Okay, i guess

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I'm sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling out of control. It's been a long day, and I should be able to relax by now, but something feels off. My heart is racing for no reason, and there's this tightness in my chest that I can't shake.

I tell myself it's nothing—just stress from work, maybe. But as the minutes tick by, the feeling gets worse. I start pacing back and forth, hoping that moving will help me calm down. But instead, my breath catches in my throat, and suddenly, it's like the walls are closing in on me.

I know what this is. I've had panic attacks before, but it's never hit me this hard, this fast. Usually, I'd call one of my friends, just to hear a familiar voice and ground myself. But tonight, I can't bring myself to reach out. The thought of telling someone that I'm falling apart makes everything feel worse, like I'm drowning in this pressure to keep it together.

My hands are trembling now, and I feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I sit down on the edge of my bed, trying to breathe deeply, but my chest feels like it's been locked in a vice. I can't breathe—I can't *think*—and for a split second, I feel like I'm going to pass out.

I need help. But who do I call? My mind races, and then I think of Mom. She's always known how to help me calm down, even when I was a kid and the world felt too big. I fumble for my phone, barely able to hold it steady as I dial her number.

It rings once, twice, three times, and I almost hang up, afraid she won't answer, afraid she will. Then her voice comes through, warm and comforting. "Nick? Honey, what's wrong?"

Hearing her voice is like a lifeline, but the words still stick in my throat. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky, "Mom, I... I can't..."

I don't need to say more. She knows. "Nick, listen to me," she says, her tone firm but gentle. "I'm here. Just breathe with me, okay? In...and out. Slow and steady."

I try to follow her lead, focusing on her voice instead of the fear that's clawing at my chest. It's hard, but after a few minutes, I feel the tightness in my chest start to loosen, just a little.

"Good, Nick, that's good," she says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. "You're going to be okay. I'm right here."

Tears sting my eyes, and I hate that I'm like this—that I need her to talk me through this when I should be able to handle it on my own. But she doesn't judge, doesn't push. She just stays on the line, breathing with me, until the worst of it passes.

When my breathing finally slows and the panic begins to ebb, I let out a shaky sigh. "Thanks, Mom," I whisper, my voice still trembling.

"You don't have to thank me," she says softly. "I'm always here for you, Nicky. Don't ever forget that."

I nod, even though she can't see me, feeling a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. I'm still not okay, but I'm better than I was. And for now, that's enough.

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