Breathe for Me Read Free Page B

this what a date feels like?
    I scoff at myself. Ridiculous . What am I even thinking? I can’t date anyway. And even if I could, exchanging notes for class wouldn’t classify as one.
    The half hour ends just moments after I finish the last problem. I pass the paper in front of me and try not to notice that Becky appears hesitant to accept it from my outstretched hand. To her credit, she says nothing, merely shuffling our papers forward.
    Mr. Morris spends the rest of the class period alternating between grousing about how little we understand the nuances of algebra and writing sample problems on the board for us to solve. I remain still in my quiet space, not talking, not drawing attention to myself.
    When the bell rings, I resist the urge to glance at the clock on my way out of the room. A futile gesture—my body knows how long it is until lunchtime. Every second is measured in my nervous intake of air. Students around me in the hallway mark time as well, their breaths flowing en masse, their numbers floating, counting down in a sort of syncopated rhythm. Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick .
    My chest tightens, and I start to pant. Panic tingles my lips, the tips of my fingers. I can’t focus, can’t think. The edges of my vision start to blacken, narrow. I press my hand against my chest, drawing in ragged breaths.
    Stop . Can’t do this. Not right now. I dart into the closest bathroom and swerve around two freshmen fixing their lipstick in the mirror, then lock myself in a stall and plop down on the toilet seat, dropping my books onto the floor in front of me.
    I rest my elbows on my thighs, press my head into my hands. It’s been a while since I’ve had an attack this bad. Just breathe . I almost laugh at the irony of my self-soothing words. No shortage of breaths for me. No numbers above my own head. But a constant reminder of mortality all around me.
    This is the crux of my life every few months—moving from place to place to place, only brief episodes of déjà vu to remind me of where I’ve been, what I’ve done. During my time in each new city I visit, I can either be alone and live without the constant reminder of death, or be with others and know every second of my life that I’m different.
    I’m not one of them anymore.
    I wait until the bell rings and the girls exit the bathroom before I leave the sanctity of the stall. My tennis shoes pad lightly across the tiled floor as I make my way to psychology, grateful for the emptiness of the hallways. I’m rarely late to any classes, so I’m sure Mrs. Burdell will understand. She’s one of the only teachers I actually enjoy communicating with.
    â€œSweetheart,” a low voice says from a few feet behind me. The pet name invades my space, slithers under the edges of my clothes, slides across my skin.
    I give an involuntary shudder. Slowly, I turn around and press my books against my chest. A flimsy protection from him.
    â€œI’m late for class,” I say, staring at the black-and-white checkered pattern on the floor. “You know, if someone catches me talking to you, it’s going to be hard to explain who you are and how you snuck into our school.”
    Moving in a slow, confident stride, Sitri comes close to me. Just inches away, he grasps my chin with long, icy fingers, forcing my head up, up, up to look into frost-grey eyes framed by thick lashes. His lips curve into a smile, demonic yet strangely beautiful.
    â€œWhat do we care about what others think?” His voice caresses me in a soft, almost loving tone. “All we need is us.” He raises a dark eyebrow, releases my chin from his grasp.
    I draw slow breaths, force myself not to move from this spot. I won’t give in to my feelings, and instead back away from him, like every part of my body is screaming for me to do. I won’t show weakness. It’s a constant power struggle between the two of us and I refuse to