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HEALING.
"How are you feeling?" Ruel asked, running his fingers gently along Wesley's arm, his voice soft but his eyes searching for the truth.
It had only been a few days since the attack. The bruises had almost completely faded now, the marks on his skin healing far faster than the wounds in his mind. Wesley could still feel the anxiety gripping him in quiet moments, creeping in without warning.
"I'm okay," he said, the words coming out flat, practiced. It had become his default response to everyone. He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth, not because he wanted to lie, but because speaking it aloud would make it real. He would have to face it, and he wasn't ready for that yet.
If he admitted it, there would be no more pretending. No more hiding.
"If you say so," Ruel replied, his tone heavy with disbelief. No one ever believed him when he said he was fine.
Wes pretended not to notice. "Anyways, I'll see you later." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and made for the door.
"Where are you going?" Ruel's voice rose, frustration leaking through, but Wesley was already halfway down the hall.
His answer was a string of mumbled nonsense, barely audible. He didn't stop walking until he was sure no one was around, and then his knees gave way beneath him. He sank to the floor, gasping for air as panic closed around him like a vice.
His chest heaved, each breath sharp and shallow, as though someone was kicking him over and over in the lungs. His fingers clawed at his shirt, trying to anchor himself to something real, but everything felt wrong. His body wasn't his own. His mind was floating somewhere else, detached and distant.
It was happening again.
Another panic attack.
Since the incident, they came often—without warning, without mercy. He dreaded bathrooms most of all. Just the thought of stepping into one made his stomach twist, fear tangling with memory until he avoided them entirely, holding everything in until he couldn't anymore. The fear was irrational and suffocating, but it was there all the same, clinging to him like a shadow.
Wes pressed a hand hard against his chest, counting his breaths, whispering the numbers in his head. Slowly, reality crept back. The floor beneath him felt solid again. The air tasted like air, not smoke or metal or nothingness.
And then, as always, he dusted himself off. He stood, straightened his clothes, and forced a smile.
"You're okay," he whispered under his breath, the words more like a mantra than a truth. It was almost like he was gaslighting himself into believing it, repeating it until it sounded convincing.
He walked toward his next class—Art—his body still trembling faintly.
The teacher greeted him with a casual smile. "How are you today?" It was small talk, nothing more, but it felt like the teacher could see through him, see the cracks he was trying so hard to plaster over.
