So this—
This is agony.
This is what they talk about when they talk about heartbreak. I thought I knew what it was like before. I thought I knew, with perfect clarity, what it felt like to have my heart broken, but now—now I finally understand.
Before? When Juliette couldn’t decide between myself and Kent? That pain? That was child’s play.
But this.
This is suffering. This is full, unadulterated torture. And I have no one to blame for this pain but myself, which makes it impossible to direct my anger anywhere but inward. If I weren’t better informed, I’d think I were having an actual heart attack. It feels as though a truck has run over me, broken every bone in my chest, and now it’s stuck here, the weight of it crushing my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t even see straight.
My heart is pounding in my ears. Blood is rushing to my head too quickly and it’s making me hot and dizzy. I’m strangled into speechlessness, numb in my bones. I feel nothing but an immense, impossible pressure breaking apart my body. I fall backward, hard. My head is against the wall. I try to calm myself, calm my breathing. I try to be rational.
This is not a heart attack, I tell myself. Not a heart attack.
I know better.
I’m having a panic attack.
This has happened to me just once before, and then the pain had materialized as if out of a nightmare, out of nowhere, with no warning. I’d woken up in the middle of the night seized by a violent terror I could not articulate, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was dying. Eventually, the episode passed, but the experience never left me.
And now, this—
I thought I was prepared. I thought I had steeled myself against the possible outcome of today’s conversation. I was wrong.
I can feel it devouring me.
This pain.
I’ve struggled with occasional anxiety over the course of my life, but I’ve generally been able to manage it. In the past, my experiences had always been associated with this work. With my father. But the older I got, the less powerless I became, and I found ways to manage my triggers; I found the safe spaces in my mind; I educated myself in cognitive behavioral therapies; and with time, I learned to cope. The anxiety came on with far less weight and frequency. But very rarely, it morphs into something else. Sometimes it spirals entirely out of my control.
And I don’t know how to save myself this time.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fight it now, not when I no longer know what I’m fighting for. And I’ve just collapsed, supine on the floor, my hand pressed against the pain in my chest, when the door suddenly opens.
I feel my heart restart.
I lift my head half an inch and wait. Hoping against hope.
“Hey, man, where the hell are you?”
I drop my head with a groan. Of all the people.
“Hello?” Footsteps. “I know you’re in here. And why is this room such a mess? Why are there boxes and bedsheets everywhere?”
Silence.
“Bro, where are you? I just saw Juliette and she was freaking out, but she wouldn’t tell me why, and I know your punkass is probably hiding in here like a little—”
And then there he is.
His boots right next to my head.
Staring at me.
“Hi,” I say. It’s all I can manage at the moment.
Kenji is looking down at me, stunned.
“What in the fresh hell are you doing on the ground? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?” And then, “Wait—were you crying?”
I close my eyes, pray to die.
“What’s going on?” His voice is suddenly closer than it was before, and I realize he must be crouching next to me. “What’s wrong with you, man?”
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper.
“What do you mean, you can’t breathe? Did she shoot you again?”
That reminder spears straight through me. Fresh, searing pain.
God, I hate him so much.
I swallow, hard. “Please. Leave.”
“Uh, no.” I hear the rustle of movement as he sits down beside me. “What is this?” he says, gesturing to my body. “What’s happening to you right now?”
Finally, I give up. Open my eyes. “I’m having a panic attack, you inconsiderate ass.” I try to take a breath. “And I’d really like some privacy.”
His eyebrows fly up. “You’re having a what-now?”
“Panic.” I breathe. “Attack.”
“What the hell is that?”
“I have medicine. In the bathroom. Please.”
He shoots me a strange look, but does as I ask. He returns in a moment with the right bottle, and I’m relieved.
“This it?”
I nod. I’ve never actually taken this medication before, but I’ve kept the prescription current at my medic’s request. In case of emergencies.
“You want some water with that?”
I shake my head. Snatch the bottle from him with shaking hands. I can’t remember the right dosage, but as I so rarely have an attack this severe, I take a guess. I pop three of the pills in my mouth and bite down, hard, welcoming the vile, bitter taste on my tongue.
It’s only several minutes later, after the medicine begins to work its magic, that the metaphorical truck is finally extricated from its position on my chest. My ribs magically restitch themselves. My lungs remember to do their job.
And I feel suddenly limp. Exhausted.
Slow.
I drag myself up, stumble to my feet.
“Now do you want to tell me what’s going on here?” Kenji is still staring at me, arms crossed against his chest. “Or should I go ahead and assume you did something horrible and just beat the shit out of you?”
I feel so tired suddenly.
A laugh builds in my chest and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I manage to fight back the laugh, but fail to hide a stupid, inexplicable smile as I say, “You should probably just beat the shit out of me.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Kenji’s expression changes. His eyes are suddenly, genuinely concerned and I worry I’ve said too much. These drugs are slowing me down, softening my senses. I touch a hand to my lips, beg them to stay closed. I hope I haven’t taken too much of the medicine.
“Hey,” Kenji says gently. “What happened?”
I shake my head. Close my eyes. “What happened?” Now I actually laugh. “What happened, what happened.” I open my eyes long enough to say, “Juliette broke up with me.”
“What?”
“That is, I think she did?” I stop. Frown. Tap a finger against my chin. “I imagine that’s why she ran out of here screaming.”
“But—why would she break up with you? Why was she crying?”
At this, I laugh again. “Because I,” I say, pointing at myself, “am a monster.”
Kenji looks confused. “And how is that news to anyone?”
I smile. He’s funny, I think. Funny guy.
“Where did I leave my shirt?” I mumble, feeling suddenly numb in a whole new way. I cross my arms. Squint. “Hmm? Have you seen it anywhere?”
“Bro, are you drunk?”
“What?” I slap at the air. Laugh. “I don’t drink. My father is an alcoholic, didn’t you know? I don’t touch the stuff. No, wait”—I hold up a finger—“was an alcoholic. My father was an alcoholic. He’s dead now. Quite dead.”
And then I hear Kenji gasp. It’s loud and strange and he whispers, “Holy shit,” and it’s enough to sharpen my senses for a second.
I turn around to face him.
He looks terrified.
“What is it?” I say, annoyed.
“What happened to your back?”
“Oh.” I look away, newly irritated. “That.” The many, many scars that make up the disfiguration of my entire back. I take a deep breath. Exhale. “Those are just, you know, birthday gifts from dear old dad.”
“Birthday gifts from your dad?” Kenji blinks, fast. Looks around, speaks to the air. “What the hell kind of soap opera did I just walk into here?” He runs a hand through his hair and says, “Why am I always getting involved in other people’s personal shit? Why can’t I just mind my own business? Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?”
“You know,” I say to him, tilting my head slightly, “I’ve always wondered the same thing.”
“Shut up.”
I smile, big. Lightbulb bright.
Kenji’s eyes widen, surprised, and he laughs. He nods at my face and says, “Aw, you’ve got dimples. I didn’t know that. That’s cute.”
“Shut up.” I frown. “Go away.”
He laughs harder. “I think you took way too many of those medicine thingies,” he says to me, picking up the bottle I left on the floor. He scans the label. “It says you’re only supposed to take one every three hours.” He laughs again. Louder this time. “Shit, man, if I didn’t know you were in a world of pain right now, I’d be filming this.”
“I’m very tired,” I say to him. “Please go directly to hell.”
“No way, freak show. I’m not missing this.” He leans against the wall. “Plus, I’m not going anywhere until your drunkass tells me why you and J broke up.”
I shake my head. Finally manage to find a shirt and put it on.
“Yeah, you put that on backward,” Kenji says to me.
I glare at him and fall into bed. Close my eyes.
“So?” he says, sitting down next to me. “Should I get the popcorn? What’s going on?”
“It’s classified.”
Kenji makes a sound of disbelief. “What’s classified? Why you broke up is classified? Or did you break up over classified information?”
“Yes.”
“Throw me a freaking bone here.”
“We broke up,” I say, pulling a pillow over my eyes, “because of information I shared with her that is, as I said, classified.”
“What? Why? That doesn’t make any sense.” A pause. “Unless—”
“Oh good, I can practically hear the tiny gears in your tiny brain turning.”
“You lied to her about something?” he says. “Something you should’ve told her? Something classified—about her?”
I wave a hand at nothing in particular. “The man’s a genius.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yes,” I say. “Very much shit.”
He exhales a long, hard breath. “That sounds pretty serious.”
“I am an idiot.”
He clears his throat. “So, uh, you really screwed up this time, huh?”
“Quite thoroughly, I’m afraid.”
Silence.
“Wait—tell me again why all these sheets are on the floor?”
At that, I pull the pillow away from my face. “Why do you think they’re on the floor?”
A second’s hesitation and then,
“Oh, what—c’mon, man, what the hell.” Kenji jumps off the bed looking disgusted. “Why would you let me sit here?” He stalks off to the other side of the room. “You guys are just—Jesus—that is just not okay—”
“Grow up.”
“I am grown.” He scowls at me. “But Juliette’s like my sister, man, I don’t want to think about that shit—”
“Well, don’t worry,” I say to him, “I’m sure it’ll never happen again.”
“All right, all right, drama queen, calm down. And tell me about this classified business.”