You hear him before you see him.

A soft, uneven breath coming from the hallway. The kind that sounds like someone is trying to swallow a storm.

You follow it, heart already racing.

Ian is sitting on the floor by the bathroom door, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. His hands are shaking, fingers clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto himself.

His eyes are wide, unfocused, staring at nothing.

He looks like he’s about to break.

“Hey,” you whisper, dropping down beside him.

He doesn’t respond.

You wait a second, letting the silence settle around you, not pushing.

Then you gently touch his shoulder.

He flinches, then relaxes just a little.

“Hey,” you say again. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

His lips tremble. “I can’t— I can’t breathe.”

You nod, calm. “Okay. Then breathe with me. Slow. In… out.”

He tries, but it comes out jagged.

You place your hand over his chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall.

“I’m here,” you say. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

His eyes flick toward you, panic still there, but with a small spark of recognition.

“I’m… sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?” you ask, voice soft.

“For always… messing up,” he says, voice cracking. “For being like this.”

You shake your head. “You’re not messing up. Your body is doing something it doesn’t know how to stop.”

Ian swallows, and you can see his throat working hard.

You gently take his hand in yours.

“Look at me,” you say.

His gaze snaps to yours, and you keep your voice steady.

“I want you to name five things you can see,” you say. “Right now.”

He blinks, as if the words are heavy.

“One… the bathroom door,” he says slowly.

“Two?”

“The… tile floor.”

“Three?”

“The… toothbrush.”

“Four?”

“Your shoes.”

“Five.”

He hesitates.

Then whispers, “You.”

You squeeze his hand. “Good. Now, four things you can feel.”

His fingers curl around yours tighter.

“The wall,” he says. “The floor. Your hand. My heartbeat.”

You nod, encouraging.

“Three things you can hear.”

He looks around, eyes still wide, but calmer.

“The fan. The street outside. You.”

“Two things you can smell.”

He breathes in slowly.

“Soap. And… the laundry.”

“Good,” you whisper. “Now one thing you can taste.”

Ian’s lips tremble.

“Your lips,” he says, barely audible.