Let the Sun Be Seen; Kenji Kishimoto

𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗘𝗡, 𝗧𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗢𝗡𝗘

The young boy follows without complaint, his small hand on my back rubbing up and down as Ingrid, gray hair shining as she takes my hand, leads me somewhere safer.

My shoes drag slightly across the gravel. I can feel the small rocks and dirt getting stuck underneath the crevices of my shoe. If I hadn't been in this state, I would have been mortified at the idea of willingly getting my shoes dirty.

The fresh breeze hitting my face offers a momentary respite, and I attempt to count again. When I'm on my fourth round, we arrive at a small house.

A one-story house, the outside painted white, surrounded by an array of colorful plants. The closer I get, the more details I pick up—the shoe rack near the door that holds only two pairs of sandals.

I recognize it immediately and feel a wave of relief sweep over me. I'm safe. I'm okay. Ingrid is here. She's taking care of me.

The woman, Ingrid, rushes me inside and insists I sit on her couch. She pushes me down gently until my back sinks into the cushions.

Here, the embarrassment doesn't hit as hard, knowing that someone close to me witnessed my breakdown. But the fear, the lingering panic, the echoes of my own helplessness still hover, refusing to fully dissipate.

"What if no one was there? Christ, I'm about to have a heart attack," Ingrid rapidly exclaims, her voice tinged with both frustration and concern. She leaves my side, hurrying into the nearby kitchen.

Looking down at my lap, my face heats up as I replay the events in my mind.

Ingrid has seen my panic attacks countless times. She's told me repeatedly that it's nothing to be ashamed of, but the thought always creeps up on me, gnawing at my confidence.

She returns not long after, carrying a bowl of apples—my favorite. She crouches down in front of me, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and compassion. I don't know which you love more in this moment.

"Match my breathing, okay?"

With a curt nod, I follow her lead.

We breathe together. One in. One out. Over and over, until soon, our breaths align perfectly.

I clasp my hands together, breaking eye contact as I examine her cozy home. My vision has cleared, not completely, but enough to make out my surroundings from blobs.

The young boy who came with us finds my gaze. It's obvious who it is.

James, his blonde hair a little disheveled but still neat. His bright green eyes stare back at me, filled with a fear and concern. He looks scared, and just like me, he breaks eye contact, looking down at his own hands.

"Thank God James and I were out there. You were against the wall—and oh," Ingrid pauses to take a breath, out of air from how fast she was talking. "—just panicking. Well, how are you feeling now?"

She stands up, moving to sit next to me, and hands me the bowl of apples. I grab one, turning the sliced piece over in my hand, staring at the ragged, chopped lines. I keep staring at the apple instead of eating it, the rhythm of my pulse still throbbing in my ears.

"I'm fine now, I think. But I'm okay, thank you for helping me," I mutter, attempting to give her a slight smile. It doesn't convince her, and she fixes me with a serious look.

"Come on, Rome, this has happened too much. I'm here, James is here, we're always going to be there for you—understand that, okay?" She grabs my free hand, her grip firm and reassuring, making sure her words sink in.

"I understand. Please don't worry about me too much, Ingrid." She sighs, one that expresses the frustration and worry she's feeling. Clearly not in the mood to argue further.

Up until I met Ingrid, I had dealt with these attacks alone. She had helped me through each one, but eventually, they became so frequent that I began to see them as just another part of my day.

Ingrid stepped in as the mother figure I didn't have, guiding me through the chaos of my teenage years. We both sold produce on the same street, making us familiar with each other.

When we had our first real conversation, she was startled to hear my age and took me under her wing without a second thought. I'm eighteen now, but she still treats me as she did when I was thirteen, and it's a debt I try to repay every day.

She's one of the precious things I keep close to me.

From the corner of my eye, I see James staring hard, his hands balled up at the hem of his shirt, a habit he developed whenever he was nervous. I turn my head slightly to the right, waving him over.

With widened eyes, he takes his time reaching me, one hesitant step at a time, his head bowed downwards, avoiding my eyes at all costs.

"James," I call out gently. The second time I say his name a little louder, he finally responds.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his voice small and weary, his hands still clutching his shirt, forming a tight ball.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay to look at me." With the invitation, he cautiously lifts his gaze. He stares at me with longing before rushing forward to grasp me in a hug.

I flinch at the sudden affection but quickly wrap my arms around him, swiftly putting the bowl containing apples by my side.

"I didn't mean it, I swear—"

"Trust me, James, I believe you one hundred percent. Don't worry, okay?" I quickly interrupt his rambling, pulling away slightly to hold his shoulders.

At his young age, he's seen more horrid things than any child should. Despite being just a boy, he insists on apologizing for the bare minimum. It hurts just to see.

His furrowed eyebrows, slightly red ears, and concentrated face are endearing; I know he's taking this seriously.

The couch dips as Ingrid stands and walks over to the kitchen, glancing at the clock. Her face contorts into a slight scowl before settling back into a resting expression.

"You guys should get going soon; it's almost curfew. The couch is too small for both of you to share," she calls out, opening a cabinet and pulling out a basket, placing it on the counter as she gathers a few items.

It's still pretty sunny out, the sun peering out through the window cast the living room lighting. Even if it might be 'early', it's always better to be safe than sorry.

Better to arrive early than face the cruel consequences of the Reestablishment.

"Yeah, we should." I release my hold on James' shoulders. The young boy, clearly excited at the thought of going home, runs to the door, ready to open it as he places his hand on the handle.

"Ah ah, not so fast—" Ingrid rushes to me as I start to get up, shoving the basket into my hands. Her wrinkled but soft skin brushes against mine. Inside are three sandwiches, the smell of their freshness making my mouth water.

"Ingrid, you don't have to, seriously," I protest, feeling guilty for all she's done. I give her a shaky smile, but she ignores my pleas and gently pushes me toward the door, her hands guiding me.

"Get home safe, you two. Have a good night's rest. Let me know if anything happens, okay?"

"Of course. I'll drop by when I can." With a smile, James opens the door and holds it for me as I step out. "Wait—"

I turn to see Ingrid staring at me with pursed lips. "Please, Rome, if you need me, I'll be there. Sweet dreams."

"I know you will. Don't worry too much about me. Don't let the bed bugs bite," I reassure her.

She scoffs, waving us off. James gives her a big wave before closing the door behind us, leaving us to face the journey back home.