3/13/2018

It had been just another normal morning as I rose from my bed and put on my clothes. I pulled my jeans up, slipping the braces over my flannel-clad sleeves, and put on my canvas jacket. I slipped my feet into my poor boots—I must do something about the smell—and double-knotted the laces. The only thing that would be removing them from my feet would be the welding sparks, and while they'd sure been trying, they hadn't succeeded yet.

Knock knock knock.

I looked up at the man behind the window as I pulled my locks back into a hair tie. I glanced over at my roommate as he headed for the door. "Hey, could you let him in?"

He nodded and slipped out. A second later, in came my brother. I stood up with my arms open, but something was wrong. He ran into me, threw his arms around my chest and buried his face in my shoulder. It was happening again.

I cradled him in my arms, leading him down to the edge of my bed, where we sat in silence as sobs shook through his scrawny frame. I held him tightly, assuring him wordlessly that I was there for him, that everything would be okay. A couple people walked by, curious expressions written across their faces; I waved them along and laid my head on his.

A couple minutes passed. Finally, he sat up and wiped his eyes and nose. I watched him, not even needing to ask.

"I woke up having another panic attack," he murmured, rubbing his puffy eyes.

"It's okay," I lied. "You'll get better."

He looked me in the eye. He didn't have to say it; I could see the question in his eyes.

Will I?

I didn't know what to say. I still don't.