Connor glances over at me, confused, frowning. "Ty?"
I can't breathe, oh my God, I'm sorry - I didn't mean - I -
"I - "
He smiles. "It - it's okay, Troye. Who's this 'Ty'? I don't think there's anyone here who could have that as a nickname," he muses, starting to play again, but stopping when he sees my face. "Troye?"
I stumble backwards -
oh my God -
"I - "
I've hit the wall and I'm falling -
I can't -
Everything is dark, I can make out shapes in the darkness, a girl crying silently next to me, a desk leg shining in the darkness, the light from the hallways leaking in and shining on someone's forgotten pencil. Flyers, advertisements, notices calling all students to join JSA and come see the school play, it's going to be wonderful!
Jamey is too loud.
Silence, silence, we have to be quiet now -
quiet -
I'm screaming.
But I can't hear myself.
My throat is raw and the light hurts my eyes, but I can see, there aren't any all-encompassing shadows here; I can make out each grain of wood on the stool, each piece of paint having been peeled off of the doorway and fallen onto the ground, the random shapes and sizes and images scattering the doorway where Connor had been leaning on -
Connor.
He's staring at me, and I realize I'm still screaming. He's shocked and I realize that I'm safe. There are tears in his eyes and I realize that I'm still shaking.
He puts his arms out, stepping towards me slowly and falling to his knees as if surrendering to an enemy soldier or approaching a wild animal or a wounded puppy howling at the night sky.
I am all of the above.
"Troye," he whispers. "Please stop screaming, breathe - "
He doesn't know what to do, so he sits next to me, hesitating too long between his movements, one finger wiping away a tear and his hand on my knee, on my hand -
"Troye, breathe," he whispers.
I can't -
I have no control -
Oh my God.
"I - I - I'm s-sorry," I sob, dragging myself towards the door, but I can't move, I can't focus, he's staring at me and I can't be quiet, why can't I stop crying?
Connor stands up, moving to sit on the other side of me. "Troye," he says softly, "you're safe, you're okay, everything's okay, please stop screaming."
Am I screaming?
I close my mouth, my shaking hands covering my lips and wrapping around my throat.
I can't hear myself breathe; I can't hear my heartbeat; maybe I'm not alive.
I hope I'm not.
"Troye, please breathe, take a breath, please..." Connor pleads, taking my hands.
I shiver at his touch.
"Breathe, Troye," he says softly, taking my hand and rubbing small circles of warmth into it, taking my shivering, my shaking, my terrified, hands into his own and holding them, pleading with me, hoping, telling me to breathe.
I breathe.