Caighley

“Before you, music was just music. But not anymore. Where everything was dull and mute before, you've brought brightness and life. I don't want to lose that.' He grasps my arms and pulls me around to face him. 'Please don't go to that ball, Isda.”
― Jessica S. Olson, Sing Me Forgotten

“You're right, though. You do deserve to dance, wear pretty dresses, and eat fine foods. You are worth celebrating.'

Words have stuck in my throat. My body has gone completely numb.

'But they'll kill you if they find out the truth.' He pushes a lock of hair back over my shoulder. 'And a world without you in it? That's not a world I want to even imagine.”
― Jessica S. Olson, Sing Me Forgotten

“But I don’t do crowds.”
“Why?” I search his face, desperate to understand, desperate to see.
“Because that’s how it is.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice hardens.
I take a step back. “Do what?”
“Stand there and tell me that if I just tried, if I just ‘put myself out there,’ I could get over it.” Though he’s still speaking barely above a whisper, it feels as though he’s shouting, and I take a step back. “Have you ever felt like your heart was about to beat itself to death? Like your lungs were seizing up? It’s not a pleasant experience. Your vision goes splotchy, and your body feels like it’s shredding itself inside. Hot sweats. Dry mouth. It feels like dying, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have to force myself to go through that because you think I should.” He pauses to take a slow breath and turns away. “The more I try to force myself to be something I’m not, the worse the attacks get. So no. I’m not going.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I shudder, gasping for air.
“Myra!”
Something grips my shoulders, and I flail against it.
“Breathe!” August’s voice is suddenly loud in my ears, and it jolts my vision clear.
He moved his hands from my shoulders to my face, cupping either side of it, holding my gaze steady with his.
“Breathe with me,” he says, more quietly this time. And then he inhales slowly.
The dagger drops from my hand, clattering away on the floor, and I wrap my hands around his, grounding myself in them.
And I breathe.
Together, we stand in the sunlight.
In and out. In and out.
And slowly, ever so slowly, the tidal wave of panic and fear ebbs. Air fills my lungs, and my body sags.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper after several moments.
“Never apologize for feeling your fear,” August says, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Not to me.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses