Page 26 of Red Zone
Eventually, it turned into seizures—brief, unpredictable moments where I’d lose control. No warning. No trigger. Just the quiet explosion of my nervous system saying, you’ve pushed too far.
It took years to understand it wasn’t about how I felt in the moment. It was the buildup. The chronic pressure. The way I stuffed everything down until my body finally said “enough.”
By high school, I had a diagnosis: generalized anxiety disorder with OCD tendencies, stress- induced. I’ve been managing it ever since. Therapy. Routines. Systems that make me feel like I’m in control, even when I’m not.
And still, sometimes I spiral. Quietly. Clean the apartment until it sparkles. Organize the pantry in rainbow order. Re-check the locks twice. Not because I’m scared, but because some part of me still thinks if I just do everything right, nothing will fall apart.
Sometimes I wish I could explain that to people. That I don’t want to be perfect. I have to be.
Because the alternative is terrifying.
I swallow the tightness in my throat, push down the memories, and focus back on the screen. The movie is in its final stretch now—slow-motion kisses and soaring music—and Madison’s still curled into the corner of the couch, eyes glassy from the ending or maybe just from being still long enough to feel things.
I pull the blanket off and stand, stretching my arms over my head. “I’m gonna head to bed,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Early shift tomorrow with media prep.”
Madison looks up, blinking like she’s coming out of a daze. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She watches me for a beat longer than necessary, like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Yell if you need anything. And by ‘yell,’ I mean wake me up nicely or I’ll end you.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Noted.”
I turn toward the hallway but pause before disappearing.
“Thanks for tonight.”
She shrugs. “Always.”
And just like that, the tension in my chest loosens. Not all the way. But enough.
The hallway is dark except for the soft glow from the bathroom.
I pass my bedroom door and head straight for it.
Routine first. Then I can sleep.
I flick the bathroom light on. Wait one second. Flick it back off. On again.
Twice. Always twice.
My therapist once told me the world wouldn’t end if I didn’t.
But my body didn’t believe her.
I twist my hair into a loose braid, fingers working on autopilot. Left over right. Right over left. I tie it off with the soft scrunchie from the middle drawer—always the gray one, never pink. The pink one doesn’t sit right. It’s too tight, too scratchy.
Skincare next. I wash my face with cold water, then apply toner, serum, and moisturizer in that exact order. Three pumps, never two. One for the skin, one for balance, one just in case.
I wipe down the counter afterward, even though I already wiped it earlier. One more time won’t hurt.
Back in my room, I smooth the comforter, even though I’m about to get under it. Adjust the pillow. Then again. Corners have to match. Edges straight. Lamp off.
Then on. Then off again.
The silence is louder in here. But the order dulls it.
