A Million Little Scars

The First Panic Attack

(Ivy)

The storm arrives just before dawn.

It doesn’t creep in—it erupts. One moment, the sea hums against the cliffs in its quiet rhythm, and the next, it howls. Rain lashes the windows like a confession. The air inside the cottage turns thick and electrical, alive with the weight of memory.

I wake to the sound of thunder splitting the sky. My chest is already tight before I’m fully conscious. It happens that way sometimes—my body remembering the fear before my mind catches up.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am.

The shadows in the room twist with the lightning, and the ceiling feels like it’s closing in. The scent of rainwater and old wood blends with the phantom smell of his cologne, sharp and cruel as ever.

Theo.

The name flickers through me like static.

I sit up too fast, the sheets tangling around my legs, my breath short and shallow. It’s not real. You’re safe. The words loop in my mind like a mantra I don’t quite believe.

But panic isn’t logical. It’s an old wound re-opening, a body remembering every moment it once wasn’t safe.

The storm outside intensifies, thunder rolling like distant gunfire. The skylight trembles under the weight of rain, and with each flash, I see it—the apartment in the city, the shattered glass on the floor, the sound of his voice saying you’ll never survive without me.

My hands tremble. My vision narrows.

I try to count. One, two, three, four— but the numbers slip. My heart claws against my ribs, my throat closing like a fist. I stumble toward the bathroom, fingers gripping the doorframe, searching for something solid to anchor myself to.

The mirror catches me—wide eyes, damp hair plastered to my forehead, skin pale and trembling. I don’t look like someone starting over. I look like someone still drowning.

The air feels too thin. I press my palms against the sink, bowing my head as if I could pray the panic away. My reflection wavers, distorted by the lightning flashing through the small window.

“Stop,” I whisper, but my voice fractures.

Then I hear a knock—faint, careful.

“Ivy? It’s June.”

Her voice is soft, like a lullaby wrapped in concern.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

She opens the door slightly, peering in. “I heard you moving around. The storm’s a bad one tonight.”

I nod, breath still uneven. She steps inside, holding a candle that flickers gold across her face. “You’re pale as the moon, child. Sit.”

I obey, sinking to the edge of the bathtub, shaking. She kneels beside me, her joints stiff, but her presence steady.

“It’s just thunder,” she says gently. “Only the sky letting go.”

Her words shouldn’t help, but they do. The way she says only—as if storms were simply a part of being alive, not something to fear.

She touches my hand, and I realize how cold I’ve become. “You breathe like someone trying to disappear,” she murmurs. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Like waves, dear. Let the breath be a tide.”

I try. I really try.

Inhale. Exhale.

Slowly, the edges of the world return.

The panic doesn’t vanish—it rarely does—but it loosens its grip, like fingers unclenching.

June watches me for a long moment before standing. “When I was your age, I used to have nights like this,” she says softly. “You think you’re breaking, but sometimes it’s just your heart learning the sound of its own cracks.”

She sets the candle on the counter, its flame trembling between us. “There’s tea in the kitchen. Chamomile, if you want it. And if the storm gets worse, you can sleep downstairs. The sea sounds kinder from there.”

When she leaves, I stay where I am, letting the silence settle.

The panic passes, but it leaves something behind—a hollow ache in my chest, an exhaustion that feels older than my body.

I glance at the mirror again. My reflection is calmer now, but there’s something else in my eyes—something fragile but determined.

Survival.

I clean my face, pull on a sweater, and move downstairs. The cottage creaks softly as the wind shifts. On the small kitchen table, June has already set two cups of tea, steam curling into the dim light.

She hums faintly to herself, a melody I don’t recognize. “You paint, don’t you?” she asks without looking up.

“I used to.”

“You should again.”

Her tone isn’t a suggestion—it’s an instruction.

I manage a small smile. “Maybe.”

She nods, satisfied, as if she’s planted a seed and trusts it to grow. “There’s a place in town—The Harbor Café. Mason runs it. Good man. They’ve got a noticeboard for art classes. You might find your way there.”

I trace the rim of my cup, the warmth grounding me. “I’ll think about it.”

She studies me with eyes that seem to look through time. “Don’t think too long, dear. Thinking can be a kind of hiding.”

When I finally go back upstairs, the storm has quieted to a steady rain. The candle on my nightstand flickers low. I open my sketchbook again, the page from last night staring back at me—the silhouette on the cliff.

Something compels me to finish it.

I add more detail this time—the curve of the shoulders, the fall of the coat, the faint reflection of light glancing off something in his hand. A watch, maybe.

It feels strange, drawing someone I’ve never met. Stranger still that it feels familiar.

I pause, pencil hovering. Outside, the lighthouse sweeps its beam across the sea, and for an instant, the reflection catches in my window—brief, blinding.

When the light fades, I think I see someone standing at the edge of the cliff again.

Just for a moment.

A figure, still and dark against the storm-tossed sky.

Then he’s gone.

I tell myself it’s the shadows. The imagination of a tired mind.

But when I close the sketchbook, my heart doesn’t quite believe me.

I lie back down, listening to the rain slide down the glass, and somewhere in the rhythm of it, I hear something I haven’t in a long time—hope, faint but persistent, tapping softly at the windowpane.

Maybe Edenbrook isn’t just a place to hide.

Maybe it’s a place that remembers how to heal.

* * *

“The Therapy Appointment”

(Ivy)

The rain finally stops the next morning, leaving the world washed clean. The sea glitters like something reborn.

I stand by the cottage window, my mug of tea cooling in my hands, trying to memorize the sound of nothing breaking. No raised voices. No footsteps behind me. Only the hush of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Today is my first appointment at Edenbrook Psychiatric Center.

June left a note on the kitchen table before she went out for groceries—her handwriting looping and delicate:

“Storms pass, dear. Don’t let fear be the only thing that stays.”

I stare at those words longer than I should before slipping the note into my sketchbook.

My chest feels heavy on the drive into town. The air still carries the scent of rain, the kind that clings to your hair and clothes. The roads are quiet, lined with small pastel houses and driftwood fences. There’s something heartbreakingly still about this town, as if time moves slower here, or maybe it just refuses to chase you.

The psychiatric center sits on a rise overlooking the harbor—a white-bricked building with ivy crawling up one side, its windows reflecting the sea. The sign outside reads Edenbrook Center for Emotional Wellness. It’s a mouthful for a place that feels both inviting and intimidating.

Inside, the reception smells faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A woman with gentle eyes greets me. “You must be Ivy Hart. Dr. Monroe will see you in a few minutes.”

Dr. Monroe.

Even his name sounds clinical. Safe.

I nod, but my palms are slick with sweat. The waiting room is quiet, except for the soft hum of rain against the glass. A few magazines sit untouched on the table. I try to read one, but the words blur together.

When the door finally opens, I look up—and forget how to breathe.

He’s standing there in a dark sweater and slacks, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled as if he’s been fighting thoughts heavier than gravity. His presence fills the doorway—not in an intimidating way, but like a calm you don’t quite trust.

“Ms. Hart?” His voice is low, deep, and measured.

I nod again. My voice betrays me. “Yes.”

He gestures toward his office. “Come in.”

The room is warm and uncluttered. A single lamp casts a golden light across the bookshelves. There’s a large window facing the ocean. A clock ticks softly on the wall, rhythmic but not harsh.

He motions to the couch. “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable.”

Comfortable. The word feels foreign. I choose the edge of the couch, spine straight, hands folded tightly in my lap.

He sits across from me—not behind a desk, but in a chair angled slightly toward mine. It’s subtle, but it feels intentional. He’s creating a bridge, not a barrier.

“I read your file,” he begins gently. “But I’d rather hear your story in your own words—if you’re ready.”

I stare at the floor. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere,” he says. “Sometimes beginnings aren’t linear.”

I breathe out slowly. “I left the city three weeks ago. My ex—he… he didn’t like when I painted. Said it made me distant. Selfish.” I pause, throat tightening. “He didn’t like when I cried either.”

Dr. Monroe doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt. His stillness feels different from silence—it feels like listening.

“I stopped painting. I stopped doing everything, really.” My voice trembles. “I started having panic attacks. Sometimes I can’t breathe, and it feels like I’m back there again, even when I know I’m not.”

He nods, eyes steady. “That’s how trauma works. The body remembers before the mind does.”

The sentence lands somewhere deep in me. Like truth dressed in softness.

I glance up at him. There’s something in his expression I can’t name—recognition, maybe. As if he’s seen the same storm and knows how it ends.

“I thought moving here would help,” I whisper. “But the quiet feels… fragile. Like it could break at any moment.”

He leans forward slightly. “Do you feel safe here, Ivy?”

I hesitate. “Most of the time.”

“And the rest of the time?”

I look toward the window. The lighthouse beam sweeps slowly across the water, its reflection trembling. “The rest of the time, I feel like I’m still running.”

He studies me for a long moment, then says, “Healing isn’t about running from the darkness. It’s about learning to walk through it.”

I almost laugh. “That sounds like something you tell all your patients.”

He smiles faintly. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

There’s a pause—soft, human. The kind that feels like standing on the edge of a new language.

He glances at his watch, then back at me. “I’d like to see you twice a week for now, if that’s manageable.”

I nod. “Okay.”

When I leave, the air outside feels lighter somehow. The ocean roars quietly in the distance, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like maybe I can breathe without counting the seconds.

As I reach my car, I glance back at the window of his office. He’s standing there, watching the sea.

For a moment, I think he looks lonelier than I feel.

* * *

(Elias)

After she leaves, the silence feels heavier.

I stand by the window, watching her car disappear down the winding road toward the harbor. The rain has returned in a fine mist, beading against the glass. I tell myself I’m only observing, not feeling.

But I am.

Something about her stillness unsettles me. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after screaming—the aftermath of survival.

Her words replay in my mind: He didn’t like when I painted.

There are so many ways people teach others to become small.

I return to my desk and glance at her file again, then close it. Boundaries, Elias. You learned this the hard way.

Still, I can’t shake the echo of her voice, or the way she looked at the ocean when she spoke. Like she was waiting for it to answer.

I pour myself a cup of coffee gone lukewarm. Nora passes by the open door, raising an eyebrow. “First session?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She’s… trying.”

Nora leans against the frame. “You mean she reminds you of yourself.”

I don’t respond.

She sighs. “Just don’t lose yourself again in someone else’s pain.”

When she’s gone, I turn back to the window. The lighthouse cuts through the fog—one beam, steady, relentless.

Outside, the tide is rising.

Inside, something in me is too.

I press a hand against the glass, feeling the cold bleed through. It anchors me. Reminds me that I’m still here, still breathing.

And somewhere down in the town below, a woman with paint-stained hands is trying to remember who she was before fear taught her silence.

Maybe that’s what draws me to her already—the courage it takes to even begin again.

The clock ticks softly behind me. I reach for the pocket watch on my desk—the one that hasn’t worked since the night Clara died.

It’s still cracked, still frozen in time.

But for the briefest second, I think I hear it tick.

* * *