If You're Hurt They Bleed

Hospital

I ran into the hospital, racing to the front desk. 

"Maya Porter. I'm here for my dad?" The assistant didn't even look up. 

"Room 317." They'd moved him. 

"Thanks." I hopped in the elevator, hoping he was okay. I sped down the hall, almost missing it. The door was closed, but I could hear Fly By Night blasting through the door. I knew he was awake then, at the very least. 

I opened the door, seeing Mom standing near the wall, and Dad, with tubes in his arm and on his face. 

"Hey." Dad smiled weakly.

"Hi, Dad. I'm glad you're awake. Are you doing okay?" I asked, glancing towards the IV.

"I feel fine." I could tell he was lying, particularly because he winced as he said it, but I didn't push the subject. 

"That's good. What do the doctors say?" Mom hadn't moved an inch since I walked in, but I was okay with that. 

"I'm getting better. I swear." He tried to laugh, only cringing with pain.

"No. No swearing, or promises, or anything to get my hopes up." I commanded firmly. He nodded.

"How've you been?" He questioned, clearly attempting to change the subject. 

"Fine. I just came from the first Sing-Off in thirty years." I told him nervously. 

"Oh." His eyes lit up. "What happened? Those are pretty serious." He wanted gossip. 

"Actually, I was competing in it." His expression quickly shifted. "With... Molly." I couldn't look him in the eye.

"Oh my god. What happened?" His question was now full of concern.

"We got in a fight, and she challenged me to one. It was stupid, I..." I paused to wipe the tears that were flowing freely. 

"Did you win?" He asked softly. 

"Yeah, but that doesn't matter. By the time it was over I'd gotten a text from Mom and she'd disappeared. I didn't even get to talk to her." I was sobbing now, the words coming out in gasps. 

"It'll be fine. I don't think it's possible to have a world without the two of you in it." Dad sighed, attempting to comfort me. 

"Yeah." I nodded. "Sorry, I don't want to cause stress. I should probably go." I saw Mom get off the wall and refused to look at Dad's expression as I left the room, still bawling.  I knew I wouldn't be able to handle it. 

Sprinting out of the hospital with the same intensity I had coming in, I slowed my pace when I saw Grayson waiting by the front doors. He saw me too and immediately rose to meet me. 

"What's wrong?" His eyes were full of worry. 

"Nothing, I have to go." I tried to push past him, but he gently pulled me to the side, wrapping me into a hug. 

"I don't believe you." He whispered, stroking my hair. "Try again."

He let go and gestured for us to sit on the bench. I complied, taking a deep breath. 

"There's just a lot going on right now, and I can't handle it. My body can't handle it. I can feel myself breaking down." My voice sank to a whisper. "Am I crazy?"

"No." He answered firmly, though he had a furrowed brow. "But have you ever been tested for anxiety? My dad had high-functioning anxiety, and it sounded like that, from what I remember. Do you try to stay busy?" He grabbed my hand, keeping our eyes locked. 

"Yeah. It keeps me distracted." I shrugged. 

"High-functioning anxiety is basically anxiety symptoms without diagnosis." He explained. "It usually means that whenever you get panicky or scared, you hide it well and convince yourself you're overreacting." I nodded, the tears slowing. 

"So, is there a way to prove that I have it?" I asked, curiosity taking over. 

"Not officially. But there are official websites with short surveys or other ways of knowing. It's difficult to test, since it's often only inner panic, but it is real." He told me, wiping the remainder of my tears off my cheeks. 

"Huh." The information was a little strange, particularly since I had never thought about that possibility. I thought I was just a moody teenager. "And you think I have it?" I double checked. 

"Yeah. Maybe." He cocked his head, unsure. "Like I said, it's hard to tell." I nodded. 

"Thanks. I have some research to do, for school and on that now. I really have to go, sorry." I regretted pulling my hand out of his instantly. 

"Yeah. I get it. It's a lot. I'll see you tomorrow." He waved, turning on the bench, and I walked out the hospital doors. 

A/N: So. High-functioning anxiety is not officially a medical diagnosis, as far as I know, but it is a real thing. From what I know, Grayson described it fairly accurately, anxiety symptoms that don't show on the surface. If you're interested, there are many articles on the subject that I found when I was doing research. With that, I bid you adieu. See ya, lovelies!