It was kind of just… normal.
You and Gibsie sleeping over at each other’s places, blankets thrown on the floor, hoodie sleeves too long, Netflix left running until the autoplay finally gave up. Sometimes you crashed on his couch after a long day. Sometimes he climbed into your bed without a word, hoodie strings wrapped around his fingers like he was winding up his nerves.
It wasn’t weird. Not for you two.
Because you were best friends. The kind of best friends that didn’t flinch when the silence stretched long, the kind that found home in the shared quiet. You—an anxious, overthinking mess half the time. Him—a storm in human form, rarely sleeping through the night, always carrying something heavy he refused to name during the day.
But you knew. You knew about the water. You knew about his dad and his little sister and the way everything changed when he was just seven years old and nearly drowned beside them. You knew how that night never really let him go.
That’s why he hated sleeping alone. And why you never made him.
It was past 3 a.m. when it hit this time.
You were already in bed, facing him in the soft darkness of his room, curled up on your side in one of his hoodies. It was quiet—the kind of thick quiet that only really exists in the middle of the night. You were barely drifting, thoughts doing that anxious spin, half-focused on the sound of his breathing beside you.
And then you felt it change.
The shift was sharp—sudden.
His breath caught. Then it vanished entirely.
Your eyes snapped open just as he bolted upright in bed, gasping—like he couldn’t breathe at all.
“Gibsie?” you asked, voice already shaky, heart hammering.
He didn’t respond—just clutched his chest, eyes wide and unseeing, panic written in every line of his body. The kind of panic that came from deep inside—the kind that didn’t know what year it was or where he was or that you were right there.
You scrambled up. “Hey—hey, it’s okay—”
But he was already hyperventilating, hands pulling at his hoodie, tearing it away from his neck like it was choking him. He was drenched in sweat. Mouth open, gasping, but no air was going in.
His chest heaved once, twice—then he choked on a sob, a full-body jerk like his lungs had given up. “I—I can’t—I can’t—”
“Gibs, look at me!” you said sharply, grabbing his face with both hands. “You’re not in the water. You’re in your room. With me. Just breathe—breathe, okay?”
But he couldn’t. His hands were shaking violently now. His entire body was shaking.
“I c-can’t—she was—she was right there—and then—then it went quiet—I couldn’t—” His words fractured mid-sentence, lost to the rising panic choking him from the inside.
You moved fast.
You got on your knees in front of him and placed one hand on his chest and the other behind his neck, grounding him, anchoring him. “You’re safe. You’re here. Feel my hands? Feel the bed? This is real. I’m real. You’re not drowning.”
His eyes were filled with pure terror. But you didn’t flinch.
“Match my breathing, okay? I’m gonna breathe, and I want you to try with me.”
You inhaled deeply, slowly, making the sound louder on purpose.