Dylan has always one to never be able to hide his emotions. Luckily, he didn't have to, since Scarlett was always at his side.
Until Dallas comes along. That boy takes his heart and keeps it hidden away, unable for Dylan to ever find back. And just...
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Tw: Panic attack
"Scarlett! Wait!" I yell.
I pant as I catch up on her. "No fit, Dylan?" she giggles. I shoot her a glare. "I ran from block D, give me a second."
We walk to the parking spot, but I stop her when she heads for her car? Confused, she frowns at me. "Scarlett, I..." I don't know how to say this.
"I just saw Mike," I whisper. A look of pure terror crosses on her face. "He's back?" I nod, feeling nothing but sympathy for her.
He's such a bastard.
"He's in my class, sorry sweetie." she brushes it off and places a smile on her face. I never get how she does that so easily.
"So, do we have any news from Dallas yet?" she teases. I blush and shake my head. She finally got it out of me I have a crush on him a few weeks back, and now she's checking on updates everyday.
Nothing much has happened yet.
"See you Monday?"she grins. I nod, happy it's weekend. I need to study a lot, I have four tests next week!
She winks at me when I nod. Uh oh. "Guess what we're doing then?" I shrug. "As long as it isn't asking Dallas out..."
I'd die.
But she smirks, making me have a heart attack. "No! Scarlett, I am going to literally die! You know how bad I am with people!"
"Well, then make you better with people," she mocks. I wince at myself. I am such a loser.
I say goodbye and run to my car. If I'm home, at least I can't embarrass myself there. I know Scarlett loves me, but I can't help but feel she'll get a new, better best friend. One who does talk to other people than her.
One who is not a loser, hopeless and boring.
I lock myself in my room and feel my leg bouncing from the anxiety I held in today. One class, the teacher scolded me for not knowing the answer. I got so ashamed I ran to the restroom and stayed there for the whole hour.
I stand up, trying to calm down. I feel a panic attack coming, but I won't let it come that far. My hands are sweaty, I shake them a bit.
I walk in a circle, trying to stay here with my mind. Make lists, Dylan. That's what Mom advised.
1. The tests are small quizzes, no problem.
2. That presentation in English will go fine, your partner can say the most.
3. Scarlett, will forget about the asking Dallas out part.
4. It's not a bad thing if the teacher scolds you, you didn't get detention.
5. Mom said yesterday she's proud of your work, it's okay.
It's okay.
It's okay.
It's okay.
It's not.
I frown, desperate to stop this attack. I don't want this. I hate the feeling of losing the control over my body like that.
But I feel my heart beating furiously in my chest and the room starts spinning. No. Please no.
I feel like crying. This isn't even a good reason to have a panic attack, yet here I am trying too control my breathing.
"M-Mom?" I try to call. I tried, but I can't do this alone.
"I'm doing laundry, Dylan! What's wrong, sweetheart?" she yells back. I let out a relieved puff. At least she's home.
"Can you— can y-you please come?" Tears start running out of my eyes. This is not a good thing. I sit down on the edge of my bed, breathing in shakily.
My hands are trembling terribly, my arms are too. I let out a soft cry. This is exactly what I was fearing.
The noise of a door opening sounds somewhere faint, far away. A muted voice. "Dylan? Dylan, honey, look at me."
Are they talking to me?
I blink and move my gaze up with a lot of effort. I am pressed against something soft, after which something else wraps around my back. It's a hug.
This is nice. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My lungs are a little more open. "Oh, yes, honey! Breath in, breath out. you're doing so good, sweetheart. I love you, I'm proud of you."
I hug back tighter and sob. The haze where my hearing was muted goes away and I hear her more clearly now. "Wow, look at you doing so well!"
"I-I'm—sorry." I gasp for air. She releases me a bit, leaving air for me to breathe. I take deep breaths, thankful for the air coming back into my lungs.
"Ah, honey. This is not something to be sorry for." She frowns as she takes my hands in her. She squeezes them, but I can't look up at her.
I'm just too ashamed.
"Do I need to call Scarlett?" Her soft voice sounds through the room again. I shake my head. "No! She-she doesn't need to know," I whisper.
She frowns, concerned. "Dylan, what if this happens at school? It's happened multiple times now, this can't go on."
I shrug, pained with the fact she knows I have panic attacks and anxiety. No, Scarlett can't know. One is enough.
"I'll take care of it," I whisper. Exhaustion takes over my body and I slump. "Can I please take a nap? I'll help you with dinner after."
She sighs. "Dylan, this is not about paying back with helping in the house. This is about you and your health!"
I wince. "Dad says it's just a phase, just like my se—" "Dad is an idiot," Mom sighs, making me look up at her. "Really?"
She shrugs. "Who cares if you like boys? I like them too. But back to this problem, Dylan. Don't switch the subject," she warns. I sigh.
"It is not just a phase. If we don't search help, this will end badly. I'm serious here, honey. We are going to a therapist tomorrow." Her tone is stern.
"Mom, I—" "I love you? I will listen to you? Ahw, I know, sweetheart. Take your nap, I'll wake you up in an hour," she winks and stands up. I sigh, frowning. "Mom, I don't want to go to a therapist," I whimper, looking down again.
She sits back down and pulls me close, an arm around my shoulders. "Why not? It might help you with the anxiety, social or performance. And with the pressure Dad is putting on your shoulders."
"T-that's true, but therapy is for people who have it worse than me," I whisper. "Like... people who are sexually assaulted, or victims of rape."
She clicks her tongue. "Nah uh uh. That's where you're going wrong, sweetie. Yes, those people have a therapist. But don't you think you deserve one too? Wouldn't you like to spill everything out once or twice a week?"
I frown. "Yeah..."
"Well then. I am not a victim of abuse, but I go to therapy too." My eyes widen. "Really? Why?" She shrugs, smiling softly at me.
"Because I feel like it. I talk with her about my week and how shitty your dad is. Sometimes I talk about my son too, and how proud I am to have a son like him."
I swallow my tears again. "Really?" She nods. "Really. Are you okay with me making an appointment?" I nod. One doesn't hurt.
