I lose Control
836 Words
"Lucas!!!" I cry out, my voice raspy as I jolt awake. The memory of him standing by my side before I lost consciousness rushes back, urgent and sharp.
"You're awake? How are you feeling now?" Raphael’s voice startles me. I turn toward the sound to find him standing by the bedside table, meticulously unpacking lunch boxes that Nana Eloisa must have prepared.
My eyes wander the room, coming to rest on the IV drip tethered to my skin. The cold reality of the hospital sets in, but my priority remains unchanged.
"Where is he?" I ask immediately. "Is he still around?"
Raphael shakes his head, his expression tight. "I didn't see him when I got here, Camila. Perhaps he has already left. You should eat and rest." He places the bed table—loaded with a bowl of bone soup—in front of me. "Have a sip. This will help you recover."
"Maybe he’s still waiting in the lobby. I should go check—" My mind is fixated on Lucas, a preoccupation that clearly irritates Raphael.
"Don't you dare move out of that bed, Camila!" His voice thunders, making me flinch.
"Since you met that guy, so many things have happened to you! You were abducted, and now you’ve broken down from a panic attack and—"
"How is that even his fault, huh?!" I snap back.
"You were out in the rain, for heaven's sake! How can you forget that you can't get rained on? You know your allergy triggers your anxiety, so why the hell did you forget your umbrella? You never leave without it!"
I open my mouth to justify myself, but I stop. I realize the source of his anger is his genuine fear for my safety, so I choose silence instead.
The tension holds until the door swings open and Nana Eloisa appears. She has cared for me since I was five, and seeing her now, I feel a pang of guilt.
"Camila, darling! I rushed here as soon as Raphael told me," she says, hurrying over to wrap me in an embrace. "Are you feeling any better?"
"I'm good, Nana. Don't worry," I say, covering her wrinkled hand with mine. I smile, though it quickly fades into a frown when I catch Raphael’s glare.
"Seriously, Camila?" he hisses.
Nana notices the shift in our demeanor immediately. "Hey, you two... are you arguing again?" She looks between us, her expression weary, until Raphael abruptly turns toward the door.
"I need fresh air."
I snort, unable to help myself.
"Camila, dear," Nana says, gently brushing my disheveled hair.
"Don't take it to heart. You know how much he cares about you. He’s just worried."
I know she’s right. Raphael has been my guardian for as long as I can remember, and the thought of losing him is unbearable. My heart aches with sudden guilt.
"I know, Nana. I'm sorry for giving him such a hard time. I should know better, even if I am all grown up."
"We are family, always remember that," she whispers.
The word family hits me like a physical blow, and tears well in my eyes. Why does that word always break me? It makes me feel so pathetic.
"Camila? Are you okay, dear?" Nana asks, her brow furrowed.
"Yes, I'm fine. Of course," I lie, flashing a bright smile to put her at ease. I would rather bury my pain than burden her with it.
Just then, the door opens again, and my medical colleagues file in, arms laden with cakes, flowers, and balloons. Seeing them brings a genuine warmth to my chest, but happiness is a fragile thing, isn't it? As the room fills with the sounds of their laughter, a fragment of my traumatic past slices through the joy. The darkest night of my life flashes before my eyes.
Sweat beads on my forehead. I gasp for air, my fingers curling into the sheets as the walls seem to close in.
Just as I am about to lose control, the door swings open one more time. Raphael stands there, his stern face darkening as he takes in the scene. He locks eyes with me, and he doesn't need me to speak; he reads the terror in my gaze instantly.
He rushes to my side, throwing his arms open. I collapse into his embrace, sobbing in fear.
"I'm here, Camila. It's okay. Take a deep breath," he whispers against my hair.
As I hold onto him, I feel my heart rate begin to steady. He carries a cold aura, but he is the only one who can anchor me during these episodes. Still, as I look up at my colleagues—who know of my panic disorder but have never seen it—the shame washes over me. I’ve startled them, and I feel utterly exposed.
- Writer
