After dinner, Ky insisted on cleaning up and doing the dishes. There weren't many, anyways. She finished up, grabbed her sketchbook, and went out to the porch again, this time settling down on the swing. It was nine pm and the sun was finally setting, painting the sky in lavender and light pink.
She began a rough outline of the street, letting her mind gain clarity; some people got lost in their art but she always felt sharper instead. Like the ability to be more fully present was enhanced. She could hear the TV playing in the background and feel her grandpa's reserved calmness. Her grandmother was calm too, but in a more focused manner.
Memories of Ky's elementary school years began to resurface, images dancing at the edge of her mind like ghosts. Maybe it was just the nostalgia of the day, or the unbelievable lack of changes on the surface. There was no way that things had stayed exactly the same; not when she felt so utterly different. She finished the sketch and headed inside for the night.
First grade, gym class. Ky feels the tightening of her chest and shortness of breath suddenly. The boy next to her on the bench is having an asthma attack. They look at each other, the boy's eyes panicking. Ky runs to get the teacher, who fumbles through the office to grab the inhaler before returning to the boy. A puff, then two. Ky's chest is released from the pressure. She tries to hide the catching of her own breath. The boy looks at her, says thank you. You're welcome, she answers. They rarely speak again.
The summer before third grade. School just got out last week, and now the kids are at the park or on vacation or headed to camp. Ky doesn't hold her mom's hand during walks anymore but still stays close. They walk through a park and across a bridge, where a boy her age is alone and staring out at the water underneath. A blank numbness settles on her skin for just a second as they pass him, the absence of touch a jarring feeling. In a Grey's Anatomy episode she will watch years later, there will be a patient who cannot feel pain and it will be the thing that just might kill them. Now, however, he turns around to look at the mother daughter pair, his eyes cold or determined or forlorn, all at once. Where's his family? Ky asks. Probably nearby, her mother reassures. C'mon, let's get home. It's getting dark.
Second grade, in the office. Waiting. Ky has another stomach ache, the third one of the year and it's only October. Three seats away, a boy's knee has been scraped real bad. Gravel mixed with blood, but he doesn't say a word. Ky's thoughts are racing, but this is not out of the norm. When her dad arrives to get her, he speaks up. "Hope you feel better," he says with a grin, wincing because he's shifted his knee accidentally. "You, too," she answers, tripping from a sudden ache in her own knee as she passes him by.
Third grade, science class. Everyone is paired as partners to work on the final project. When Ky asks which house they should work at, her partner immediately asks if they can go to hers. The following Thursday, they sit at her kitchen dining room table to brainstorm. Grandma brings them apple slices and grapes. Later when he leaves, Ky complains of a pain in the small of her back. Grandma asks if she bumped into anything or fell, and she says no. The next day, someone pokes Isaac in the small of his back and he winces. Ky is ten feet away to watch the whole thing.
Fourth grade, math class. Before the test, Ky sits next to Lydia because by now she's figured out that while she doesn't understand why, she feels calm and confident when next to her. Otherwise she blanks, or gets distracted, or both. Test anxiety, she'll learn later, is what it's called. Lydia folds her returned marks over as quickly as she can, but sometimes Ky glances over to see how she always scores near the top. Ky's scores are average in comparison, but hey. Being calm during a test often helps.
Fifth grade, after school. Ky eats an apple and five crackers and dives into bed for a nap, as she's done all week. Her mother is worried, her grandmother is observant. She suggests they drive out to the beach next Saturday; the salt air and open sky will be good for her, away from this stuffy town. You love this stuffy town, Mona reminds her mother. Doesn't mean it isn't suffocating, she replies. Next Saturday during the entire drive, Ky asks if they're sure the door's been locked. She hasn't been away from the house in a while. Of course it is, her father reassures her from behind the wheel, adding that he double-checked. When they arrive, Ky runs out to the water and breathes in the fresh air. It is sunny and new and for the first time in ages, she can feel her own feelings clearly. Whatever is happening to her is clearly not a common phenomenon, and she's terrified of what that might mean. But for now, she feels good, and that is the most important thing.
Sometimes when Ky blinks, she can see colours floating around people that no one else can. A google search proves this to be their auras, which people do happen to see on occasion. Unfortunately most of them are psychics and/ or sane, and there is nothing about seeing them simply after blinking.
Two weeks after coming back from camp and five days before sixth grade begins, Ky hugs her grandparents goodbye and closes the car door. Mom is behind the wheel, Dad turns on the radio. It all feels like a movie scene as she watches her house get smaller and smaller. Stiles is nowhere to be found, but she tells herself this doesn't really matter. As they merge onto the highway, a jeep passes them two lanes over, headed in the opposite direction. Noah Stilinski is telling his son that just because the car's out of storage now, doesn't mean he can drive it 'til he's 16. And that it was his mother's. And the engine probably needs replacing.
When the Changs pass a historic, unlabeled border that is no longer in effect, something lifts from Ky's chest. She can breathe easier now; she can finally feel the sorrow of having left the only place that ever knew her.
Eighth grade, in the middle of the night. Waking up in a cold sweat, Ky recounts the dream she just had. It was set back in the dining room of the old house. She was talking to her grandmother, over tea.
"I think I can feel what others do."
"Of course. Everyone can, if they pay enough attention. You just have more than others."
"No, but it's their pain, their fear, everything. It's hard to explain… and I can't tell the difference from what's mine anymore."
"Find your own, then. Make your own, feed your own fire. Oh, smart girl. You'll be okay."
The next day, Ky makes an appointment with the guidance counselor. "I've been feeling terrible since the day I was born," she wants to say. "I'm nervous, a lot. Is that normal?" she asks instead.
Meanwhile in Beacon Hills, a boy named Stiles is sitting in a similar chair, staring at the posters on the wall. He listens as the counselor talks about what panic attacks are, and the difference between those and anxiety, and how to come back from either of them. His leg bounces up and down, and the counselor makes note of it.
Both counselors do what they can, which isn't very much. Breathing exercises, they say. 5-7-5. Five seconds to inhale, seven seconds to hold, five seconds to exhale. Come back, anytime.
"Are you going to call my parents?" Ky asks.
"Would you like me to?"
"No, not really," Stiles answers to the same question, miles away.
"... Okay, not this time. Come back whenever you wanna talk."
Ky goes back before Christmas. Stiles doesn't, but looks up everything he wants to ask later on.
Both of them practice deep breathing.