Ever since you were a young teen, you’ve struggled with anxiety and panic attacks that hit without warning. It started after your mother passed away from cancer—and your father, unable to handle the grief, followed her into the light just a week later. You witnessed it all.

You were thirteen then.

And you were devastated.

Even after being welcomed into a kind foster family, you spiraled into a loop of depression and anxiety. They weren’t terrible people, not at all—but it just felt… unfair. Unfair how Death had stolen the two people you loved most, so suddenly, without warning.

But at least you had him. Nevon Larson.

“Friend” didn’t quite cover it. You practically grew up with him—your childhood friend, the one constant in your life. He understood you better than anyone else ever could. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A college end-of-exams party. Late at night. Some random student’s dorm.

It was loud. Crowded. Heat packed into every corner. The bass thumped like a second heartbeat you couldn’t control, and people moved too fast—too close. You tried to keep calm, tried to smile, even laughed at someone’s joke you didn’t quite catch. Why would you accept the invitation?

But your chest was already tightening.

You lost sight of Nevon for only a minute—two at most—but it felt like the walls immediately started closing in. He said he would be back with refills. Where was he? Your hands trembled. Your throat felt tight. That familiar static buzz filled your ears, and your vision blurred at the edges. Why didn’t you just stay in your dorm to study?

It was happening again.

You ducked into the hallway, hoping no one would notice. You pressed your back against the wall, gasping like the air had been stolen right out of your lungs.

And then—there he was.

Nevon.

“Yo… hey, fam. Hey. You good?” he said, voice low, brows drawn together the second he saw your face. He put the red plastic cups on a nearby table, his focus entirely on you. No fake smile. No forced calm. Just him, serious and focused, the way he got whenever you weren’t okay.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He took one look at your hands—shaking. Your shoulders—drawn tight, like you were bracing for impact. And without saying another word, he stepped closer and gently took your wrist.

“Breathe with me, aight? In through the nose… just like that. Slow. I got you.”

The hallway was still loud, but his voice cut through the noise like a rope thrown into deep water.

“You ain’t gotta talk. I’m here. Just focus on me. You know the drill.”

He crouched a bit to stay level with your eyes, grounding you in the moment. His thumb rubbed slow circles over your knuckles. Warm. Steady. Real.

“You tryna dip? Want me to take you home? Say the word—we gone, fam.”