JJ Maybank Imagines

[i] You Have an Anxiety Attack

[IMAGINE] : y/n

———

The first time you experienced an anxiety attack, you could remember it all too well.

You'd never been so sure you were going to die, because well, that's exactly what it felt like.

You remember sitting in gym class, your body sending every signal imaginable telling you were going to die right here, right now.

You remember locking yourself in the locker room because better to die here than in front of everyone else, right?

Except you didn't die. Which left you confused, and scared, and humiliated because you didn't know when it would happen again—and it did.

The second time was after a long shift at The Wreck. Your fingers had been tingly all night and you thought maybe you were just tired, maybe needed some sleep.

But that night, as you laid in bed, the shortness of breath caught up with you and it was happening all over again.

Since then, you'd done your own research. You tried to regularly exercise (tried being the important word here), avoided alcohol (even though being the only sober person at a party felt isolating), and limited early morning coffees.

No one else knew about this. How would you even go about bringing it up? Especially living in a place where protocol is to just drown your sorrows in alcohol. You couldn't even do that now.

It would be fine, though. Tonight, if you could get through this dinner, you would be fine, everything would be fine.

Except everything didn't feel fine.

"I say we toast Kie for finally dragging us to eat at an actual restaurant," John B says, raising his glass. You'd never seen him hold anything other than a beer bottle, a beer can, or a plastic cup.

"We should be toasting the fact that we even have enough money to come out," Pope corrects, though also lifting his cup.

You didn't want to lift your cup. People would stare and you already felt like too many eyes were on you.

Were they all staring? Why would you feel this way if they weren't staring? Why didn't anything make sense?

"[Y/n]?" Kie's voice interrupts your train of thoughts—maybe a good thing.

"Are you okay?" John B asks. Your eyes flicker over to look at him. "You look sweaty."

That certainly didn't help. Did you feel sweaty? Did you even feel hot? Yes, but you also felt cold. It was a cold sweat. God, you hated cold sweats.

You felt like it was happening again. You needed to push through.

JJ was already looking at you like you were crazy. He couldn't think you were crazy.

"I'm fine," you reply, lifting your glass just high enough. Your hands were shaking and you didn't want anyone to notice.

Too late. You felt as though everyone in this damn restaurant was watching you, waiting for you to explode right in the middle of the floor.

Kie's words sound blurry as she speaks. You're not sure if it's because you're purposely blocking her out or if it's something else.

JJ's hand wraps your other hand and you try to stop the shaking. "Please tell me if something is bothering you," he whispers so no one else can hear. "You look like you're going to throw up."

And it felt like that too. JJ was probably trying to make a joke, keep the environment light-hearted. At least that's what you thought based off the little grin on his face.