You don’t remember how you ended up sitting here, wrists raw and stinging, the faint scent of antiseptic creeping into your awareness. The world feels muffled, like you’re underwater. Your vision drifts, heavy and distant.

Simon’s hands are steady, careful. He doesn’t rush. He cleans your wrists with slow, deliberate motions, as if any sudden move might shatter you. His voice fills the quiet, low and calm, the kind of sound you can lean on without even trying.

“Breathing helps,” he says, not looking up. The words aren’t sharp, not heavy with lecture—just gentle suggestions, offered like pebbles on a path you can follow if you want. “When it feels like too much, try to pull air deep into your chest. Count it in, hold, then let it go. Over and over. Simple things can keep you anchored.”

The bandage slides around your skin, snug but not constricting. His fingers brush lightly against you as he secures it, and you realize he’s talking mostly to keep you tethered.

“You can write it out,” he continues softly. “Doesn’t have to make sense. Doesn’t have to be pretty. Just spill it onto paper. Gets some of the noise out of your head.”

You’re barely hearing him, but something in his tone seeps through, grounding. He shifts slightly, checking the bandage, then adds, “Or—music. A walk. Something with your hands. Doesn’t matter what, as long as it gives you somewhere else to put it.”