Coming Up For Air | ✓

9 | treading water

Today, everything is too loud.

The minimalistic clock above the dining room table going tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Jake having cereal this morning, the crunch of them, the spoon scraping against the inside of the bowl. The familiar chime of her phone as a text falls into her family's group chat—Kelly checking in, Andrea asking where her glasses are (perched atop her head, Stella guesses), Faye sharing an old memory having popped up in her camera roll.

And now, the furious sizzling of the pan.

Moving around the kitchen, Stella lacks grace. Cupboard doors fall shut with a bang as she releases them from her hold, the content of the kitchen drawers rattle as she pulls them out, the pan clatters deafeningly against metal as she slams it into the sink, a creatively strung together sentence of curse words slipping her lips.

She had known the eggs were a bad idea. Attempting to make lunch, however simple, had been a bad idea. Nothing works in her favor today; she broke her favorite chapstick—the cherry flavored one—off first thing this morning. During breakfast, where she barely managed to get any food down anyways, she spilled coffee all over her pristinely white button-down. She hasn't even been into the water today, hasn't even been down to the dock. And a few hours ago, once she finally pulled herself up from her bed, fighting against every thread of anxiety held in the pockets of her body, she somehow managed to stub her toe on the staircase to the downstairs.

Watching the mess that is her eggs trickle out of the pan, pooling in a burnt mess, she attempts to collect herself.

She does her best to let her breath fill her lungs, inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale, but the air is strained. If anything, her breaths only make matters worse, closing in on her until nothing but tension consumes her chest. Much like how, on a warm summer's day, one makes the mistake of opening up a window to let some air in—only to have the humidity of the outside fill the space with stifling heat instead.

Overcome by frustration, Stella launches the spatula still held in her hand into the sink, tears already prickling her eyes as she watches it bounce against the pan with a bang.

As Stella's vision turns hazy, her knees grow weak. Slamming down hard against the floor, her head falls between her trembling hands in defeat.

Bringing one of her hands to her throat, she presses two cold fingers against it to force down the lump there, barely able to exhale through the tension—anger, sadness, frustration, hopelessness—consuming her body.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Jake come through the sliding doors of the patio. Pulling a rumpled black t-shirt on over his head, he regards her with faint alarm. A frown shapes his lips as he takes in the sight of her—knees pressed to her chest, creating creases in her white blouse, one clammy palm still held to her head.

"What's going on?"

An exhale resembling a sigh tickles Stella's lips as she lets her head fall back, eyes swiveling up to the high ceiling. "I can't do anything right."

Jake's voice drops in concern. "Are you okay?"

Shrugging, Stella lets her finger draw a line on the floorboard next to her—brushing against the hem of her denim shorts. "I'm fine."

A shaky breath slips her lips, and her head falls to her palm as tears stain her eyes once more. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she imagines the square Ms Flores always speaks of. Tries to line her breathing with its lines and corners. She's always hated that square.

"Stells?" Jake prompts and her eyes fly open at the proximity of his voice to find he's crouching down before her, his gaze steady—unwavering—as it searches hers.