Page 70 of Red Zone
It’s not the change in plans that hurts.
It’s that they made them without me.
Again.
I set my bag down. Sit. Stand. Pace.
You’re not part of the plan.
No one said that out loud, but that’s what it meant. My dad, Nicole, Emmy—they make the decisions. I just…adjust. And now I’m supposed to smile and be mature while they take a holiday I was invited to and turn it into a family road trip I don’t belong on.
I sit down at the editing desk, open my laptop, and stare blankly at the project timeline. My hands shake on the keyboard.
Deep breath in. Out. In. Out.
Except it’s not working. The air feels too thick, my chest too tight. I blink hard, but my vision won’t clear. I try to click into the media folder—just something, anything to distract myself—but I can’t even remember my password right now. My mind is swirling as if I’m stuck in a vortex.
My fingers curl into fists.
Stop. Focus. Fix it.
But the buzzing starts in the back of my head. My palms itch. My spine locks. And suddenly I can’t move. Can’t even think.
I can’t be here.
I shove my chair back with too much force and stumble toward the corner by the supply shelf, knees giving out as I hit the wall. My back slides down to the floor. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. I press my fists to my thighs, counting under my breath, trying to get control back.
Three taps left leg. Three taps right.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
But it’s not helping.
The walls are too bright. The lights hum too loud. The pressure in my chest builds until it feels like something’s caving in.
The door creaks open.
“Whoa—Lyla?”
Jaxon.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
His footsteps pause, then shift quickly across the floor.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” His voice is soft, uncertain. “You’re all right. I’m right here, okay?”
He crouches in front of me, one knee to the ground, hands lifted like he’s not sure if he should touch me.
“I’m not gonna crowd you,” he says, calm but obviously panicking under the surface. “Can you look at me?”
I manage to lift my gaze. His face is tight with concern, but not pity. Just worry. Pure and simple.
“You’re having a panic attack, right?” he asks gently. “Madison gets them sometimes. I’ve seen this before. You’re safe, Lyla.”
I blink fast. Try to breathe. He keeps talking—grounding me, even if the words don’t quite register.
And then the door opens again.
