[ Jesse doesn’t look over right away. He just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped over the center console. Wanda's words sink deep - I didn't know I could fix it on my own - and for a second, he wishes that were the whole truth. Wishes it were that easy. But it’s not. And she deserves better than some neat lie wrapped in sympathy. So he exhales, slow and steady, like he's lining himself up with the words before he lets them go. ]
Yeah. I didn’t know either. First time it hit, I thought I was dying. No exaggeration, I seriously thought I was, like, having a heart attack or something. Y'know, chest all locked up, couldn’t breathe, hands were shaking so bad I dropped my keys. I was in a parking lot, just sittin’ there, spiraling hard, and it felt like my whole fuckin' brain turned against me.
[ He absently taps the wheel with his fingertips, a rhythm that doesn't belong to the music but maybe once belonged to him. ]
I didn’t tell anybody. Just went home and looked it up online. Like...'hey Google, why does it feel like I'm dying?’ Got a million answers. Panic attack was one of ‘em.
[ His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. More like a grim understanding. ]
Anyway. All that to say, uh, you can’t really fix it. Not totally. It comes back, sometimes. Sneaks up on you when you're just tryna live. But that breathing thing helps. Grounding, too. Like, name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear; that kinda thing. Sounds dumb but it slows it down. Keeps you, like, I dunno, tethered.
[ He glances out the windshield, watching the horizon shimmer in the heat. the road stretches out like it’s daring them to keep going. He thinks about telling Wanda more; about the times the weight cracked him wide open, the names he doesn’t say out loud anymore. Jane. Combo. His aunt Ginny. People he lost, pieces of himself he’ll never get back. But that kind of grief? That stays inside for now. You don’t hand that over to someone who’s still learning how to breathe again. Instead, he reminisces aloud, goes back to the topic of music: ]
I used to play drums. Me and some friends had this band. It was mostly just noise in a garage, but we thought we had somethin' to say.
[ He chuckles under his breath, small and fond. How times have changed. ]
no subject
Yeah. I didn’t know either. First time it hit, I thought I was dying. No exaggeration, I seriously thought I was, like, having a heart attack or something. Y'know, chest all locked up, couldn’t breathe, hands were shaking so bad I dropped my keys. I was in a parking lot, just sittin’ there, spiraling hard, and it felt like my whole fuckin' brain turned against me.
[ He absently taps the wheel with his fingertips, a rhythm that doesn't belong to the music but maybe once belonged to him. ]
I didn’t tell anybody. Just went home and looked it up online. Like...'hey Google, why does it feel like I'm dying?’ Got a million answers. Panic attack was one of ‘em.
[ His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. More like a grim understanding. ]
Anyway. All that to say, uh, you can’t really fix it. Not totally. It comes back, sometimes. Sneaks up on you when you're just tryna live. But that breathing thing helps. Grounding, too. Like, name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear; that kinda thing. Sounds dumb but it slows it down. Keeps you, like, I dunno, tethered.
[ He glances out the windshield, watching the horizon shimmer in the heat. the road stretches out like it’s daring them to keep going. He thinks about telling Wanda more; about the times the weight cracked him wide open, the names he doesn’t say out loud anymore. Jane. Combo. His aunt Ginny. People he lost, pieces of himself he’ll never get back. But that kind of grief? That stays inside for now. You don’t hand that over to someone who’s still learning how to breathe again. Instead, he reminisces aloud, goes back to the topic of music: ]
I used to play drums. Me and some friends had this band. It was mostly just noise in a garage, but we thought we had somethin' to say.
[ He chuckles under his breath, small and fond. How times have changed. ]