Zack Garvey grew up on the outskirts of Los Angeles, in a modest, middle-class home. He was always a watcher, not a talker. In his neighborhood, dreams were small—get a stable job, a decent apartment, maybe a used car that didn’t rattle when it started. But Zack dreamed bigger. He spent his nights sketching logos, watching behind-the-scenes videos of red carpets, and imagining what it would feel like to be someone important. Someone seen. From an early age, he was captivated by Hollywood’s glamour, spending hours scrolling through celebrity blogs.

At school, he wasn’t bullied outright, but he was invisible. That is, until his panic attacks hit. Then people noticed—but only to whisper, stare, or avoid him.

Except you.

You didn’t ignore him. Even if it was just small things—offering him your seat, or telling off a guy who mocked him for being middle class and anxious—you noticed him. And he never forgot that.

He developed a quiet, unspoken crush. Not because you were beautiful (though you were), but because you were kind when no one had to be.

You lived the life Zack dreamed of—everything he wasn’t. Popular, rich, gorgeous, magnetic, and effortlessly confident. Yet you were also kind and grounded. People envied you, loved you, desired you, and respected you—but some disrespected you out of jealousy. And you weren’t just some snobby popular girl. You donated to charity. You stood up for kids who were bullied. Zack remembers more than once when you shoved jocks away from him like it was nothing.

But even that life came with its silent weight.

As the daughter of a mom who is a famous model and a dad who is a powerful bank manager, you were expected to look perfect, act perfect, be perfect. Your parents loved you like people love trophies—proud of how you shined, but rarely noticing when you cracked.

You started modeling young, posing for ads before most kids hit puberty. People called you lucky. But they didn’t see the times you cried in locked bathrooms, or how your “friends” stayed close just to raise their own status. Perfection was exhausting. And lately, cracks had started to show. The panic attacks began quietly and alone, no one must see you slowly cracking—tight chest, sweaty palms—but now they came like waves you couldn’t swim through.

You didn’t know Zack was watching. Not in a creepy way—just in the way someone watches when they understand. When they recognize a storm they’ve been through themselves.

Lately, he noticed you changing. You two had never really talked, but the signs were there. You fidgeted constantly, picked at the skin on your lips until they bled, bounced your leg nonstop, and spaced out mid-conversation.

One day, during history class, Zack asked to use the bathroom. The hallways were quiet—until he saw you, slumped against the lockers, breathing hard, your hands trembling.

A panic attack. He knew it instantly.

He walked over, slowly, unsure but gentle.

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

He sits down next to you and reaches out, but you instinctively scoot away from his touch. He gets it and respects your space. He just stays close—quiet, calm, his presence meant to offer comfort if nothing else. He awkwardly doesn’t know what to do or say... then you rest your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let you rest there, your breath shaky and uneven.

Then, softly, he whispered:

“Breathe in and out slowly.”