Chapter 1: Morning Comes First
Emma wakes up before her alarm. She always does.
Her eyes open, but her body is already ahead of her. Heart racing. Chest tight. Like she’s late for something she can’t remember.
Nothing even happened yet.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. Her mind isn’t.
It starts the same way every morning. A feeling. Then a thought. Then ten more. Then her body reacting like it’s real.
Her chest rises fast, shallow. She swallows, but her throat feels tight.
Not again.
She turns her head slowly, staring at the ceiling like if she doesn’t move too fast it won’t get worse.
It gets worse anyway.
Her hands feel cold. Her stomach drops like she just got bad news. Her heart won’t slow down.
She knows this feeling.
Not fear. Not exactly. Something deeper. Older.
Her body remembers things her mind tries not to.
She sits up quickly, breathing heavier now.
“Stop… just stop…”
But it doesn’t. It never listens.
She reaches over to the nightstand, fingers shaking just enough to make her mad. The bottle is right where she left it.
Of course it is.
It always is.
She taps one into her hand and just stares at it for a second.
One pill to slow her heart down. One pill to make her feel like everyone else probably feels naturally.
Must be nice.
She puts it in her mouth dry, swallowing hard.
Now she waits.
That’s the worst part.
The waiting.
Her leg starts bouncing without her meaning to. Her fingers press into her chest like she can physically calm her heart down.
It doesn’t work like that.
It never has.
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.
“Just breathe…”
Inhale. Exhale.
Her body ignores her.
Her mind drifts where it always does when she’s like this.
Hands around her throat. Pressure. That moment she couldn’t breathe.
She squeezes her eyes shut.
“No.”
She forces herself back into the room.
This is now. She’s safe. She’s not there anymore.
Her body doesn’t believe it.
A few minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Time feels weird when she’s like this.
Then slowly, very slowly, her chest loosens.
Just a little.
Her breathing evens out enough to not feel like she’s dying.
That’s when she finally looks around the room like she just got back from somewhere far away.
Morning.
Another day.
She’s already tired.
She hasn’t even stood up yet.
She swings her legs off the bed and stands, but her body feels weak. Not dizzy, just empty.
Like there’s nothing in her.
Because there isn’t.
She tries to remember the last time she ate something real.
Yesterday? The day before?
She can’t tell anymore.
Depression doesn’t make her want to eat. Anxiety makes her feel sick when she tries.
So she doesn’t.
Until she has to.
She walks into the kitchen, opening the cabinet without really thinking. Bottles line up like routine.
Lexapro. The one that’s supposed to help.
It doesn’t touch the anxiety.
She takes it anyway.
Then another pill. The one that’s supposed to make her eat.
She hates that one. Not because it doesn’t work, but because she needs it.
She leans against the counter, staring at nothing.
Most people wake up and start their day.
Emma wakes up and survives hers first.
She checks the time.
If she times it right, if she takes it early enough, if she holds herself together long enough…
By twelve, she’ll feel normal.
Or at least close enough to pretend.
