I didn't hug my parents when I left.
No tearful airport goodbye, no dramatic confrontation. Just a quiet exchange of words and a lingering look that didn't quite meet the eyes.
My father helped me load the suitcase into the car. My mother reminded me to wear my mask on the plane. And then they both stood at the curb like they were sending off a package they hoped would return improved.
I didn't turn back after I crossed the glass doors.
I already knew everything I needed to know.
---
The flight was long, but I barely registered it.
I watched two movies without understanding the plot. Ate the airline food without tasting it. Drank water like it was something to do, not something I needed.
People moved around me. Flight attendants smiled politely. A baby cried three rows behind me. But I felt detached from it all—like I was floating somewhere above the cabin, watching my own body slumped in the seat, small and still.
Somewhere over the ocean, I opened the notes app on my phone and typed a single sentence:
I feel like I left a part of myself behind, but not the part I wanted to.
---
By the time I landed, I was running on muscle memory.
I picked up my luggage. Cleared customs. Took a cab back to campus.
It was a Sunday afternoon. The air felt clearer here, lighter, as if it had never held my parents' disappointment or my childhood shame.
But it didn't feel like freedom. Not yet.
Just... distance.
And distance doesn't erase anything. It just delays the echo.
---
Amelia was waiting for me outside the dorm.
Oversized hoodie. Crocs. Two cups of coffee.
"You look like hell," she said, handing me one.
"I feel like I've been reborn and buried on the same day."
She didn't ask what happened. Just walked beside me in silence until we reached the room.
I dropped my bags inside the door and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
"You're home," she said.
I nodded. "Yeah."
But the truth was—I didn't know where home was anymore.
---
The first few days back blurred together.
I went to class. Smiled at professors. Waved to classmates. Made jokes. Drank my black coffee. Went to the gym.
Did all the things that made me look okay.
But under the surface, I felt like a stretched wire—taut and humming with pressure.
I was exhausted. Not the sleepy kind. The kind where your bones hurt. Where your mind refuses to hold a thought for more than five seconds before spiraling.
Every step felt like I was walking through water.
Every smile felt like I was pulling it out of stone.
I wanted to feel something.
Anything.
Even pain.
At least the pain was real.
---
The night it happened, I was trying to study, but nothing would stick. My vision blurred. My fingers trembled.
I thought I was just tired. I thought if I could just focus, it would pass.
But it didn't.
My chest started tightening. My breathing went shallow. The words in the textbook swam and collapsed into static.
And then I couldn't breathe.
Not really.
My lungs refused to cooperate; my heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. I stood, stumbled back into the dresser, grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep from falling.
Amelia looked up immediately.
"Alexis?"
I didn't answer.
She was across the room in seconds, helping me down to the floor, her voice steady even though I could hear the panic beneath it.
"Okay, hey, it's okay. You're safe. Breathe with me. In, out. I'm here."
I gasped, my throat tight, fingers digging into the fabric of my hoodie like I could tear the fear out of my skin.
She wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and held me—firm and soft and present.
I think I cried. Or maybe it was sweat. I couldn't tell.
At some point, I must have pulled away the blanket—or she did—trying to cool me down, to let me breathe. And that's when she saw them.
The scars.
On my stomach. My shoulders. Faint and faded. But still there. Still mine.
She paused. Just for a moment.
Then she tucked the blanket back around me. Gently. As if nothing had happened.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't ask.
Didn't say a word.
And that silence held more love than any speech ever could.
---
She helped me into bed. Sat beside me until I fell asleep.
She didn't leave the room.
She didn't pretend it hadn't happened.
But she didn't force anything either.
Just stayed.
The next morning, she made coffee. Left a sticky note on my desk:
You're stronger than your silence.
---
I didn't mention the panic attack. Neither did she.
But I caught her watching me more often.
Making sure I drank water. Offering me gum before class. Playing my favourite playlists when we studied.
Not loud. Not pushy.
Just there.
---
And me?
I still felt numb. Still moved through the days like I was rehearsing for a role I didn't audition for.
But the numbness felt different now.
Like it wasn't permanent.
Like maybe, beneath it, something was waiting.
Something that wanted to feel again.
---
Late one night, when Amelia was asleep and the room was still, I stood in front of the mirror and pulled up my hoodie.
I touched the old scars. Traced them with my fingers like they belonged to someone else.
I didn't feel shame.
Not that night.
Just... sadness.
And something quieter beneath it.