The steam from my latte usually did this swirling dance—comforting, familiar.
Today?
It was mocking me.
Mimicking the storm inside. My spot, my corner booth at The Daily Grind. The warmth, the murmur of voices... usually, it was my reset button. Today, it felt like the walls were closing in, the air thickening, stealing my breath.
Panic attack.
Didn't knock, didn't ask permission.
Just slammed into me, heart trying to break free from my ribs. My hands? Slick with a cold sweat that felt like fear itself. Gripped the table edge, knuckles white. Each breath, a fight.
Safe space?
Bullshit.
Felt like a spotlight was on me, blaring "He's Falling Apart" for the whole coffee shop to see.
I write about resilience, about rising from the ashes. But in that moment, I was drowning in the ashes. Standing on a fault line, waiting for the earth to split open and swallow me whole.
Twenty years old, I was. Thought I was invincible. Then a car crash rewrote my story. Lef…
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