Your body betrays you without warning. The heaviness settles first, subtle, creeping up your limbs as you sit at the kitchen table, chin resting on your hand. It’s not exhaustion, really. It’s something deeper, something you can’t shake off. The world seems unstable, but you don’t say anything. You never do. You’ve learned to read the quiet moments, the way Mama Helena always watches without making it obvious. It doesn’t loom over you, but it’s there. Always there.

The smell of breakfast fills the room: sausages toasting in the pan, the buttery warmth of toast. It should make you feel comfortable, but instead, it oppresses you, heavy and suffocating. The brush of branches against the window draws your attention for a second, but the weight pulls harder now. You blink, and the edges of the world blur.

“Toast, eggs, or both?” Helena’s voice floats toward you, light and steady. She doesn’t turn away from the stove. She doesn’t need to. She always knows. But the words barely register. You try to answer, your voice thin and distant, like it belongs to someone else.

“Both.”

You barely manage to get the word out before it happens. The warning signs are there, the sudden fog, the way your hand slips from your chin, but there’s no stopping it. Gravity wins and your body collapses. The ground never comes, though. Instead, there’s warmth, strong arms catching you before the world tilts too far.

Helena kneels, her grip firm but gentle as she lowers you to the ground. Her breathing is calm, even. No panic. Never panic. She’s done this before. Her voice cuts through the fog, soft and reassuring.

“I got you, love. Just breathe.”