Safe space
1308 Words
TWO DAYS LATER
I hurry through the hospital hall, footsteps echoing, clutching my bag and phone tightly against me.
The call had come early this morning—panic attack case. Urgent.
My breath catches slightly as I round the corner and spot my assistant waiting, her face tense.
Assistant: "Doc, this way."
I nod once and follow her quickly, weaving past nurses and hushed conversations.
We reach the room. I pause for a second, straighten my coat, and glance at the patient through the small glass window—distressed, trembling, eyes darting.
I take a slow breath.
"All of you, wait here please," I say to the small group gathered outside.
With my assistant beside me, I grip the doorknob, swallow hard, and push the door open gently.
"H-hello," I say softly, stepping into the tense, heavy air of the room.
Patient: "Nooo! Go away! Don’t come near me!"
I raise both hands gently, my voice calm and steady.
"Hey… hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise."
Patient: "No! Don’t touch me! Just go!"
I pause, hands still raised, keeping my distance.
"It’s okay. I won’t come closer unless you want me to."
My voice stays calm, grounded — the kind you use to anchor someone in a storm.
I crouch slightly, getting to eye level without moving closer.
"You’re not alone. You’re safe here. Just try to focus on my voice."
I nod to my assistant silently — she steps back, giving space.
"Can you try to match my breathing? In… nice and slow… and out…"
I demonstrate gently, breathing deep and steady.
"You’re doing okay. Just stay with me. One breath at a time. I’m right here."
The panic doesn't disappear instantly — it never does —
but I watch the tremble in their shoulders start to ease, just a little.
And in that, there's progress.
The patient’s breathing is still ragged, but their eyes slowly meet mine — wide, fearful, but searching for something solid.
"That’s it," I say gently. "You’re doing really well. Just keep breathing with me."
I stay seated where I am, grounded, calm. No sudden moves. No pressure.
"Can you tell me your name?" I ask softly. "Or even just nod if hearing me is okay."
There’s a pause, then the smallest nod. It’s barely there — but it’s something.
"Good," I whisper, a gentle encouragement.
"You’re not broken. Your brain is just reacting like it’s in danger. But you’re not alone now. I’m here to help you through it."
The tremors in their hands begin to slow. They still can’t speak, but I see it — the fear shrinking, just a little, enough to let in a sliver of calm.
I stay there, holding the moment steady, until I feel their breathing start to match mine.
Slow. Deep. Real.
And when they finally whisper, "Am I okay?"
I smile, soft and reassuring.
"Yes. You’re more than okay. You're safe now."
"Hm… what’s your name?" I ask gently, keeping my tone light, inviting.
Patient: "Lex."
"Lex," I repeat softly, letting the name settle. It clicks. I remember reading his case — the details, the warning signs.
I offer a small, warm smile. "Okay, Lex. How old are you?"
Lex: "Thirteen."
I nod. "Good. Thank you for telling me."
I pause for a moment, then tilt my head slightly, voice softer.
"So… do you remember what happened? Do you want to share?"
I smile just a little, enough to ease the moment.
"You know, I’m really good at keeping secrets. I won’t tell anyone. Just you and me here, okay?"
Lex shifts, unsure — but he doesn’t look away.
That’s a start.
And I wait — patient, steady — because sometimes the silence speaks before the words come.
Lex: "They all make fun of me... at first, they acted like they were my friends. They laughed with me, sat with me at lunch. I thought... I thought I finally belonged somewhere."
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to the floor. His voice lowers, barely above a whisper.
Lex: "But then it changed. They started saying stuff behind my back. Calling me names. Saying I was weird, or broken, or... fake."
He shifts in the chair, hugging his knees closer.
Lex: "Yesterday… they told me they had a surprise. Said they wanted to show me something after class."
A pause — he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s watching it all happen again.
Lex: "They took me to the old storage room… and they shoved me in. Locked the door."
His breathing picks up again, but I gently guide him back. "It’s okay, Lex. You’re safe now. Just breathe, remember?"
He nods quickly, shaky but trying.
Lex: "It was dark. I couldn’t see anything. I thought maybe they’d come back, maybe it was a joke. But they didn’t. I screamed. I yelled so loud I thought my throat would tear."
His hands grip his sleeves tightly, fingers trembling.
Lex: "No one came. Not the teachers. Not even a janitor. Nothing. Just… silence. I was in there for hours."
My heart clenches, but I keep my voice even.
"You must’ve felt terrified."
He nods, tearful.
Lex: "I felt like I didn’t matter. Like I could disappear and no one would even notice."
I let the silence settle for a moment — not heavy, but holding space for him.
"Lex," I say quietly, "what they did to you was cruel. That wasn’t friendship. That was bullying. And none of it was your fault."
He wipes at his eyes, hesitant.
"You matter. You do. And not just because you’re here now — but because you always did. Even in that room, even when no one showed up. You mattered then, too."
His breath steadies. Still fragile. But now, not as alone.
And that’s where healing begins.
40 minutes later..
I step out of the room, the weight of Lex’s story still lingering in my chest. My assistant looks at me expectantly, and I give her a small nod — a quiet signal that things are under control for now.
Taking the report file from her hands, I sit at the nearby desk and begin writing, carefully noting down every detail: the triggers, the episode, the moments when he started to calm. Each word matters — it’s his voice, his pain, preserved on paper.
I sign off a temporary prescription for mild anti-anxiety medication, folding it neatly for his parents. "This is just to help him settle for now," I explain when I hand it over. "But what he really needs is support — and someone who listens."
They nod, relief washing over their faces. I add, "I’d like to see Lex once a week. We’ll take this one step at a time."
As they leave, I glance at the clock. Another story, another heart I’m trying to hold together —
and somehow, I still find myself whispering a silent promise:
"I’ll make sure he feels safe"
- Writer
