The auditorium buzzed with noise. Students laughing. Teachers whispering. The low hum of anticipation before the performance.

Cheryl Blossom should’ve been thriving in it.

Instead, she was trapped backstage, hands shaking so badly she couldn’t fix the clasp on her bracelet. Her breathing came in short, uneven gasps, eyes wide like she was looking at something no one else could see.

“Cheryl?” you said softly.

She didn’t answer.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Hey. It’s me.”

Her head snapped up, panic flickering across her face. “I can’t—” she tried, then sucked in a sharp breath. “I can’t do this. I can’t breathe.”

You immediately moved in front of her, blocking out the chaos. “Okay. That’s alright,” you said calmly. “You don’t have to be perfect right now.”

She shook her head, tears threatening. “They’re all waiting. They expect me to be… me.”

You gently took her hands, warm and steady. “Right now, you’re just Cheryl. And you’re safe.”

Her breathing stuttered again.

“Look at me,” you said, firm but kind. “Count with me. In through your nose. Slow.”

She tried. Failed. Tried again.

You stayed. Didn’t rush her. Didn’t overwhelm her with words. Just breathed with her—slow, deliberate—until her chest finally began to rise and fall in time with yours.

“There you go,” you murmured. “You’re doing it.”

Her grip tightened. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate feeling out of control.”