The Shadows In the Moon

Chapter 1

My alarm blared at 3:00 AM, shattering the silence of the early morning. I knew I didn't need to be up for hours, but setting the alarm so early was necessary. Depression and anxiety made waking up feel like trying to escape quicksand, as if the bed was pulling me down and making every movement a struggle. I needed that extra time to peel myself away from the bed, like ripping off my own skin, to prepare for the day ahead.
As I lay there in the dim light of my room, a familiar dread settled in. It was the first day of Grade 11, and I knew Science was my first class—something I usually found fascinating. It had always intrigued me, though right now, it seemed almost too easy. I was excited about the new curriculum, with its specialized categories of biology, chemistry, and physics. But past experience told me that my enthusiasm might wane as the year went on and the pressure mounted. Despite this, I needed to focus on the present.
My morning routine was precise and methodical, a ritual to prepare for the outside world. As I walked down the hallway, past pictures of my younger self, my parents, and a life that seemed distant now, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in my chest. It wasn't new; it was my constant companion, similar to the feeling I got before everything became overwhelming.
Last year, I'd barely managed to hold it together, and that was without the added pressure of new classes and expectations. The overwhelming sensation had crept up on me like a fog until I realized one day I could barely breathe. But I had survived it. I always did. This year, though, there was a nagging sense that maybe things wouldn't be the same. Maybe this year, I wouldn't see it coming until it was too late.
I took one last look in the mirror, making sure each curl was in place. Any deviation would throw off the delicate balance I'd meticulously crafted. My outfit was perfectly assembled. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, straightened my posture, and gave myself a final, scrutinizing look.
The early mornings were the only time I could control anything in my life, and I clung to that control with a desperate tenacity. It was the first day of Grade 11, and I wanted to start it right, but beneath the surface, anxiety gnawed at me. The memories of past school years weighed on me, and the scars on my arms—hidden under long sleeves—were a reminder of the battles I'd fought and lost.
Despite my careful preparation, unease lingered. No matter how much I perfected my exterior, it never seemed to match the chaos inside. Panic lurked just beneath the surface, ready to overwhelm me at any moment. I turned away from the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white.
Get it together, Ana. Today's just another day. You've done this before.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, counting to four with each inhale and exhale—a technique I'd learned during countless hospital visits. It usually helped, but today, my heart continued to race, and my vision blurred at the edges. I could feel a panic attack coming, and I knew it.
In the quiet of the bathroom, I let my mind wander, seeking something to ground myself. I thought of my father and the nights we spent together when I was little, before everything got so complicated. He was my hero back then, always there with a kind word or a warm hug. I used to believe that if I could be just like him, everything would be okay. But now, I knew too much.
He's still that person, I told myself. He's changed. He's better. I have to be better too.
I glanced at my watch—it was nearly 7:00 AM. I had about half an hour to decide how I would get to school. Biking took 15 minutes, but I always gave myself 30 just in case. The rhythm of pedaling and the wind in my face was a way to wake myself up and feel alive. But busing was easier, requiring less energy, though it came with its own consequences. If I took the bus, I'd have to leave by 7:40, arriving at school around 8:45, giving myself time to settle before class. But Risa, my mother, often criticized me for not getting the exercise she felt I "clearly needed." Her benchmark for exercise was at least half an hour of walking. Though she didn't acknowledge that, when I took the bus, I did walk for over half an hour, just not all at once.
I weighed my options as I stared at myself in the mirror, caught between two worlds—one where I could disappear under the radar and another where I was expected to be someone I wasn't. Biking meant energy and effort, but the possibility of exhausting myself before the day even began. Busing meant conserving energy and an easier morning, but the risk of Risa's disapproval. I grabbed my bag and decided—today, I would take the bus. It wasn't worth the fight, the exhaustion, or the extra anxiety. Not today.
I sighed, grabbed my backpack, and headed downstairs, where Risa was already up, sipping coffee at the kitchen counter.
"First day of a new year," Risa said, her voice carrying an undertone I couldn't quite place. "You ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, forcing a smile. I was used to this kind of exchange—a surface-level conversation that danced around the real issues. I grabbed my shoes, laced them up, and was out the door before my mother could say something that would send me spiraling. Something that all parents should tell their kids. Something that no child should ever doubt the sincerity of. Something that was so at odds with her behavior, it gave me whiplash trying to keep up. I heard her yell the beginning of the words, "Bye, I lov—" but the door closed before the rest reached my ears.
As I left the driveway, unease settled over me. The morning air was crisp, and as I passed by familiar houses, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong or that something was going to happen. I quickly shoved down the feeling. I had no room in my head for my anxiety trying to psych me out. I arrived at the bus stop just as the bus was coming around the corner.
The bus ride was a refuge of sorts. As I tapped my bus pass and thanked the driver, my mind raced, cataloging everything around me. The empty seats on the bus: 28. The number of doors I could escape through if needed: 2. The number of people on the bus: 6, plus the driver and myself.
I quickly spotted my favorite seat—a seat completely alone, right in front of a door. I plopped down, slid my backpack off my shoulders, and placed it beside me on the ground. Then I popped in my earbuds and put my favorite playlist on shuffle.
Music was my escape—an essential lifeline that shielded me from the world's clamor. Each song was a brief getaway from my overwhelming thoughts, a space where I could momentarily lose myself. The city outside the window blurred into a continuous stream of shapes and colors, while the music created a barrier between me and the noise in my mind.
As the bus pulled up to school, I took a deep breath and prepared myself. The hallways were already busy with the chaotic energy of students catching up and finding their classes. The noise and movement were overwhelming, my senses on high alert. My PTSD flared up at the thought of crowded corridors and the possibility of accidental touches. The fear of unwanted physical contact, a relic of past experiences I wasn't ready to face, made me even more anxious.
Navigating through the throngs of students, trying to get to the main hall to find my first class, I spotted a girl standing apart from the crowd. Her dark brown mullet streaked with electric blue, and noise-canceling headphones caught my attention. Her posture and the way she seemed to retreat into her own world resonated with me. I didn't know her name, but something about her struck a chord. I understood the need to block out the world, to create personal space amidst the chaos.
I wanted to approach her, to let her know I understood, that she wasn't alone. But I knew it wouldn't go well. At best, I'd get a weird look, and the little speck of peace in the chaotic hallway would be gone. At worst—well, my mind easily supplied horrifying scenarios. Not wanting any of them to become reality, I moved on down the hall.
My mind was still swirling with thoughts of the strange girl with the blue hair as I walked. Amidst the confusion, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. My heart skipped a beat. It was Laura, my best friend—my one constant in a sea of uncertainty.
Laura was standing by her locker, her nose buried in a book. The sight brought a rush of relief. We shared a love for reading, a bond that had always been a source of comfort.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. I hadn't seen Laura in a while, and the thought of connecting with her brought a comforting sense of familiarity. I hesitated for a moment, my anxiety flaring up, but the desire to surprise Laura and share in that special connection pushed me forward.
With determined strides, I moved closer, preparing to launch my playful scare. I took one more deep breath and gently tapped Laura on the shoulder before quickly stepping back, a grin spreading across my face.
Laura looked up, startled. Her eyes widened in surprise as she noticed me. "Ana!" she exclaimed, a mix of shock and joy in her voice. "I didn't see you there!"
I laughed, feeling my anxiety slip away for a moment. "I know. I was trying to be sneaky. What's so engrossing this time?"
Laura held up her book, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. "It's this new fantasy series. I'm totally hooked. But now you've interrupted my epic journey!"
I chuckled, feeling a bit of ease in her presence. "Well, I guess I'm an unexpected plot twist then. How's the first day been for you?"
Laura shrugged, her smile never fading. "It's been crazy, but seeing you makes it better. I was actually hoping we'd run into each other."
I nodded, relieved to hear that. "Same here. I've been a little overwhelmed today."
Laura's eyes softened with understanding. "Yeah, I get it. It's a lot to take in. Want to grab lunch together later? We can catch up properly."
My heart warmed at the offer. "I'd like that. Definitely."
As we chatted, the noise of the hallway seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the comforting familiarity of our shared world. For a moment, I felt a sense of calm amidst the chaos.
Standing near Laura's locker, we started discussing our schedules, trying to figure out our first classes.
"I'm so torn about what to specialize in this year," Laura said, a hint of frustration in her voice. "I can't decide between biology, chemistry, and physics. I really want to take them all, but I'm not sure if that's possible."
I nodded in agreement. "I'm feeling the same way. I'm fascinated by all the core sciences, and I'm not ready to pick just one. What if we just sign up for all three?"
Laura's face lit up. "That's a great idea! It'll be a lot of work, but at least we'll get a taste of everything and figure out what we like best. Plus, we might end up in some classes together."
I smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. "I'm in. Let's go see the list and make sure we can fit all three into our schedules."
We made our way to the main hall, where a massive list of grade 11 student names was taped to the library display cases. The area was crowded with students and parents, and my anxiety spiked as I took in the sea of faces and the chaos of the room. The noise and the sheer number of people were overwhelming, and I struggled to keep my breathing steady.
Laura noticed my distress and gently guided me back from the throng. "Hey, it looks like this is a lot right now. Why don't you step back a bit? I'll go check our names and make sure we can fit all three sciences into our schedules."
I nodded gratefully, taking a few steps back to catch my breath. Laura gave me a reassuring smile before making her way through the crowd.
As Laura navigated the bustling hall, I focused on calming my racing thoughts. I appreciated her support more than I could express.
After a few minutes, Laura returned with a triumphant smile. "Good news! We can fit all three sciences into our schedules. You're in Chemistry, room 0207, and Physics, room 1305. I'm in Biology, room 1209, and Physics, room 1305 too. I guess that means you'll have Bio next semester and I'll have Chem next semester."
My shoulders relaxed a little. "That's awesome. It's great that we'll be in Physics together. And lucky that we both have the class that the other is taking next semester, which means we can help each other out. Thanks for checking that out."
Laura grinned. "No problem! We'll be able to balance the workload and help each other out. Plus, we'll still have time to catch up between classes. And remember, there's always lunch if you need a break."
I smiled, feeling more grounded. "Thanks, Laura. I'm really glad you're here. Let's head to our classes and start this year off right."
"Agreed," Laura said with a smile.
"Okay, let's go find our respective classes. Let's do a little bit of reasoning first because we both know the school's built like a maze after being here for three years."
"I know right? Why can't they just put directions to where the classes are instead of giving us room numbers? Who uses room numbers in the school? It literally has more floors than water fountains and washrooms combined."
"Hold up, no it doesn't. It has a lot, but that's insane."
"No, it's true. I counted all the floors last year when I was done studying for exams. I still had another class left. I figured, why not make better use of my time?"
"What world do you live in where that's a better use of your time?" I said with mock seriousness.
"Stop judging me, Ana!" Laura teased right back.
"Okay, okay, enough. Let's try and figure out where our classes are. My first class is Chem, and it starts with a zero, so I'm guessing it'll be in the science wing?"
"No, I think mine's in the science wing. Any class in the science wing starts with a one. I think yours might be in the dungeon? Because that would make sense for Chem. You usually need a lab or have one close by, and the dungeon has the most."
"Do you know if we have a map that shows us where all the room numbers are in the school?"
"I think I do actually, but I doubt it's gonna be much help. Remember, I had one last year and never used it because it's not a floor plan. It's literally just a bunch of squares stuck together or separated by a dotted line with some numbers in between them."
"Ugh, wooooow, Laura, you just had to crush my dreams."
"Oh shut up. Come on, let's just start walking, 'cause I think the bell is gonna ring soon." Laura grabbed my hand and led me through the throngs of students.
"Okay, here we go." Laura said, stopping in front of an open door with a plaque reading 1209. "Now we just have to find yours."
Just then, the bell rang, and Laura took one look at me and burst out laughing. "Welp. You have fun locating your mysterious classroom."
"Oh come on, you're not even gonna help me?" I begged, a twinkle in my eye.
"Nope! Sorry, babes, but you're on your own. I'm soooo not gonna risk being late for the first period of the first day of school."
"But you would let me be late? How dare you do exactly what I would do if I was you."
"Oh stop quoting Pirates of the Caribbean at me, and go find your class!" With that, she gave me a quick hug and headed into her classroom.
"Ugh, what a bitch." I said with a smile on my face. I decided to try the dungeon, since Laura's reasoning about the labs made sense. After going down a few flights of stairs, I reached my classroom without too much trouble.
Oh man, Laura is never gonna let me forget that she was right. Well, at least I'm not late.
The bell rings. Wow. Thanks universe. I hate you. I run to find my class and end up running right by it. I double back and walk in trying to look like I didn't just sprint down the hall.
As I settle into a seat around the middle of the class, the buzz of chatter and the rustling of notebooks form a familiar backdrop. The classroom is a mix of lab benches and rows of desks, all slightly scratched and worn from years of use. The smell of fresh paper and ink mingles with the faint odor of chemicals from the storage cabinets, hinting at the day's experiments. My classmates are already starting to settle in, their excited murmurs filling the room as they catch up on summer stories and share their expectations for the year.
I glance around at the faces, trying to find any I recognize. There's Emily from my history class last year, and over there is Max, who I've seen in math. Then, a girl a few rows ahead catches my eye, her presence cutting through the usual noise like a beacon. It's the girl from the hall—her name escapes me for now, but her image lingers in my mind. Her dark brown hair is styled in a mullet with electric blue streaks that seem to glow under the fluorescent lights. She's absorbed in her notebook, her focus intense as she scribbles something with a green pen, occasionally lifting her head to survey the room with an air of quiet confidence.
I find myself inexplicably drawn to her. There's something about her demeanor that feels both intriguing and elusive, like a puzzle piece that might fit into the fractured image of my life. The usual classroom noise fades into the background as my attention fixates on her. I'm captivated by the way she seems so at ease, her presence turning the chaos of the room into something oddly calming. It's as though she's in her own world, unaffected by the flurry of first-day nerves surrounding her.
When the teacher starts calling names for attendance, I hear it—"Ayla Carel." The name is unfamiliar yet somehow captivating, like the opening notes of a song I've never heard but instantly like. I make a mental note of it, a small thrill of curiosity mingling with my usual apprehension. There's something about Ayla that makes me want to know more, to peel back the layers and understand what makes her tick. I'm not sure yet why her presence feels so significant, but the pull is undeniable.
The teacher shifts gears and begins outlining the day's lab activities. We'll be working on a basic chemical reaction experiment, and she goes over the safety protocols and steps with meticulous detail. I try to focus on the instructions, but my gaze keeps drifting back to Ayla. She's fiddling with her noise-canceling headphones, a small, contented smile playing on her lips as if she's lost in a private world. I can't help but wonder what she's listening to. Her calmness stands in stark contrast to the nervous energy buzzing around me, and I find myself both fascinated and a little envious. And I look a bit closer and see that she's actually full of nervous energy, her leg is bouncing up and down, she's picking at her lips, and she is scribbling something down in her notebook. To some people it might look like she's just taking notes but our teacher hasn't said anything noteworthy yet so I can't help but wonder what she's writing down or drawing.
As the teacher announces that we'll be working in pairs, the room erupts into a flurry of activity. Students start to pair up, chatting about their summer vacations or discussing lab strategies. I glance at Ayla, wondering who she will team up with and if there's a chance I might be that person. My heart races at the thought, though I try to maintain a neutral expression, focusing on the teacher's instructions as she explains the experiment's details.
The teacher's voice cuts through the commotion, calling out names for partners. A groan of disappointment rings through the class. I hold my breath, hoping to hear my name paired with Ayla's.
"Ana Marlin and Max Glay." A wave of disappointment washes over me, but I quickly push it aside, reminding myself that it's just the first day and there will be plenty of opportunities to get to know her.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the class and the beginning of lunch. The room fills with the sounds of backpacks being zipped up and chairs scraping against the floor as students make their way to the door. I linger for a moment, gathering my things and glancing over at Ayla. She's still engrossed in her notebook, seemingly unaffected by the rush of students.
As I make my way out, I catch a glimpse of her looking up, her eyes meeting mine briefly. There's a moment of silent acknowledgment, and I feel a pang of regret for not having had a chance to talk to her. I wonder what the rest of the day will hold and if there might be another chance to cross paths with her. The hallways are bustling with students, and I navigate through the crowd, my mind still preoccupied with thoughts of Ayla and what might come next.
As I exit the classroom, the hallways present a daunting array of obstacles. The corridor is alive with the frantic energy of the first day of school. Students dart past me in a blur of color and noise, their voices merging into an overwhelming cacophony. The excited chatter, the sound of lockers clanging shut, and the shuffle of feet create a sensory overload that quickly becomes unbearable. My anxiety, which had been simmering under the surface all morning, starts to bubble up uncontrollably.
The pressure in my chest begins to build, a heavy, tightening sensation that feels like a vice clamping down on my ribcage. Each breath comes in shorter, more frantic gasps, and my heart pounds with a violent rhythm that seems to reverberate through my entire body. It's as if the hallway is closing in around me, the walls pressing closer with each passing second. I clutch my books tightly, their edges digging into my palms as if they could somehow anchor me amidst the chaos.
The noise assaults me from all directions. The murmur of conversations, the distant thrum of a school bell, and the sporadic bursts of laughter all blend into a disorienting roar. I try to push through the crowd, but my movements are jerky and uncoordinated. Every step feels like a battle against the rising tide of panic. My vision blurs slightly, and I struggle to keep my focus as the hallway seems to stretch and contract with each step I take.
Spotting the nearest sanctuary—a small, seldom-used storage closet just off the hallway near the gym—I make my way toward it with a sense of desperate urgency. My path is obstructed by groups of students huddled together, their animated conversations and laughter blending into a sea of noise. I navigate through them with increasing difficulty, my breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. The pressure in my chest intensifies, making it feel as if I am suffocating in the midst of the crowd.
When I finally reach the closet, I fumble with the door handle, my fingers slick with sweat and trembling uncontrollably. The door creaks open, and I slip inside, pulling it shut behind me with a sense of both relief and dread. The closet is dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent light casting uneven shadows on the walls. The air inside is thick and musty, with the faint, stale odor of forgotten supplies. The confined space feels stifling, and the lack of ventilation amplifies my sense of suffocation.
I lean against the door, trying to create a small, manageable bubble of calm within the tiny, enclosed space. I slide down to the floor, my back pressing against the wall as I attempt to steady my breathing. The air feels oppressively warm, and I find it hard to draw in enough of it to satisfy my desperate need for oxygen. My breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps, each inhale feeling like a laborious effort against the crushing weight in my chest.
My mind races with chaotic thoughts and fragmented memories. I absentmindedly trace the scars on my arms, a habitual gesture meant to ground myself. Each mark is a reminder of past struggles, of battles fought and survived, but in this moment, they seem distant and insignificant. They are faint echoes of resilience rather than sources of immediate comfort. I try to focus on their significance, but the panic is so overwhelming that their meaning feels just out of reach.
The panic attack grips me with a relentless, unyielding force. My body feels heavy and unresponsive, as if weighed down by invisible chains. The pressure in my chest becomes almost unbearable, making each breath a painful, laborious effort. My limbs grow numb and uncooperative, adding to my sense of disorientation. The world outside the closet becomes a distant, distorted soundscape, and I am left alone in the grip of an attack that feels both endless and paralyzing.
Time seems to stretch into infinity. Each second drags on, and the intensity of the panic attack feels unrelenting. My vision is cloudy, and my sense of reality feels fractured. I try to focus on my breathing, but the effort feels almost futile. The panic attack is like a storm battering me from all sides, and finding calm amidst the chaos is a Herculean task.
Gradually, the intensity of the attack begins to diminish, though I remain drained and disoriented. My breaths start to stabilize, becoming less ragged and more measured. With a tremendous effort, I push myself to stand, my legs feeling weak and unsteady. I cling to the wall for support, my hands trembling as I open the closet door and step back into the hallway.
The hallways are quieter now, the lunch rush having subsided to a more manageable ebb. The noise and movement have lessened, providing a small measure of relief. I make my way toward the nearest bathroom, each step deliberate and cautious. My legs still feel unsteady, and my heart races, though not with the same frantic intensity as before. I head to the bathroom, desperate for a moment of solitude to freshen up and regain some semblance of control.
The bathroom is mercifully empty, offering me a brief respite from the day's chaos. I splash cold water on my face, the frigid shock jolting me back to some semblance of awareness. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the girl staring back at me looking like she's been through a war zone. My curls are frizzy and askew, and my eyes are red-rimmed from the tears of the panic attack. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to smooth it out, but it's a futile effort. My reflection is a stark reminder of the rawness I feel inside. I lean over the sink, splashing more cool water on my face in an attempt to ground myself. The refreshing sensation of the water helps to calm my racing thoughts, and I take a few deep breaths, trying to steady my nerves. The panic attack may have receded, but its effects linger, leaving me feeling both physically and emotionally exhausted. As I prepare to face the rest of the day, I am left with a profound sense of vulnerability, aware that the storm may return, but for now, I must press on.
As I'm attempting to compose myself, the bathroom door swings open with a dramatic whoosh, and in strolls the archetypal high school clique—the popular kids. They're loud, impeccably dressed, and radiating an air of effortless confidence that makes me want to disappear into the nearest stall.
One of the girls, a blonde with a perfectly styled ponytail, catches sight of me and arches an eyebrow. "Well, well, look who we have here," she says with a smirk, her tone dripping with mock surprise. "Did you get lost on your way to the closet?"
I shoot back, "Oh, honey, I've been out of that closet for years. I left it behind long before I learned the art of dodging judgmental stares."
The blonde girl's eyes widen slightly, but she quickly regains her composure. "Right. Looks like you've had one of those days."
"You have no idea," I reply, trying to keep my tone light despite the lingering tremor in my voice. "I'd say I've been through a few too many plot twists for one morning."
Another kid, a guy with a perpetually bored expression, chimes in, "Did you miss the memo about 'over-the-top' being so last season? Plus I can't believe we're the first people you've come out to. That's so sad. Too bad we don't give a shit."
"Oh, please," I retort, feeling the sting of their judgment but refusing to let it show. "Like your dramatic bathroom entrance is anything new. Besides, I've been comfortably out of that closet for years now. Pretty sure I left it behind along with my middle school theater phase. Although some would argue that it's not a phase, it's a lifestyle."
The blonde girl laughs, a sound that's more dismissive than friendly. "Guess we all have our moments. Some just choose to flaunt them more. Did you get lost in a world of your own or something?"
I raise an eyebrow, matching her tone. "I was just rehearsing my Oscar-worthy performance in private. You know, the one where I play the role of 'survivor of a panic attack'?"
The guy with the bored expression snorts. "Sounds riveting. But you should know, the bathroom is not exactly a stage. And the whole, 'using a panic attack to beg for attention' is so overdone."
I let out a small, weary laugh, feeling the weight of their judgment. "Oh, really? Using a panic attack for attention? Maybe. But I'd argue it's more about surviving in a world that seems hell-bent on dismissing people like me. It's not about drama; it's about dealing with the chaos that's real and raw."
I look directly at the guy who made the comment, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "And before you judge, remember that everyone has their own battles. You might find it cliché, but for some of us, it's a daily struggle just to make it through the day without the world crumbling around us."
With a sigh, I turn to face the bathroom mirror, meeting my own gaze. "So, if you're done with the critique, I've got a life to get back to. One that doesn't revolve around the latest high school gossip. It's exhausting trying to measure up to your standards, so maybe try looking beyond the surface for once."
The blonde girl tosses her hair and says, "Well, as long as you're done with your little performance, we've got better things to do. This place isn't a therapy session."
I smirk despite myself. "And here I thought I was getting an exclusive behind-the-scenes look at high school drama."
As they strut out, their laughter echoing down the hall, I'm left alone once more. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that their judgments are insignificant compared to the battles I fight internally. My fingers run along the edges of the sink, grounding me in the present. I take another look at my reflection, trying to focus on the small victories of getting through the panic attack rather than the sting of their taunts.
I glance at the clock and freeze. Over two hours have passed since the panic attack started, and I thought it had only lasted for a few minutes. The realization hits me like a freight train, but I try to push it aside. With a final deep breath and a shaky smile at my reflection, I head back out into the hall, determined to face the rest of the day with whatever grace I can muster.
As I walk back to class, the clock glaring at me with its unforgiving digits, I know I have a lot of explaining to do. I push open the classroom door, cringing internally at the weight of every pair of eyes that turns toward me. Ms. Reynolds, standing by her desk with a stack of papers, meets my gaze with a look of mixed concern and irritation.
"Ms. Reynolds, I—" I start, but the words stick in my throat, tangled up with the remnants of my anxiety.
She cuts me off with a raised eyebrow, her tone sharp but tinged with curiosity. "Ana Marlin. Late again. Care to explain why you've been MIA for over two hours?"
I feel my face flush with embarrassment. "I... had a panic attack in the bathroom and lost track of time. I needed a bit of space to pull myself together."
Ms. Reynolds's expression softens slightly, though she still looks concerned. "I see. Panic attacks can be really difficult. But you should let us know if you're having trouble. We're here to help."
I nod, though the words feel hollow. "I understand. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just needed some time."
In the past, the help offered by the school often seemed more like a Band-Aid on a deep wound—well-intentioned but ultimately inadequate. The counseling sessions that were supposed to help only ever skimmed the surface, leaving me with more questions than answers. Teachers and staff, despite their best efforts, frequently failed to see beyond the mask I wore. Their attempts to offer support sometimes felt more like a spotlight on my vulnerabilities, making me feel even more exposed and isolated.
It was like that Taylor Swift lyric: "Band-Aids don't fix bullet holes". Their solutions were never enough to address the depth of my pain. Each session and pep talk only amplified the divide between their world and mine, making me feel like I was on the outside looking in.
"So, will you be able to stay on track for the rest of the day?" Ms. Reynolds asks, her tone now carrying a note of cautious optimism.
"I'll do my best," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "I really am sorry for being late."
Ms. Reynolds nods, though there's a hint of skepticism in her eyes. "Just remember, communication is key. If you need anything or if something happens, let us know. We want to support you, but we need to know what's going on."
I manage a small, grateful smile, though I can't help feeling a pang of cynicism. "Got it. I'll try to do better."
As I make my way to my seat, the weight of the day's events and the scars of past disappointments press heavily on me. The conversation with Ms. Reynolds, while less disastrous than I'd feared, only serves as a reminder of how difficult it has been to find genuine support amidst the well-meaning but often misguided attempts to help. As I try to focus on the lesson, the uneasy feeling of having to navigate both my internal struggles and external expectations remains ever-present.
Throughout the day, I struggle to focus on the lessons as my thoughts repeatedly drift back to Ayla. There's something about her that unsettles the carefully constructed mask I wear to protect myself from the world. I find myself wanting to know more, to understand the girl with the electric blue hair who seems to have pierced through my veneer of indifference.
The Physics classroom is a welcome respite from the chaotic hallways. The space feels organized, almost clinical, with neatly arranged desks and a large whiteboard at the front. As I step inside, I take a deep breath, feeling a slight easing of the tension that has been gnawing at me all day. Laura and I are assigned seats near the back, a spot that offers a bit of privacy and a clearer view of the teacher's demonstrations.
Laura slides into her seat next to me, her usual bright smile subdued by the fatigue of the day. "Hey, Ana," she says, her tone a mix of casual and concerned. "You doing okay?"
I force a smile, masking the unease still bubbling beneath the surface. "Yeah, just a bit tired, that's all. How about you?"
Laura nods, seeming to accept my response. "Same here. But at least we're in this together. I heard Mr. Thompson's pretty cool, so it should be interesting."
Mr. Thompson, our Physics teacher, strides into the room with a confident air. He greets us with a friendly smile and starts the lesson, diving into the fundamentals of kinematics. As he explains concepts and scribbles equations on the whiteboard, I struggle to focus. The residue of the panic attack from earlier clings to me, like a shadow I can't quite shake off.
I feel Laura's gaze occasionally flickering toward me, a silent question in her eyes. I try to remain engaged, scribbling notes with trembling hands. Each time I feel my composure slipping, I remind myself to breathe deeply and concentrate on Mr. Thompson's voice, which serves as a tenuous anchor.
As Mr. Thompson moves around the room, answering questions and helping students, Laura's concern grows more apparent. She nudges me gently and asks, "You sure you're alright? You look like you're somewhere else."
The question is innocuous enough, but it strikes a nerve. I can feel the panic trying to claw its way back to the surface. I take a deep breath, swallowing the lump in my throat, and force a smile. "I'm fine, really. Just had a bit of a rough start to the day. It's nothing."
Laura's eyes narrow slightly, her concern deepening. "If you need to talk or take a break, just let me know. I can see you're struggling."
Her empathy is touching, but I can't bring myself to reveal the full extent of what happened. I'm determined to keep my emotions bottled up, to maintain the façade I've carefully constructed over the years. I focus on keeping my breathing steady, pushing away the surge of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me.
"Seriously, I'm good," I insist, my voice more forceful than I intended. "Let's just get through the class. We've got this."
Laura looks like she's about to press further, but Mr. Thompson begins assigning problems for us to work on. The shift in focus helps me refocus my scattered thoughts. As I dive into the equations, I channel all my energy into the work, desperately seeking the distraction it provides.
I feel Laura's eyes on me occasionally, her concern lingering, but I keep up the pretense of normalcy. Each time I catch her watching me, I smile and offer a casual comment about the problems, steering the conversation away from myself. The effort to maintain this façade is exhausting, but I'm determined to keep my earlier episode hidden.
After class ends, we gather our things and head out of the building. The air outside feels cooler, and the sunlight casts long shadows across the parking lot. As we walk towards her bike, Laura continues to chat, her tone light and easy. I respond with a semblance of enthusiasm, but inside, I'm still struggling to keep everything under control.
When Laura mentions stopping for a quick snack before heading home, I quickly agree, using the excuse to buy myself some time. We find a small café near the school, and as we sit down, Laura's concern remains palpable, though she's doing her best to mask it with casual conversation.
"You sure you don't want to talk about anything?" she asks, her gaze lingering on me as I sip my drink. "I know it's been a tough day."
I shake my head, forcing a reassuring smile. "No, I'm good. Just needed a break, that's all. Thanks for being there today."
Laura studies me for a moment, then nods, her expression softening. "Alright. Just remember, I'm here if you need anything."
We finish our snacks and chat about lighter topics as we head toward the bus stop. I keep up the façade, but every laugh and smile feels like a small victory, a way to keep the turmoil at bay. As we part ways and I head home, I feel the exhaustion of the day catching up with me. I force myself to walk with purpose, pushing through the last remnants of anxiety.
When I finally reach home, I close the door behind me and lean against it, feeling a wave of relief mixed with fatigue. The panic attack from earlier is still fresh in my mind, but I've managed to hold it together for the rest of the day. I allow myself a moment of quiet, grateful for the brief respite before facing the evening's solitude.
As I prepare for bed, the weight of the day presses heavily on me. I slip beneath the covers, the day's events replaying in my mind. Despite the exhaustion, I find myself thinking about Laura's concern and the comfort of her presence. Even though I didn't reveal the full extent of my struggle, her support meant more than I could say.
The uncertainty of tomorrow lingers, but for now, I close my eyes and cling to the hope that things will feel a little easier with each passing day.