26. Laney
Cade sends a car to take me to the concert hall.
I’ve put together the smartest outfit I can find, but it’s nothing like the sort of thing other people attending the concert will be wearing. Maybe I should have gone shopping for something new, but I couldn’t find the energy to do so.
I find my seat, smiling awkwardly at the people sitting either side of me. They seem so much more grown up and sophisticated than me. My imposter syndrome is hitting me hard, and I shrink in my chair.
I suddenly remember to put my phone on silent. It would be so embarrassing if it started ringing in the middle of the concert. I can only imagine the sort of dirty looks I’d receive.
I’m still not sure why I’m here. It’s not as though Darius will even see me in the audience.
There are too many people around. They’re all confident and well dressed and look like they have their lives all sorted. I sense them glancing my way. I should have asked Cade or Reed to sit with me, but they’re busy with Darius. I know he needs to be the focus now.
My palms grow clammy, and my upper lip prickles with sweat.
I can’t do this. I can’t sit with all these people and pretend like this is normal for me.
I’m fully aware I’m suffering from anxiety and panic attacks now, and just the thought of having one in such a public place is enough to send me spiraling.
What if I pass out or vomit? It’s already bad enough, feeling as though everyone is staring, without nurturing that fear as well.
I know my way backstage from the last time I was here. Perhaps it’ll be better if I find the others. Reed and Cade will be watching Darius from the wings. Why couldn’t they just have suggested I do the same? I’d feel better then, I’m sure of it, and I’d still be able to be there for Dax.
Most people have taken their seats now, and because I’m in the middle of the row, I have to practically climb over the top of everyone to get to the exits. I notice some of them tutting at me and shaking their heads.
My mortification grows, and I fight my rising panic and the sense of claustrophobia that’s taken over. The air feels too thick, as though it doesn’t contain enough oxygen to allow me to breathe.
Even as I try to make my way backstage, I can tell I’m not going to make it. My legs no longer seem to belong to me, and my breath is tight in my lungs, so I struggle to draw another. I need to get out of this building. I need fresh air and solitude.
I can’t do this.