WHEN HE CAME BACK

CHAPTER 2: THE ATTACKS

I ran back to the restaurant and straight to the washroom.I pushed the door open and got in.I tried locking the door but everything was blurry.I couldn't see where the handle was or where the key was.My back was against the door, I was breathing so hard I thought the door would shake.

I knew I was about to get the panic attack. I could feel it coming up from my stomach to my chest.I just sat there staring into space still trying to understand why he was back, getting reminded of what we were and how much changed.

Four years.Four years of trying to move on.Four years of deleting our pictures at 2am,of trying to make sense of why I wasn't enough,of blocking and unblocking numbers to check if he's online.Years of sitting down with mum for talks about him.Four years of learning to be alone,to not be in love and to find peace.Four years I've tried moving on and when I've finally done it he comes back.Has he no shame.?

Just a second ago,I was fine- scrolling, listening to the soft slow music in the restaurant, having a slow afternoon -and the next,my chest does this weird flip.

'Thud.Thud-thud-thud'

My heart is now loud like the speakers in a casino.Too fast like it's trying to climb out of my throat.I try to breathe and the air won't go all the way in.I inhale but my lungs feel shrink-wrapped.I gasp but that makes it worse.It feels like I'm breathing through a straw.My hand are tingling.Pins and needles.I try looking at them though they don't feel like mine.The lights are too bright,the sounds are too sharp.I want to stand but my legs feel jelly.I'm frozen.I'm sweating cold at the same time.

I stretched out my hand and reached into my handbag....got my phone out and started dialing numbers.I didn't know who to call but I knew I should or else I would end up in the hospital.My hand were shaking,stuff were falling from my purse.

I started getting panick attacks since I was nine.Recalling correctly my first panic attack was after hearing about my parent's divorce.Mum was crying in the bedroom, holding the papers,Dad was packing his bags and I was standing outside their room a doll in hand.I couldn't breathe.I was scared to even move a muscle.I thought if I moved,the house would collapse.

Since then I've been living with them.They come without a warning.Whenever I feel scared,when the teacher asked a question, whenever I had a business meeting and now when I see him.

I mean nothing worked really, not even therapy. The therapist was nice, she gave me a small notebook, told me to breathe, to count, to think of happy places. But how do you think of happy places when your happy place is the person who hurt you? So I just accepted the fact that it was a part of me. I learned to carry water, to carry my phone with emergency numbers, to know where the nearest hospital was.I couldn't see who it was I was dialing but it went straight to voicemail.Eyes filled with tears thinking maybe this was it, maybe he really was the end of me.

Luckily a middle aged woman entered the washrooms.She was wearing what seemed to be a yellow dress.She found me just sitting there struggling to breathe, mascara pouring down my face.

She seemed to be a doctor cause she knew what to do.No,she didn't panic at all.

" You're safe.You're safe ,baby.Look at me , not at the wall.Let's breathe together,okay?In with me...out with me.Darling, focus on me .Can you please do something for me?"

I nodded.

"Tell me anything you can see or feel"

She holds my hand and asks me to squeeze.My palm sweaty and cold.I try ,I swear I try but tears still keep coming.

She called the ambulance and I could head her saying "Young lady, panic attack, restaurant on mildway street near the mall.Please hurry."

She stayed with me and didn't leave.

Outside that washroom door, I knew he was still out there. Sitting at a table maybe, or waiting by the entrance, with those blue eyes, not knowing he had just caused a storm. And the ambulance was coming, its siren far away. My celebration had turned into an emergency. And all because he had to come back right when I was getting better.

And the worst part was, a small part of me still wanted him to be the one who opened the washroom door to save me.

Is it him who opened the door or was it the doc

© 2026 Kimberly Tatu Stories