Come What May

24. confinement

trigger warning: panic attack. there's a recap at the end of the chapter, stay safe.

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CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CONFINEMENT

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• saturday, april 24th •

My fever has reduced considerably over the past seventy two hours, but the tightness, the ache in my chest has only increased.

It isn't a rubber-band-stretched-too-tight pain, and it isn't a weight-of-the-world-smashing-my-ribcage pain. It's a latent pain, slowly festering, termites nipping at my sternum kind of pain.

I googled it last night when my brain was refusing to shut off— the reason for the tightness in my chest. For the burn in it. WebMD, Healthline, SELF, all the sites said the same thing, had the same lists with the same bullet points.

Asthma, acid reflux, the flu, bronchitis, heart attack, common cold, anxiety, stress.

If the pain really is a heart attack, then that would be the peak of irony.

Through unfocused eyes, I pour myself a cup of coffee, and then another. Piping hot, but maybe it's better for my throat this way. It definitely doesn't serve as a good enough alternative to regular food, but considering I could barely stomach the leftovers that I ate for dinner yesterday, I'd rather not take any chances.

The coffee burns when it travels down my throat, and I'm almost certain the two cups will result in shaky hands and an inability to model, and maybe, it'll come right back up as soon as I get home again, but I pay no heed to it. My hands are shaky with or without coffee, and this is the only thing that'll help me stay awake and look awake enough for the video shoot today.

I do everything that I did on the day of the "practice shoot". Wear the same t-shirt, don't greet the same old ladies who've been asking me if I'm okay for the past two weeks now, smile at the dog. I do the exact same things that I did yesterday, because maybe, just maybe, I can have a repeat of that day minus every bad thing that took place.

Minus the swearing at Storm for the first time, swearing at anyone for the first time, minus the fever that's still there but isn't as intense as it was yesterday, thankfully, minus the crying and coughing until Rafael comes by, their eyes filled with pity as they book me a cab back home.

I already know that Storm was the one who asked him to get me a cab. That seems like something that they'd do without anyone even asking, and if anyone brought it up later, they'd brush it off as if it's nothing.

God, I messed everything up with them. Everything.

This time, I don't take a taxi, opting to drive because if there's one thing I realised on the ride back three days ago, it's that taxi drivers ask way too many questions about why your eyes are red-rimmed and why your coughs sound like a chainsmoker's every day voice.

I reach the set for the shoot exactly three minutes before eleven, and just like the previous time, someone is grabbing at my hand and tugging me to a corner with them.

It isn't Russel, though.

"What do—"

"You hear about the shit that they're pulling?" Oscar hisses, death grip on my wrist only tightening. And I have no idea what's going on, so I just give him a wide-eyed shake of my head.