Coming Up For Air | ✓

1 | inhale

There's a comfort in knowing it's right there, waiting for her once she's ready.

━ ♡♡♡ ━

Despite the towel loosely draped around her shoulders, water still drips from her hair, trickles down her skin, to join the dew lingering across the newly mowed lawn as Stella treks back up the slight hill from the dock to the house.

The birds have awoken now too, chirping from their tree branches and the roof of the two-story house. The buzz of a lone bee accompanies them, whirling about the path of flowers to the left of the garden.

Though the inside of the house looks the same – as if no one has touched it at all in the years she's been gone – the exterior has been provided a facelift. The once flaked green walls are now painted in a light gray, melting together effortlessly well with the terra-cotta of the simple yet elegant stone patio and its woven furniture.

As she steps onto it, leaving a trail of wet footsteps in her wake, she drops her towel to the backrest of one of the lounge chairs and slips into the oversized white cotton shirt she left there upon heading down to the dock.

The patio is still covered in comfortable shade, the sun yet to have moved far or high enough on the sky to shine its light upon the stone floor, making it a perfect contender for a spot to have her breakfast.

Though, considering she didn't arrive to Blue Wildflower Lake with the coach-bus until late last night, she has to first navigate her way to a grocery store. She wonders if they're open yet; she may as well make it a walk instead of a bike ride into the town hub to better her chances of not having to wait impatiently outside the door.

But, step one: get dressed.

She never did spend as much time here during the summers growing up as the rest of her family. The house has never been hers, but stepping back through the wide sliding doors into the kitchen, there's a familiarity to it all. It does feel a lot like returning home.

Just as she's about to close the door behind her, a gust of air travels through the house – fluttering the sheer floor-length beige curtains and the fabric of her shirt.

Her brows knit together, a trail of goosebumps prickling her skin from the wind. She's almost completely certain the breeze did not come from the back of the house.

Whirling around on her feet, eyes scanning the open-concept first floor of the house, her heartbeat picks up speed.

The front door is wide open.

Paranoia settles in her chest, getting the overhand before her mind has even had the chance to catch up.

Instinctively, without even beginning to search for valid reasons the door would have swung open on its own, she reaches out for one of the knives stood in the stand on the wooden kitchen island.

Fight or flight.

That's what they always tell you about the human stress response.

The Psychology Today writers. The TED-talkers. The eager Behavioral Science majors.

Each an expert in their own right.

Stella used to be one of them.

Early mornings spent in the pool, relishing in the home it provided her even during the most straining practices. Nights spent delving far too deep into whatever had caught her interest that week – turning every horrifyingly fascinating psychological aspect of matters such as Abu Ghraib inside out and upside down, pencil between her teeth and cup of tea by her side long forgotten.