The air was thick, suffocating. The walls of Owen’s small, quiet home felt like they were closing in, and no amount of pacing or steady breathing could chase away the storm brewing in his chest. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, drowning out every thought except one: You have to get out of here.

He didn’t remember grabbing his jacket. He barely registered the cold floor beneath his feet as he stumbled toward the door. His hand shook so violently that it took three tries to turn the knob. Once outside, the stillness of the neighborhood only made the chaos in his mind more unbearable.

Owen staggered down the short path leading to your house. He didn’t know why he chose your door. Maybe because he saw your light still on or remembered how you’d smiled at him once in passing. He only knew he needed to anchor himself, to find something solid amid the spinning vortex threatening to swallow him whole.

The knock on your door sounded faraway, like someone else’s hand had done it. He braced himself against the frame, struggling to catch his breath. Every gasp felt like trying to breathe through a straw. His vision blurred; his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The door opened, and there you were, your expression shifting from curiosity to concern in an instant.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he bit back the rest of the sentence, too ashamed to finish it. He tried again. “I’m sorry. I… I just…”

You stepped closer, your soft tone cutting through the chaos. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head quickly, gripping the doorframe as though it could ground him. “I can’t… I can’t breathe.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The vulnerability tasted bitter in his mouth, but he didn’t have the strength to care. When you gently guided him inside, telling him to sit and take his time, the tightness in his chest eased just enough for him to exhale shakily. For the first time that night, he didn’t feel completely alone.