Page 81 of Not Catching Love

He stays where he is.

He doesn’t move his hand.

“You’re killing me …” I murmur.

I push to my feet to grab my phone, but the second I stand, everything rushes around me, and my ass hits the couch again. I can’t process any of his words, but how can I when he’s watching me die?

“You need to … sitting … breathing under control … hurt yourself.”

I have no fucking clue what he’s saying. I’m tired. So tired. My lungs are burning with every failed breath. The deeper I try to breathe, the worse it gets, and the darkness passing over me solidifies to numb resignation. This is it. It’s over.

“Xander …”

I take what feels like the first real breath I’ve ever taken. My head burns around it, and my eyes are heavy, but I follow it up with another one.

“That’s it. You’ve got it.”

I recognize the voice. It’s vague and far away.

“There we go …”

Slowly, I open my eyes. I’m sweaty, my hands are shaking, and I’m still in Sherwin’s office. What could have been seconds or minutes or hours feels like I’ve woken up weighing an extra fifty pounds, and I’m more exhausted than ever.

“Was there a trigger?” he asks kindly.

I can’t answer him. That was way too strong and fast, and I’m disappointed I’m still alive.

Because if I’m alive, it means my brain won. Again.

It wasn’t a heart attack. I’m just fucked-up.

I’m never going to be better.

Never.

Seven’s already making improvements with his therapist, and I so badly wanted to make him proud. I wanted to keep Molly around and prove to Derek that I’m worth it.

That might be my biggest lie yet.

“Did something set you off?” Sherwin repeats.

My lips barely move as I say, “A smell.”

“Something specific?”

That’s the hard part. It doesn’t smell like anything I recognize. It doesn’t smell likeanything, and it’s hard to know if it’s asmell at all or if my brain is getting its wires crossed. But whatever it is feels so familiar, like a memory, and it always throws me back to when I was invisible, worthless, weak. Like a hit of nostalgia that makes me panic instead of feel good.

I haven’t changed at all.

“Do you want me to bring Seven in?” he asks.

It takes all of my energy to smile. “No. I’m okay.” It feels like someone else is speaking. Smiling. Thanking him for the session.

“Before you go,” Sherwin says, “I think we should talk about seeing a psychiatrist. For medication.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Derek

---