I can feel it happening again. The invisible noose is so tight I almost choke on my food.
My legs start bobbing up and down under the dinner table as a cold flush runs through my body.
My name leaves my dad's mouth, but I don't entirely comprehend what he's saying. I look between him and my brother, trying to get a clue.
I'm a chapter behind in AP World History assigned reading, and the longer I sit here, the closer I get to failing.
"W-what was that?" I ask, trying to stay tethered to the moment.
"How was school today?" Dad asks again. Little does he know, it's the segueway I need.
I lean my head back as if I've come to a realization. "I forgot. I have homework I need to get done so I should probably, you know..."
He gives me a concerned look and I ignore the suspicion in Lucas's eyes. "You're not done with your food yet," my dad says.
I look at the plate. I've eaten half of my steak and some of the aspargus, but I no longer have an appetite. "I'm full. I had a snack after school."
"Indi, you shouldn't be stressing out so soon in the school year."
I swallow, not replying for a long moment.
Does he think I don't know that? When I'm not distracted by schoolwork, I'm drowning in dread for what stress could do to me. I know who I become and it's not like I want that.
"I know, but it's junior year. There's a bigger workload," I reply.
My father considers it for a moment before replying. "Okay. But when we get to Georgia I expect you to take a break, alright?"
"I'll get all my homework done before we leave." I stand up from my chair then bring my plate and silverware to the sink.
He nods. "Alright, Indi. I love you."
"Love you too, Dad."
When I finish the last of my homework–which only took me about thirty minutes–my heart is still beating its quick drum in my ear.
I glance out the window in front of my desk, glad to see the sun still barely in the sky. Since my brother had nothing baseball related today, we ate dinner a few hours early, which means I don't have to go for a run in the dark.
My body has since gotten used to running again since I've gone for a jog almost every day this past week and a half.
I'm sure my seventh grade self would go into cardiac arrest if someone told her that I've become a runner, though she'd probably be relieved to know I've found a way to cope with the anxiety.
It doesn't make it go away completely, but it's a good starting place.
And I want to cry every time I imagine telling my younger-selfs that we've made it this far.
After putting on a random black tank top and a matching pair of shorts, I slide my grey running shoes over white socks that go up to my ankles.
I do a quick round of stretches in my room with the new playlist I made for running playing into my AirPods.
Once I'm done, I discreetly slip out of the house.
It doesn't take long for me to decide that I want to switch up routes.
I start with crossing the street.
My eyes linger on Ezra's house for a moment too long, but that's only because the memory of his laughter oddly invades my brain.
Hey Angel by One Direction begins playing and I turn up the volume of my AirPods, shaking away every last distraction.