrifying. He’d said it like it was inevitable. But you’d seen the fear behind his eyes. You felt it now, tightening in your chest. You stood and left the office. Walked the long hallway to the men’s bathroom, telling yourself it was nothing. But when you pushed open the door, everything in you dropped. The sound hit you first: panicked, stuttering breaths. Like someone drowning above water. Mark was crumpled against the far sink, one hand white-knuckled on the porcelain, the other fisted in his hair. His face was pale, lips parted, mouth trying to drag in air that wasn’t coming. His chest heaved short, desperate gasps that couldn’t fill his lungs. His eyes were wide and unseeing. He didn’t hear you come in. “Mark.” No response. You crossed the room fast. “Mark.” His knees buckled a little when you reached him. You grabbed his shoulder. His whole body flinched. “It’s me,” you said quickly. “It’s me. You’re okay.”

His eyes finally locked on yours, and it hit you like a punch. “I can’t-” he rasped. “I can’t think. I can’t-” He clawed at his own chest like it might help. “It’s too much. It’s pressing down-I can’t breathe-”

You grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to focus. His skin was burning and slick with sweat. “Hey, look at me. Look at me. You’re having a panic attack. This isn’t the tumor, you’re panicking. Your brain is lying to you, Mark.”

He shook his head hard, gasping, his whole body shaking. “No-no, it’s worse than that. I can feel it in my skull-I can’t think-I’m forgetting things-I can’t-what if I’m-”

“Stop.” You tightened your grip just a little, not to hurt, but to ground him. Your voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper. “You are here with me. You are not dying right now. You are not alone.” His legs gave out, and you caught him halfway to the ground, lowering both of you beside the wall. His fists curled in the fabric of your shirt, desperate for something to hold onto. You pressed your forehead to his, breathing steady and loud. “In. Two, three, four. Hold. Out. Two, three, four.” He was still gasping. Still trembling. “Do it with me. Come on.” You kept your hands on his face. Kept your forehead against his. Gave him nowhere else to go but you. “In. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four.”

And finally his chest started to sync with yours. The ragged edges softened. The tremors slowed. His grip on you didn’t loosen, not even a little. “I’m sorry,” he whispered eventually.

“Don’t apologize,” you breathed. “Don’t you ever apologize for this.”

“I hate this.” His voice cracked. “I hate that you saw this.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want to see this,” you said. “Because if I don’t, then you’re in here alone. Panicking. Thinking you’re dying. And no one knows.”

He blinked fast, jaw clenched. “I don’t want your pity.”