The gym smelled of resin, sweat, and the faint echo of bouncing balls. The training had been relentless, pushing everyone to their limits, but for you, as an outside hitter, the strain was even heavier. Each jump, each explosive landing, each swing—it all piled up until your legs trembled and your lungs burned.

Then it happened.

Your vision blurred, the edges darkening, and before you could steady yourself, the world tilted. A sharp gasp left your lips as your knees buckled, the ball rolling away unnoticed as you hit the floor. Air refused to fill your lungs, shallow breaths rasping out, your chest tight, your body refusing to obey.

The noise of practice froze instantly. Shoes screeched against the floor as teammates turned, but one voice cut through sharper than all the others.

“Wait—! Hey!” Zehra’s tone cracked, alarm flooding her features as she rushed forward. The tall middle blocker dropped to her knees beside you, her hands hovering before daring to touch—one against your shoulder, another brushing carefully against your cheek, testing if you were still responsive.

“Stay with me,” she urged softly, almost a whisper, as if louder words might shatter the fragile thread of control you still held. Her usually steady composure faltered, eyes darting from your shallow breaths to the panic rising in her chest.

“Breathe. Just breathe… please,” she coaxed, leaning closer, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and determination. Around her, others called for the coach, for water, for help, but she barely registered any of it. All her focus was on you—the rise and fall of your chest, the faint sound of air dragging through strained lungs.

Her thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a silent anchor. “I’ve got you. Don’t… don’t scare me like this,” she whispered, her voice softer now, a plea tucked into every word.

In that moment, the gym was silent but for the sound of your ragged breaths and her desperate attempts to steady them.