Chapter Text
Riri feels an icy numbness spread across her chest. It prickles where her clothes touch her skin. The strap of her bra suddenly feels too tight, her blouse too constricting. She wants to strip every item of clothing from her body at once.
Breathe, Riri.
The necklace around her neck suddenly feels like a noose, and she tugs at it desperately, trying not to drown in panic.
She looks around, adrift, casting her eyes for some sort of anchor.
“Five things.”
There’s a whisper in her ear, and she turns to see a woman sitting beside her. She never noticed her arrival, but she can concede that she was in no state to notice anything anyway.
Her mind is scrambled, but she tries to shove it into some sense of order and respond like a functioning human being.
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be sorry, princess. Look around for five things you can see and name them.”
Riri blinks and decides to follow the woman’s instructions despite herself.
She swivels her head, and her brain struggles to process any stimuli at all.
“Umm, those chairs over there.”
The chairs in question are fluffy and inviting, crowded around a glass desk. In them are some college students who are laughing while studying for exams of some kind. They are reading flashcards to each other despite the frequent interruptions and bursts of laughter.
“Hey! Stay with me, sweetheart. Name four more.”
“The cups on sale, that container with straws, that bathroom sign, and the blender.”
“Breathe. Now name me four things—”
“I’m fine now, thanks.”
Riri recognizes the technique from therapy, but it grated on her to have a stranger talk her through a panic attack, especially because of the circumstances surrounding her last therapy session.
The stranger in question is undeniably beautiful. She has a cropped curly cut, tattoos peeking from her sleeve as she lifts her hand to ruffle her hair.
She wears a brown apron with the logo of the coffee shop Riri just lost it in, and it dawns on her that the stranger who talked her through her panic attack was the barista.
The hot barista.
Mortification burns through her body, and she is sure that if she were even a shade lighter, her entire face would be tomato red.
“Are you okay, princess?”
Riri opens her mouth, but no words come out.
Say something, idiot.
“Thank you, goodbye!” Riri says like the socially awkward loser she is, and she hightails it out of the café.
She takes a minute to not only facepalm and call herself an idiot at least a thousand times, but also resolve to never visit that café again.
When she arrives home, she closes the door and sinks to the ground.
She was getting better, she really was. At least she had thought so.
A fat droplet of water rolls down her cheek as she struggles to keep herself together.
This is why you are alone and friendless. Because you’re a hot mess.
Deep breaths, Riri.
It wasn’t him. It will never be him ever again.
-
Riri's apartment is small, barely enough space for her few possessions and her rampant thoughts. She moves mechanically, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door, her mind still reeling from the encounter at the café. She heads to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, hoping to wash away the remnants of her panic.
The reflection staring back at her from the mirror looks pale and exhausted, eyes wide and haunted. She grips the edge of the sink, trying to steady herself. "Get it together, Riri," she mutters under her breath. "You're stronger than this."
But the truth is, she doesn't feel strong. The ghost of past trauma clings to her, whispering that she's still trapped, still vulnerable. It wasn't just the panic attack that rattled her—it was the feeling of being seen, of someone witnessing her at her weakest moment.
Back in the living room, she flops onto her worn-out couch, her mind drifting back to the barista. The kindness in her eyes, the gentle but firm way she guided Riri through her panic—it was a stark contrast to the indifference she often encountered. That woman had seen her at her worst and still offered help, without judgment or pity.
The woman reminded her of her therapist, the same kindness that shone through and made Riri feel less alone in the world.
Well, that’s before her therapist—
Stop that train of thought, Riri.
She can feel her belly rumbling, and it vaguely dawns on her that the last time she ate was yesterday morning, aside from the coffee she drank earlier in the day.
She closes her eyes and sighs. It’s getting bad again.
Her rational mind tells her to get up, to eat one of those protein bars she stocks up in her cupboard. It tells her to call her mom and say it’s getting bad again. It tells her to email her professor and explain that she might need another mental health sabbatical.
Instead, Riri goes back to sleep.