Guilt pinches me as I think it. I don’t know if it’s that that sets me off or if it already started when I saw the couple on the bus, but I can feel myself becoming untethered. Usually, when this happens, I listen to music. There are certain songs that I listen to on repeat, and I know it’s not the same, but if I close my eyes, it’s kind of like having someone sitting next to me, stroking my hair. I walk over to my turntable, but my hands are shaking so much that I have to lean against my chest of drawers to steady myself and I know then it’s too late.

It’s happening.

I tried to describe it to Meredith once, what this feels like. It’s not like twisting your ankle or pulling a muscle; I can’t say, “It hurts there.” It hurts everywhere. I say hurt, but it’s more of a tightness. It’s like everything is too tight and too loose, all at once, like I can’t move – can’t sit, can’t lie down, can’t do anything other than stay very, very still – but if I opened the window, I’d fly out of it like an empty Co-op bag.

That makes no sense, I know, but if it made sense, I’d be able to stop it, wouldn’t I? That’s why I can’t blame my family for being mystified. Even Mum. Being a nurse, you’d think she’d be more understanding, but she’s old-school and truly believes that there’s nothing that can’t be cured with a couple of paracetamol and a cup of tea. She gets the physical stuff, the sweating and shaking and not being able to catch my breath, but she doesn’t get why.

I don’t get why, to be fair.

I consider calling Meredith, but she’ll know something is wrong and call Mum and Mum will come home from work and just the thought of it, of sitting at the kitchen table pretending that I’m OK while she makes tea and asks me why – But why, Orla? What do you have to be anxious about? When I was sixteen I didn’t have a care in the world! – makes me want to vomit.

In the end, the only thing that helps is lying on the floor while I wait for it to pass or for me to pass out, whichever comes first. The ceiling swirls, the water stains moving from the corners to the middle then back again, but before it swallows me up, I remember the drawing on the 27 bus and imagine a window opening in my ceiling so that I can see the sky. As soon as I do, something in my chest opens as well and just like that, I can breathe again.

*

I realize later that it was the couple on the bus that triggered my panic attack. I know why. Every time I think about them I ache, a tender, bone-deep ache that brings tears to my eyes. Couples like that should give me hope, shouldn’t they? But they’re just a yardstick reminding me how far away I am from having that. They have family – parents and sisters and grandparents – that they had to tell, and they did it, so why can’t I? Why can’t I just say it: I think I’m gay.