30. Chapter 30 #2
"We're not entirely sure," Dr. Reynolds admits. "Her vital signs were erratic when she was brought in, suggesting a severe panic attack. Combined with hyperventilation, it could have caused her to lose consciousness. Has she experienced panic attacks before?"
"Yes," I say, remembering the cafe and the nights I've held her through them after a nightmare, feeling her heart race against my own chest. "She has a history of severe PTSD and anxiety."
"That's consistent with what we're seeing," Dr. Reynolds nods.
"She's currently sedated while we monitor for any developing pressure, but we're hoping she'll regain consciousness naturally within the next few hours.
We haven't needed to intervene surgically, but we'll need to keep her at least overnight for observation. "
"Can we see her?" Theo asks, his voice tight with controlled emotion.
Dr. Reynolds hesitates. "She's still being monitored closely. Once she's moved to a room, you can sit with her. One at a time, though."
"Thank you, doctor," I say, relief washing through me in waves that make my knees weak.
As Dr. Reynolds walks away, Theo collapses back into his chair, head in his hands. "She's alive," he whispers. "She's going to be okay."
I remain standing, my body unable to settle.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, each flicker registering in my peripheral vision like tiny electrical shocks.
The antiseptic smell burns my nostrils, bringing back memories of other hospitals, other traumas.
I press my fingers against my thigh—three quick taps, two slow, three quick—trying to regulate my breathing, to process the overwhelming sensory input.
"I need to..." I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate the pressure building inside me. "I need a minute."
Theo looks up, understanding crossing his features. "Go. I'll be here if they come with updates."
I slip away from Theo, my body moving on autopilot until I find a stairwell tucked away at the end of the corridor.
The heavy door swings shut behind me with a thud that reverberates through the concrete space.
The sudden isolation is both a relief and overwhelming—no fluorescent lights flickering at precisely 60 hertz, no squeaking shoes on linoleum, no antiseptic smell burning my nostrils.
Just silence. Blessed silence.
My legs give out and I sink onto the cold step, my back against the wall. The concrete is cool against my palms as I press them flat against the surface, seeking the grounding sensation of something solid, something real.
And then it hits me—all at once, like a system crash when too many processes run simultaneously. The fear I've been holding at bay rushes in, crushing my chest, making it impossible to breathe.
She could have died.
Wren could have died thinking I didn't love her. Thinking I was just playing protector, just treating her like a project to be managed. She could have died alone on that sidewalk, blood pooling beneath her head, thinking we betrayed her.
Because we did betray her.
A sound escapes me—raw, animal, unrecognizable. My hands fly to my face, pressing against my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids. My body rocks forward and back, forward and back, the repetitive motion usually comforting but now barely containing the storm inside me.
Too much. It's all too much.
The relief that she's alive collides with the terror of how close we came to losing her. The guilt of our deception crashes against the desperate, consuming love I feel for her.
I can't process it all, can't compartmentalize these overwhelming emotions like I usually do.
I can't contain it anymore. A sob tears from my throat, echoing in the empty stairwell as my shoulders shake violently. I press my fist against my mouth, trying to muffle the sounds, but they keep coming—raw, broken noises I barely recognize as my own.
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
The thought repeats like code in my mind, but instead of calming me, it only makes the tears come faster. My body rocks harder, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping me from flying apart completely. I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling slightly to ground myself in the sensation.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty stairwell, the words hardly audible through my gasping breaths. "I'm so sorry, Wren."
I gradually become aware of the pattern I've fallen into—rocking, crying, pulling at my hair.
The logical part of my brain recognizes this as a meltdown, something I haven't experienced with this intensity since college.
My breathing is erratic, my senses overwhelmed, my ability to process information completely compromised.
Three quick taps, two slow, three quick. I force my fingers to maintain the rhythm against my skin, focusing on the pressure, the cadence. It's familiar. Predictable. Safe.
Breathe in for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
Dr. Levine taught me this breathing technique during our sessions. It's one of the few coping mechanisms that consistently works when I'm overwhelmed. I force myself to follow it now, even as my body wants to hyperventilate.
I need my control back. I need to be there for Wren when she wakes, even if she hates me now.