shattered

chapter 8

Yoongi POV

I watched her crumble in front of me. One moment she was as strong as forged iron... and the next... she collapsed. She crumbled.

Her hands grip at her chest, her breathing quickens.
Shit. Fuck! Panic attack. Fuck. What do I do? What do I do?!

I try to think back to my attacks. What did I do... fuck. What did I do? I try talking to her, I have no idea what I'm saying. Fuck. She's gonna pass out.

Breathing. That's right. Her breathing. She needs to breathe with me. Fuck. How do I get her to breathe with me?
How do I keep calm? God damn it! Keep it together. Keep. It. Together!

I cup her face, and gently turn her head to look at me. Her eyes aren't focusing, they dart around. Looking everywhere and nowhere at once.

"______ look at me. Just me." I manage to keep my voice calm and soothing.
I don't feel calm. Why is no one coming to help me? Where are the damned nurses? Should I get someone to help me? Jesus, I can't leave her like this.

I can feel the terror she's feeling. Like she's been caged and can't get out; but the cage is her mind and it's closing in on her.

"Breathe with me. In... and out." Her eyes are locked on mine now. I watch her struggle to breathe. I don't know if this is going to work. God, I want this to work. Please help me.

Slowly, so fucking slowly her breathing becomes regular. I feel like I've aged five hundred years.

Fuck me. She hasn't even started her story. How the hell is she going to tell her story if even thinking about it makes her freak out. Jeez, she probably thinks I'm judging the heck out of her right now.

How can I make this right? How do I tell her she is safe with me... that I wont judge her?

Fuck. I'm not good at this. I don't know how to comfort people. Except hugging  and I'm not hugging her. I can't hug her. I don't know her well enough to hug her. What if I hug her and she sells the story online or something. Oh God.

I can't bring myself to hug her as much as I want to. I don't trust her. I don't know her. The only thing I know about her is that she has been broken.

"Um... O..Okay. Well. I had an older sister." Her voice is quiet and shaking.

Had... had? Had! Like. Past tense. Like... not here anymore had?
"Had?" I question. I don't want to interrupt her, but, I need to make sure I heard her correctly.
"Uh... yea. Had. She passed away when I was nine years old. Meningitis."

Oh fuck... what do you say? Her face is turned down, but I can still tell tears are falling.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Jesus that sounds so cliche.

"It's okay. Unfortunately we can't turn back time, and change the past."

Don't I know that for a fact. So many things I would like to go back and change. So many decisions I would have chosen the other path. I guess that's the beauty of hindsight.

I keep my eyes on her. If she falls apart again, I want to be there as quickly as I can. Her hands rub against her thighs as she keeps talking. I can tell she's still nervous. I know she thinks I'm going to judge her.

But who am I to judge her? What right do I have to judge? I'm not perfect. I fuck up all the time.

"Then one day she just... got sick." Her voice drops to a whisper as she forces the words out. "We thought it was just a cold. It wasn't, and then. Yeah."

I want to touch her. I need to touch her. She looks so fragile, like the slightest thing is going to break her. I don't want her to break. I want her to be strong. I want her to know that someone is here. Someone is listening. And not judging.

I slowly reach my hand out and tentatively touch her shoulder.
"You don't have to tell me about this if it makes you uncomfortable."

I have no idea what I'm going to tell Counsellor Park if she decides she doesn't want to talk; and honestly, I don't even care.  Her being comfortable is more important to me than knowing her story.

Why is her being comfortable more important? What the hell is she doing to me?

She fidgets as she continues telling me everything. She occasionally glances at me. I keep my eyes on her. I'm trying to keep my face free from judgement, but even when I am judging... it's not her I'm judging. It's her parents.

"I had to be the grown up, but it wasn't good enough. Nothing I ever did was good enough. Why wasn't I good enough?"

Not good enough? Why would she ever think she's not good enough. She's fucking perfect. She's like a glimpse of the sun on a rainy day. She brightens everyones day; and someone made her feel like she wasn't enough. Someone made her doubt how perfect she fucking is.

Why compare her to someone who isn't here anymore? You can't compare them. You can't. When someone passes, people only think about the good things about them. They don't think of anything wrong they did; and suddenly this person is on a pedestal and no one can be as good or as perfect as they were. It's not fair, and it's not right.

"I just needed to get the pain out, you know?" I know she doesn't expect an answer. She's not actually asking me a question. It's more like she's rambling to herself. Trying to justify her actions.

"Like it was consuming me all the time and I couldnt get it out."

I wont judge her. She did what she felt was needed at the time. I have been there. Needing to get the pain out. That all consuming pain where you don't know how you are going to escape. I can't judge her.