Page 156 of The Sound of Him

I don’t know what happened.

I don’t know if I want to know what happened.

Only, only, only 45 seconds,Dr. Deacon had said.

Casey breathed, but so did I. It took me longer, I think, but I did it too. I breathed too.

Why is he alright when I’m not?

Why is he alive when I died?

Why is he talking when I can’t?

I fucking breathed, too.

Why am I the ghost?

I don’t want to be a ghost anymore.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

I breathed, I fucking breathed, it’s not fair -

“Shhh, shh, you’re okay. One second. Let me just - okay. Here. Come here.” Hands are on me, gentle as they guide me somewhere. I panic for a second, everything hazy, before remembering where I am.

Ace’s office. This is Ace. I’m safe with Ace. I’m safe here. Especially when he helps me sit on the couch, as close to my hiding spot as he can get me without me cooperating. I glance at my blanket pile in the corner, but it’s too far away. So far. I’m dizzy and I can’t breathe and it’s too far and it’s not fair -it’s not fair, it’s not - and my throat - it’s my throat, it’s closed, I can’t breathe, there’s no air, only, only, only - and there are brown shoes and it hurts, god, it hurts, please, please, please-

My hands are pried away from my throat. It hurts - my throat hurts. Inside and out. Burns. It burns, burns, bur-

“And here.” He presses something into my hands. Something so, so soft. “Can you feel that? Your bunny? He’s okay. He’s here and safe and soft and blue and he has this little pink nose that’s fucking adorable, yeah? You feel that?” He takes one of my hands, adjusting it until he’s rubbing the pad of my thumb over the stitching of silky pink thread. “I had this bear once. It was this exact shade of pink, and the inside of its ears and the circles on his paws were, like, pastel quilting? I used to trace the stitches of that quilting, all the little geometric lines. Can you feel that? The stitching? Or what about this, hm?” My hand is pulled away, curled up, then something cool and smooth is placed in my palm. He folds my thumb over it. “Galaxies, remember? Our favorite one.”

I rub little circles into the stone, trying to match my breathing to it. Because Icanbreathe. I’m doing it right now. It just doesn’tfeellike it.

I’m so tired of it not feeling like it.

“Hey, shh. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

There’s a sign for it. There’s a sign to explain - to tell him - to - to - the hands, both hands, drop the bunny, close the fingers around the stone, fists, two fists, pointer fingers out, tap, tap, I tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-

“You can’t. That’s the sign for ‘can’t’, yeah? You can’t wha -oh. You can’t breathe? That it, Matt?”

I sob.

I can’t stop moving my hands.Can’t, can’t, can’t-

“You can’t breathe.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, everything burning, burning, burning.

I wait for him to do what everyone does - to tell me Icanbreathe, to tell me I’m breathing right now, to tell me it’s all in my head even though itisn’t.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “How about I breathe for you for a while then? And you just focus on that.”

And he takes my hand, nice and gentle, and guides it to his chest. He’s in a sweater that’s… actually really wrinkled and has something stained on the collar, which is unlike him, but it’s soft, very soft, and his chest is solid beneath my hand.