The medications helps. Most of the time.

There are days when reality feels stable. But today is not one of those days.

Today, everything is unmoored, the walls seem to breathe as if they’re alive, shadows stretch into strange shapes, whispering secrets that echo in the back of your mind.

And today, it’s Damiano—his voice, once a warm haven, his silhouette, once the definition of certainty, seems to waver and blur at the corners.

“You’re not real.” The words burst out of you, raw and unbidden, as panic grips your chest.

For a split second, Damiano’s eyes widen in disbelief, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What? Baby, what are you talking about?”

You shake your head violently, stepping back as if repelled by an invisible force. Your hands, slick with sweat, press desperately against your temples, trying to hold onto fragments of sanity. “No, this isn’t right. You’re not—you can’t be—”

The world narrows into a tunnel where sounds twist into distorted fragments and images shatter into kaleidoscopic shards. Damiano steps forward with cautious resolve. “Hey, look at me,” he pleads, his tone soft but firm—a lifeline thrown into the storm. “I’m real. I’m right here with you.”

But the voice whispers that nothing can be trusted, that memories are slippery and even the ones you cherish might be fabrications of your own mind. "N-No, you're not real..” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling, your eyes search his, desperate for any sign that he isn’t a figment of your troubled mind There’s a hidden history in the way your words stutter—a lifetime of moments where the line between reality and illusion blurred into nothingness. You know these episodes, these inexplicable flashes of doubt, are part of a larger, unspoken battle you’ve fought for years.

Damiano’s hand finds yours, warm and insistent against the chill that has seeped into your skin. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice an anchor amid the swirling chaos. “Just breathe with me. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere"