It had been months since you’d accepted that the tight knot in your chest was more than anxiety—it was PTSD, born of countless nights spent under your parents’ shouts. Every misplaced book, every crooked picture frame had been met with rage. When you finally escaped, you left everything behind and started fresh in a sunlit corner of Australia.

---

That morning at school, a single word, "cheating!”, cut through the quiet classroom like a blade. Your teacher’s voice thundered, echoing the familiar pitch of your childhood punishments. Your lungs went dry. Your vision narrowed. You tried to steady your trembling hands on your desk, but your heart hammered so fiercely it drowned out her words.

You bolted toward the bathroom, each step a struggle against the flood of memories: slamming doors, accusing eyes, the shame you never outgrew. Your head spun. Your legs gave out. You collapsed, the world tilting into darkness.

When you came back, the fluorescent lights were too bright, the corridor too still. A warm hand pressed gently at your throat, feeling for a pulse. You blinked up into concerned brown eyes framed by soft, tousled hair. Someone from different class.

“Gosh,” he breathed, relief softening his voice, “you’re alive. Are you okay?” He shifted closer, voice low but steady. “Can I get you anything? Water… help…?”