Between Breaths

This place is overwhelming – too crowded, too loud.

My breath quickens. Inhale and exhale, I can do this. Anne's hand tightens on mine, with a subtle reassuring nod. Her caring eyes speak volumes, saying she's right here with me. She knows how difficult this is.

I remind myself that I’ve been working on this. My best friend shares a warm smile. I am safe. This is supposed to be fun. We're in open air, not too in the middle. It'll be ok.

Yet, when the concert begins, people cluster even tighter. Jumping and pushing – my mind spirals. A nagging thought suggesting something is off, anxiety screaming in my head. My hands and feet are ice-cold — covered in sweat. Damn it.

All these people compressed — a tuna can. There is no way out, no control.

Suddenly, the space feels too small, invisible walls inching closer, the air thickening. My heart races, drumming against my chest. Electric waves surge through my body. The blasting music turns into a distant hum, and exploding lights are nothing but a blur. The weight becomes crushing, as if a stack of bricks lays on me.

I shoot a pleading look at Anne, begging to leave. Our eyes lock, and instantly, she reads the distress in mine. The panic had already set. Without hesitation, she tugs my arm and sprints. Guiding me through the seemingly never-ending mass.

I mentally curse my decision to come here.

My legs carry me faster than I thought they would. Anne pushes past people — a few shout after us, but their voices are muffled by my pulsating terror.

Away from the crowd, the cold air slaps my face, a relief to the drowning. My legs are flimsy, and I give in — throwing myself against a wall. Watching me closely, Anne's gaze is unwavering yet kind. There's no judgment, only a wish that I didn't have to go through this. She doesn’t say anything, knowing I need time to process it.

Gripping my hands, she inhales and exhales deliberately — directing me to follow her rhythm. We sync, each deep breath anchoring me to the present. I identify my surroundings — a hot dog stand, a bench, posters, trash cans. Then, the roughness of the brick wall under my exposed back, the chilling wind against my skin. Slowly, the heaviness on my chest starts to lift.

Compassionate eyes question if I feel better. Verbalizing feelings isn't one of my strengths. Particularly in these *situations* — I'm thankful for our unspoken agreement.

Recognizing my embarrassment, Anne gently pulls me into a hug — familiar and comforting. The one constant that has helped me navigate this many times before, a lifeline. I know she’ll tell me there is no need to feel ashamed, but I do anyway, beating myself up for being like this.

I don’t know how long we stood there, but eventually, the anxiety and chaos eased. I am exhausted.

Tomorrow I’ll buy her lunch. With an extra side of fries and dessert.