Am I really not breathing?

I see spots and squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again.

I stare into his blue eyes and almost want to hold my breath, so he yells again. I need the yelling. I need a fight. I wonder if he’ll slap me too.

Punch me in the stomach.

A rough exhale follows my short intake of breath.

Quinn’s eyes are wild. He shoves me harder against the cement wall next to the hand drier.

“Fucking. Breathe. Ambrose!”

I am. Right?

I don’t even know anymore.

Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like? Because it’s not fun, it’s severe. It hurts. I hate everyone and everything.

The door opens behind him, and someone walks in, but he doesn’t let me go.

A familiar scent of perfume washes over me, and then MB is standing next to him.

My people.

One who abandoned me, who I loathe.

One who I project everything onto because to take it on just might kill me.

Both of them shouldn’t be here.

And yet they are.

In the men’s restroom.

“Bro.” Quinn’s forehead crashes against mine, it’s nearly painful, but it shocks me out of my own misery as my heart pounds against my chest. “You need to take one deep breath for me, okay? I’m gonna count to three, and you’re going to take a deep breath and exhale for five seconds. Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

I still feel numb, yet in so much pain that it’s impossible to think beyond the fact that my forehead hurts from his.

“One,” Quinn starts. “Two. Three.”

I suck in a sharp breath, then count to five and release it. MB puts her hand on my shoulder.

He repeats the instructions.

I do it again.

And again.

I don’t know how many times… I have lost count of the breaths I’ve taken of the grip MB has on my arm, or the way Quinn is looking at me, not with pity but understanding.

Has it really been that long since that night? Since his confession, since she did what she did?

Since we were caught.

Since she threatened us with everything.

It’s like Quinn can read my mind. His eyes lock on like a vice, and I can’t even blink as I stare into them, as memories wash over us. His hands cling to my shoulders in a familiar way that I refuse to forget.

MB’s watching us with concern. I can feel her anxiety, see her standing next to him, her eyes searching me for the bleeding when it’s all internal.

The pain, the blood, the trauma.

“She’s a bitch,” Quinn finally whispers. “And you didn’t deserve that—I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ambrose, I didn’t—I was drunk—and she used our friendship. She just—“

I pull him in for a brief hug. Apparently, I just touch and kiss people when I want them to stop talking. And then, in an uncharacteristic move, that feels like coming home. I press my mouth against his neck and breathe.