Before The Sunrise

cracks

I snap awake, lurching forward into a sitting position on the couch.

"Hanson," a voice says from next to me. "It's okay. It's just a dream. You're in my office, and you're safe."

I groan, pulling my knees up and pressing my head between them, moving my hand to press against my chest instead, trying to breathe against the ghosts wrapping fingers around my throat.

Don't think about August.

"Okay, okay, that's it," the voice says. "Yep, just breathe. It was just a dream."

I reach for my neck, trying to pull the fingers away. "I can't," I wheeze, my chest burning. "They're choking me."

"Nothing is choking you. You can breathe. You just need to focus on your surroundings. Wherever you went, you're not there anymore."

I focus on the voice. Once I realize who it belongs to, I chance a glance in his direction, half my face still buried in my Adidas sweatpants.

I've never seen Coach Bradford look so utterly horrified. I turn away again, still rubbing my chest. Fuck. This has never happened in Bradford's office before. I never sleep long enough to dream while I'm here.

"Are you with me?"

Sort of. My lungs feel like they've collapsed, and the phantom taste of blood lingers on my tongue. But I recognize where I am. I decide not to answer.

"Is this why you can't sleep?"

I fall back, hoping that laying down again will reopen my lungs. I take a breath that audibly rattles, and a tear slips out of my eye and trails down the side of my face onto the couch. I cover my face, hoping that Bradford can't see me crying. I hold my breath for five seconds, swallowing the emotions back down.

"Yes," I answer, my voice tight. I scrub the remnants of tears away and stare at the ceiling.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." What I want is my boyfriend back. He was the only person who could get rid of the feeling that my chest is caving in, the feeling I always have after my nightmares. I close my eyes, trying to manufacture the way he'd speak to me in my mind, but I have to open them again when I'm greeted with the waking remnants of my dream lingering behind my eyelids.

Don't think about August.

I get confused at the light of the sun on my face. Usually the sun doesn't reach the couch during 4th period. I look around, spotting the analog clock on the wall. "What the hell? It's 2 o'clock. Why didn't you wake me up? I missed gov and half of biology. I thought you were mad about me skipping class."

Bradford stands up slowly from where he's kneeled beside me, backing up to sit in my usual chair. "I did," he says. "I woke you up at 11:30 like usual, but you were hardly coherent." Fuck, I don't even remember that. "I called your teachers and excused you from your classes. You're in no state to learn. Did you know you have a 100-degree fever?" I shrug. "How long have you been feeling sick? Is that what's going on? Or is it something else?"

These questions have complicated answers. "I don't know," I say. "I guess I'm so used to feeling like shit that it doesn't faze me anymore."

"James, that's not okay."

"Why, though? I mean, as long as I still play well and come to school, I don't see why—"

"—You are worth more than your product on the football field. That's why. I am not going to just watch you suffer anymore. I'm sorry I let this go on for so long. That ends now. Your life means something. No matter if you win championships or graduate high school or not. Your happiness is important, too."