#reyna

“Hi, baby. Is everything okay?” Jason’s voice came rather soft and hoarse through the speaker, given that he was a little bit tired.

After a few seconds of silence, you let out a shaky sigh. “Hi, yeah, I… I’m okay.” That was a lie, obviously. You were not, in fact, okay, but the desire to try and appear strong in front of your boyfriend, who often seemed so in control of the situation, was the reason why you decided not to tell the truth.

In reality, after a day full of bad news, an argument with your parents, a difficult work situation and a failed exam, you were ready to give in to your increasingly rapid heartbeat and that lump in your throat which only seemed to intensify whenever you tried to speak.

Surely enough, Jason realised something was wrong. “You’re not okay. Wanna talk to me about it?” he asked softly, still seemingly unaware of the fact that right now, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. Because that would mean accepting that everything that could have gone wrong did exactly that, and now you needed help.

“I’m fine, Jason, I swear. Just wanted to see what you were up to. I can’t sleep.” Worst mistake of your life. First admission. Then, you swallowed. “I can’t sleep because there’s just… so much to think about, you know?” Stop. That’s enough. Jason already had a lot on his plate, he didn’t need you whining about your problems, too.

But his voice on the other end already sounded more alert. “Is something on your mind?” he was still calm, so as not to scare you, which he knew could happen. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard you fight against your own emotions so fiercely.

“Nothing! Nothing, gosh, can’t a girl just miss her boyfriend?” you tried your hardest to deflect, to run away from the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself. That he could very easily figure you out like a map; how do you get from point A to point B? How do you stop a ticking bomb before disaster hits? “Can’t I just… want to have you around? Even if everything makes sense, which it does, can’t I just want to listen to you over the phone? Is it that fucking difficult to listen to me, Jason? Am I really just this incapable of doing anything right? Is that what this is?”

And there it was. The anger boiling inside you, along with sadness and nostalgia and the desire to be seen. And Jason understood all of it. “Honey, listen to me-”

“No! I can’t listen to you, I can’t listen to anyone! That’s the problem, I’m just a loser and I don’t even understand how you, of all people, would ever want to talk to me. In fact, I don’t even know why I called you. Have a good night, Jason.”

And you hung up.

After a few seconds of inner turmoil, Jason knew he couldn’t leave things like this. Not when he could hear your breathing getting increasingly heavier and your words more incoherent, as if the sentences themselves made no sense. So with his apartment complex being just a few blocks away from yours, it wasn’t long until you heard a knock on the door.

By that time, it had settled in fully. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t inhale as much air as you needed. Your room, despite having opened two windows, felt too stuffy. Your chest was aching, your hands were clammy and cold, and when Jason opened the door with the spare key he had, he almost started crying.

It never got any easier, seeing you like this, on the point of passing out and being suffocated at the hands of your own thoughts. You couldn’t even cry, couldn’t even speak properly; those few minutes that Jason took to get to your apartment had been enough to shatter that defensive tone and leave behind a sharp, numbing ache and the sensation that you didn’t have enough air, no matter how hard you tried to just breathe. 

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Jason’s voice managed to cut through the hectic whirlwind of thoughts that flowed through your mind like a tornado. His hand reached out, hesitant and yet steadier than ever, to guide your head to rest against his chest as he kneeled beside you. It didn’t matter that the room was actually cold for a person with a normal perception of body temperature; what mattered was regulating your breathing pattern. “Can you hear me? (y/n), can you hear me?” he asked, loud enough to just snap you out of that trance momentarily. Of course, he didn’t mean him literally, but rather his heartbeat, which you tended to mimic every so often when that deep-rooted ache in your chest made its way to the surface.

Slowly, shakily, you brought up a hand to rest against his chest, a palpable evidence that he was actually there, that you could follow a pattern. Though you were trembling, Jason took his time, brushing your hair out of your sweaty forehead. “I need you to stay with me, honey, please. Inhale… hold… exhale,” and he did too, loud and clear, waiting for you to follow suit. “Again.” And this exercise went on for quite a while, until finally, you were able to breathe on your own, occasionally clenching your fingers into his shirt.

After a while, it was somewhat better. You could finally breathe properly, without the burden of an imaginary rock on top of your chest. When Jason noticed the shift in your breathing pattern too, he looked down at you with teary eyes; this had obviously been a daunting experience for him as well, because no matter how many times he saw you like this, it never got easier. “How are you feeling now?” he whispered, his voice shaky.

“Better,” came your reply, perhaps a little bit steadier now. “I’m so sorry for what I said, darling… it’s just… I had an awful day, and I didn’t really… I couldn’t process it.”

And Jason knew. He understood, all too well, because he could feel it when you weren’t okay. He tried to soothe you, even if a few tears had managed to roll down his cheeks. “It’s alright. I  know you didn’t mean it. But I… I hate seeing you like this,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to your hands. The room was still quite chilly, so Jason closed the windows and walked with you until you were both in your bed. 

He draped a blanket over you, and, of course, made you tea. He wasn’t good with words all the time, but he expressed his love and concern for you through assistance when things got rough. After turning on your bedside lamp so he could look at you, you could notice just how much he cared. His blue eyes, usually so confident and fearless, were now clouded with that sort of apprehension that was so characteristic of him, almost as if he were handling porcelain.

At last, Jason decided he wouldn’t leave your side tonight. He pressed a small kiss to your forehead, then laid down next to you. “I know it’s not always easy,” he told you, tilting your chin up so you’d look at him. “But I want you to know that I’m here, baby. I’ll always be. Whether it’s for good things or bad things, you can always talk to me.”

His words, so sincere and soft-spoken, almost made you cry again. But you swallowed the lump in your throat and pointed to the book you kept on your nightstand for nighttime reading. “Could you, uh… read to me?”

And, childish as it seemed, Jason obliged. Because he couldn’t ever deny you anything.