Different

The car ride is silent. I've tried at least five times to get Jace to tell me where we're going, and every time he just shakes his head with that annoyingly smug grin. My nerves are coiled so tight I can barely sit still. My leg's bouncing uncontrollably, and my throat feels tight. Not unbearable—yet—but I can feel the edge creeping closer.

"Mila," Jace says finally, placing a firm hand on my thigh to still it. "You're driving me crazy. Stop."

"Sorry," I mumble. "But this is your fault. Just tell me where we're going." That earns me a small laugh, but he doesn't answer. 

Instead, he pulls into a parking spot and stops the engine. "We're here. See for yourself," he says, grinning like he's just won a game I didn't know we were playing. He points out my window. I slowly turn and read the bright red letters. Tattoo Parlor. My stomach flips. No way. He wouldn't.

"I remember you said you always wanted one but were too scared," Jace says, already opening my door for me. "So... here we are."

"You're kidding." My voice is flat, stunned.

"I'm not. I booked the guy who does all my work. He's got a cancellation—only opening for weeks. This is your shot."

I stare at him. My heart's racing now for an entirely different reason. "Jace, I can't just—this is a permanent decision."

He laughs and tugs gently on my hand, urging me out of the car. "You're acting like I dragged you to get married in Vegas. It's just a tattoo. Come inside. At least have a look."

Every step toward the entrance makes my legs feel shakier. I'm not sure if I'm terrified or excited—or both. Mostly terrified. Am I really going to do this? 

"How's it going?" Jace greets the guy behind the counter like they're old friends.

"Good, man. What's up?" they shake hands.

"This is Mila," Jace says, gesturing toward me. "Your next victim."

The artist gives me a quick once-over and smirks. "First timer, huh?"

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah." I shake the hand he's holding out for me.

He hands me a binder. "Take a look through this while I finish up with someone. I'll be back in a few."

"I don't know about this," I say, my throat feeling tighter and tighter.

"Just have a look and see what you'd like," Jace answers, opening the binder for me.

I sit, trying to focus on the designs, but my thoughts run wild. I know what I want—a tiny delicate design I've had in my head forever—but I'm spiraling. It's permanent. It's going to hurt. You'll embarrass yourself. You'll panic.

My hand drifts to my neck, scratching at the skin as the pressure builds. Red blotches rise beneath my fingers. My head spins, and I feel my stomach twist violently. No. Not here. Not now. I gasp for breath. My chest is too tight. I can't get enough air in. I'm lightheaded, and everything's tilting sideways. I try to get more air, by waving my hand in front of my face. Jace looks at me questioningly. He shouldn't see this. I have to get out. "I need a second," I say sharply, standing fast and heading for the door.

"I need a second," I say sharply, standing fast and heading for the door. Outside, I grab the brick wall for support and lean forward, trying to ground myself.  My legs don't seem to hold me steady very well. The air is cool, but it doesn't help. My hands are shaking, still waving uselessly in front of my face like that'll fix it. The world feels warped—like I'm not even in my own body anymore.

It feels like an eternity, but just seconds after, I hear him behind, storming out of the parlor. "Mila—fuck, what the hell's going on?" Jace rushes out, his voice panicked.

"I..." I can't even form words. Tears blur my vision.

"Shit, do I need to call someone? What's happening?" He is wild with confusion.

I shake my head violently, tears falling from my face. "Can you just... hold me?"

"What?" He sounds stunned, maybe even angry.

"Please," I whisper. "Just... do it."

He hesitates—then pulls me into his arms. My head falls against his chest, and I cling to him like I'll fall apart if I let go. I try to cam myself—breathe five seconds in, eight seconds out. Again. And again. His scent grounds me. The steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling slowly tethers me back to reality. We stay like that for what feels like forever.

Finally, I push gently against his waist, just enough for him to let go. My symptoms are still there, but I can manage them again.

"You okay?" he asks, cupping my chin and tilting my face toward him.

I nod. I can't speak yet.

"Sit down," he says, leading me to a nearby bench in front of the shop. He watches me carefully. "Mila... what the hell just happened?"

I don't look at him. I can't. I just stare straight ahead. The tears fall again, soft and silent. I feel weak. I always do after a panic attack.

"Mila," he says, gentler this time, urging me to talk.

"I didn't want you to find out like this," I say quietly. "Or at all."

He waits. I can feel his confusion mounting. "Find out what?" he presses. "Just say it." I hear frustration in his voice. Don't worry Jace, I'm just as frustrated with myself.

"It was a panic attack," I say finally. "It hasn't been this bad in a long time."

He's quiet. Really quiet. "But why were you crying?" he asks, this time genuinely curious, not confused.

I decide then—either I tell him the truth, or I keep running. So I tell him. I tell him about my panic disorder, how long it took me to figure out what was wrong. How taking the train or driving alone scares me. How I overheat, get dizzy, feel when my body decides it's time. How shameful and isolating it feels. I tell him how I've learned to manage it—mostly. But it still owns me sometimes. When I finish, he exhales like he's been holding his breath the whole time.

"Shit," he mutters.

Telling him everything distracted me a little, and I almost feel back to normal again. Shit indeed, I agree with you Jace. 

He looks over at me slowly. "This is what you meant by your 'secret,' isn't it? Why didn't you want me to know?"

"Because no one ever really understands. They just tell me to stop overthinking. Or to calm down. Like that ever helps." I force a small, humorless smile. "Told you I was complicated."

"I'm sorry I brought you here," he says quietly. "If I'd known..."

"You don't have to apologize. It could've happened anywhere," I cut in quickly.

We sit in silence. This is the moment I've been dreading since the second I started caring about him. The part where he realizes I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

"It's fine if you don't want to deal with any of this," I say softly, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "I wouldn't blame you."

He doesn't say anything. And that silence is louder than anything. Then, finally, he lifts my chin again. His eyes are softer now—sad, even. And I brace myself. For whatever comes next.

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