I don’t like seeing myself through Emma’s eyes and recognizing the truth in her perspective.
I don’t like the way the drawing makes me feel exposed and ashamed in a way I haven’t felt in years.
I tear the page out and crumple it up, shoving it in my pocket to throw away later.
Then I close the sketchpad and put it back on the desk exactly where I found it.
I’m almost to the door when I hear something strange. I cock my head to the side, mulling over it.
What is that sound?
Turning, I head toward the bathroom door instead and press my ear against it.
The sound is faint at first—just irregular breathing that could be mistaken for crying.
But then I hear the gasping, the sharp inhales that aren’t getting enough oxygen, and I recognize it immediately.
Panic attack.
Valentina had them constantly after Gabriel died.
She’d hyperventilate and shake and sometimes pass out because her body literally forgot how to breathe normally.
It took months of therapy and medication to get them under control, and I learned how to recognize the signs and how to talk her through them when they hit.
“Emma?” I call through the door, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is racing. “Emma, I’m coming in.”
I don’t wait for permission because people in the middle of panic attacks can’t give coherent permission.
I push open the bathroom door and find Emma curled on the floor next to the bathtub, her arms wrapped around her knees and her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
She’s still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, the bathtub full of water like she had just finished filling it.
Her face is pale and her eyes are wide and unfocused, and she looks terrified in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with whatever’s happening inside her own head.
For the first time since I kidnapped her, Emma’s not fighting. She’s justscared.
“Hey,” I say quietly, kneeling beside her on the bathroom floor. “Emma. Look at me.”
She doesn’t respond.
She keeps gasping for air that doesn’t seem to be reaching her lungs.
Her hands are shaking and I can see her lips starting to turn blue at the edges.
“Emma,” I say again, more firmly this time. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re okay. You’re safe. I need you to focus on my voice.”
Still nothing. She’s too deep in it, too far gone into whatever spiral her brain has created.
I remember what Valentina’s therapist taught me—ground them in reality, give them something tangible to focus on, walk them through their breathing until their body remembers how to regulate itself.
And sometimes, physical touch helps.
Valentina always needed someone to hold her hand during the worst of it.
She needed that anchor to reality when her mind was spiraling out of control.
“Emma, listen to me.” I keep my voice low and steady, the same tone I use when talking Valentina through her attacks. “You’re in the bathroom. You’re on the floor. I’m here with you. You’re safe. Nothing is going to hurt you right now.”