Anxiety.

The man you sit next to in the harshly lit waiting room of your local medical centre. His roughed-up work boots tap at the ground in an erratic rhythm, while spindly flingers pull at uneven facial hair. To you, he is impatient. To him, the results of his STI check-up could mean four days spent in a severe emotional spike.

The girl seated a row down from you at the cinema. It’s a decent action movie, with scenes of the ocean and it’s rolling waves sized like sky-scrapers. Her petite frame clings to an armrest, face buried in the seat’s leather backing. To you, she is childlike in her fears. To her, just the audio of crashing waves will mean sporadic nightmares and migraines each day following.

The teenager a few feet from you in the grocery aisle. Unblinking eyes gaze at the open space between dairy products. In small intervals they break contact to glance down at their phone, but never elsewhere. To you, they are indecisive and killing time. To them, this is the first time in four months that they have left the house. There is limits to their concentration, in fear that anything more will trigger a destabilising breakdown.

The girl in your college exam session. Monotonous clicking of pens and subtle creaking of withered desks fills the air as students settle in to their first task. Someone towards the back of the room sniffs loudly. She sniffs again, this time muffled. Tears drip down and create swirling patterns of ink through her worksheets. To you, she didn’t study and feels inadequate. To her, waiting for the phone call regarding her partner’s heart surgery has left her hungry, cold and sleepless.

They all think they’re crazy. They all think it’s embarrassing or stupid.

*WARNING* Content may be distressing for victims of emotional abuse.

–

“Your hair, it’s darker.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

If one were to observe the conversation from a third-party perspective, it wouldn’t seem all that significant. Would they feel the silence shifting in violent waves between us, or notice that the outer corner of my left eye twitches in moments of unease?

That night, my hands become raw and tender with remnants of home-remedy lemon juice solution.

–

Echoes of intoxicated laughter bounce off the tavern’s concrete walls, cloaking the rabid vibrations tearing through my jean pocket.

I hold the screen close to me, shielded from curious eyes.

9:42PM. WHERE R U. 9:45PM. ??????????????? 9:51PM. HELLO 9:51PM. Cool 9:59PM. Lol. Don’t come home

A friend offers a small smile from across the bar. My eye twitches twice in response, and I realise the cracks are becoming harder to hide.

That night, my skin is cold, unsheltered. I really did like my hair darker.

–

120km/h. The yellowed glow of passing streetlamps throws streaks of light over the narrow road. For a second I reach to change the radio station, but my chest tightens and I retreat in the same breath. It was my misjudgement that even the tiniest movements would somehow go overlooked.

“I just don’t get it. You act like I beat you or some shit. Get a fucking grip.” The steering wheel is cradled tighter. 140km/h.

I’m directed not to make eye contact for too long, I’m told it’s provoking. I’m told it’s respectful to serve your partner’s wishes, and that their happiness is the key to my own. 165km/h. Mocking laughter rings through the vehicle, like I’m supposed to enjoy this. I sit, and thoughts scrawl through my mind about how much force it would take to fling open a car door at 180km/h.