Exotic

~ foot meet mouth ~

content warning: this chapter contain a description of a panic attack. if this is triggering for you in any way, i have placed a * at the start, and another * where it's safe to read from :)

Alba was, thankfully, alone when I burst through her office door looking a hot mess. She looked up from her desk in surprise, but her expression quickly shifted to concern. She stood quickly, tall and beautiful and graceful as ever, and waved me inside. She was wearing a silver dress with a delicate little belt, and her nails matched. The sight of her alone calmed my racing heart.

Her perfect eyebrows were scrunched together in a hard V. "Miles? Are you alright?"

Knowing the question would be asked hadn't prepared me for it in the slightest. I tried for a deep breath, wound up making a strangled noise, and slumped forward, my backpack still hanging halfway out the door. My head was spinning, and the floor seemed to be vibrating beneath my feet.

"No."

I stood there, dripping onto her freshly vacuumed carpet until I felt a gentle hand resting on my shoulder.

"Sit down," she encouraged.

I let her lead me to my usual seat and I collapsed into it, bag and all. I opened my mouth to speak, to apologise for bursting in on her when she probably had other things to get done, only to find a box of tissues forced under my nose.

I grabbed a handful and hid my undoubtedly blotchy face in them/ "Thank you."

She remained standing, her feet strapped into sensible yet stylish black heels. I focused on the cute little buckle resting above her ankles, sitting on the slender bone bleeding into her calf. It reminded me of my own knobbly ankles, and other undesirable features.

I wiped my face and bunched the tissues in my fist, which rested under my chin. Alba watched me with her glossy lips downturned. One slender hand was spread out on the table, and up close I could see each nail was decorated in an inkblot design.

I cleared my throat before I was completely ready to talk, but she was a busy woman and I didn't want to waste her time. "You shouldn't have called my house last week."

She had the decency to look bashful. "I know we agreed that your guardian would not be involved in your treatment, but I was quite worried when you missed our session last week. When I saw you had been marked absent in your afternoon classes... I wanted to make sure you were safe."

"So you called my house?" I demanded weakly. I didn't have the energy to start a real fight with my therapist.

"I didn't disclose anything other than your absence. Which he would have received a message about regardless," she was being surprisingly stubborn on the issue. She wasn't usually so insistent. "Miles, we need to talk about..."

"Am I allowed to be here?" I asked anxiously. "It's not my slot. I should have knocked before coming in. I can come back tomorrow."

"Miles, it's fine," she said firmly, as I started to climb out of my seat. "I have someone coming in a little while, but I have time now. Sit down. Sit down."

I did, legs splayed out in front of me, head in my hands. Alba rose and walked to shut the door, which immediately made my panic spike. No way out. The walls, decked in their cheerful, neon posters telling me Everything, at the end of the day, will be fine. The sun will rise tomorrow, pressed in around me. I'd never been claustrophobic, but the combined colours and enclosed space made my head spin and my stomach tighten.

"Does your mum knows you're gay?" I asked her bluntly. Before she could answer, likely with a deflection because my question was way out of line, I kept talking, confessions tumbling out of me. "Mine doesn't. Didn't. I never got to tell her. I knew, and I never told her and I've been thinking about it and I cannot think why I fucking lied to her. While she was dying."