It has been years since my last fanfic. This is my first time posting in AO3. Constructive criticism is more than welcome!
Just as a heads up, this fic will have some dark themes, but nothing too graphic and detailed. I will definitely be posting warnings and/or tags at the beginning of chapters I feel need them, whether they're trigger or explicit.
Warning: Anxiety attack, cursing (this will be my only warning for it bc it will be written throughout the story), light mention of prescription drug abuse (blink and you might miss it).
-Late Summer 2019-
Malibu, California, USA
I felt like a fat lady was pressed against my chest, keeping me from properly breathing. My palms started to feel clammy. The air surrounding me was having difficulty entering my airwaves.
It had been a while since the last time I had this kind of episode. But after the shitty year I've been through, it made sense my body had had enough. Even if I wasn't fully in love with my ex, hearing his last words to me and watching him leave for the last time had broken something in me.
I was broken. I was in shambles. And I was alone. ...I didn't want to feel alone.
I reached for the phone in my pocket. I was so glued to my spot that if the phone had been in any location in my house, I wouldn't have been able to reach it. My legs would not have had the strength to take me there.
I sent a quick and short message to the person I always could lean on my aunt Jia.
Even though my emotions were out of whack, my brain still functioned enough to remind me that my Tia Jia had a busy day today. And because of this, I made the message I wrote her sound like I wanted to have a casual conversation with her. Knowing she was busy with other stuff made me feel guilty. I hated to feel like a bother—thank you, childhood trauma.
As I waited for her response, I tried to remember the methods she would use to calm me.
I took a breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly. I repeated the process a few more times.
After what seemed like an eternity, I received a response from my Tia Jia, telling me she would call me once she got home. That would be hours from now.
Keeping the phone clutched in my hand, I took another breath and tried to settle down. I had managed to get myself to the living room and to the couch. I was able to regain some calmness, but I desperately wanted to talk to my tia.
I didn't know how long I had been sitting down, but eventually, my phone rang. I was certain it was my tia. Without looking at the caller ID, I picked up, "Hey." My voice sounded weak.
But the voice on the other end was much deeper than my Tia Jia's. "Hey, I just finished listening to the track. Sounds great."
"Who's this?" I asked, confused. I looked down at the phone, a Korean phone number was on the screen.
"Namjoon—RM," the voice responded.
It clicked. I was cowriting a song for some friends of mine who were in a Korean group, BTS. RM was one of the members and one of the other cowriters. I sent him an email earlier today on the latest version of the track. He was simply calling me regarding it.
"Sorry," I said.
"It's ok," he responded but didn't say anything else. It was as if he was waiting, listening intently.
I wanted to hang up—I felt the need to lie about being busy and that I could call him later. But I didn't have it in me to do so. Somehow, a part of me wanted to stay on the phone with RM. Over the years, we had mostly been colleagues. When I first met him, I developed a crush on him. However, I quickly learned how serious and private RM was. Unlike most of his team members, who were more open and playful, RM was more reserved and kept a distance from people. I had always been quite the social butterfly and befriended people easily. I learned the hard way that RM took a while to break through. Over the last few years, our relationship finally evolved into the sweet friendship we had now. And I knew that's what I needed right now: a friend. Someone to ground me.
After several long moments of silence, RM spoke. "Maya? Everything ok?" he asks, his voice full of concern.
I wanted to spill my guts, but once again, feeling like I didn't want to be a burden, I lied. "I'm ok," I said with a strained voice. But saying this lie out loud was bringing forth the emotions I had been avoiding lately. My breathing became uneven again. I was having difficulty getting the air through my lungs and I was certain RM heard it.
"Maya, slow breaths," I heard RM say on the other end of the call.
I listened to his voice, feeling like it could be used as an anchor. I followed his instructions.
"Ok, touch each of your fingers as you count them slowly," he instructed.
I pressed my thumb and pinky together. "One." I moved my thumb and ring finger together. "Two." I counted my remaining fingers at the same pace and felt myself feeling a little lighter.
"Good." RM's deep voice sounded clearer and I was positive it was due to regaining clarity. "How you feeling?"
"Better." The emotions were still lingering, but they weren't too uncontrollable.
"What happened?" Technically, it was a question but the tone in his voice made it sound more like a demand.
And I did. With all the buildup of the last months, having RM as an ear allowed me to lift some of the burden I felt off my shoulders. I spilled everything out. I admitted to my contract ending, my fear of an unclear future, the fight with my mother, my breakup with Jerry (I didn't tell RM the reason we broke up), and the shittiness I felt for not being more upset over my breakup with Jerry—we had been together for years. Why was I not more upset?
RM let me let it all out for a good hour, giving out simple "yeahs" here and there, but mostly listening intently. And it felt good. I was never one to vent but knew I needed to. I was grateful RM allowed me to do this with him.
When it seemed as if I was done, he didn't give advice but seemed to validate my feelings. "It's only natural you're going to feel stressed. All of that going through your head is bound to make your body react the way it did. I'm sure it was a panic attack you had?" It seemed more of a question than a statement.
"Yeah. I've had them a few times before. Usually, my aunt Jia is the one who calms things down a bit," I said.
"Is she your Korean aunt? The one who taught you the language?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"How often do you get panic attacks?"
I thought about it for a moment. "Not very often. Just when things are too stressful, I think."
"You think? You've never looked into it? To know what the cause is?"
"No, I don't like medication. And I hate going to a doctor." I didn't want prescribed medication. There was too much of a history there.
"Well, you might not have to take medication. Perhaps a therapist can help figure out the root of the problem. They could assist in figuring out methods you could use to balance things to prevent the attacks from even happening—notice the signs before it gets too out of control." He wasn't the first to suggest therapy.
I wasn't sure what it was about this time hearing I should see a therapist. Maybe it was because it was right after an episode had occurred or maybe because, in the past year, RM was the third person to suggest professional help. I knew about RM's mental health struggles and knew he had sought assistance as well.
"Maybe I should see someone," I said, surprising myself.
"You should," he said gently.
Three weeks and two therapists later, I found myself sitting in the waiting room of my third therapist, feeling a combination of nerves and slight pessimism. The previous therapists I had met with didn't seem to fit well—I had felt disappointed both times.
As much as I wanted to give up on finding the right person to help me, I tried to keep optimistic about getting the help I knew I needed.
Being a good support system, RM checked on me often. It felt as if we spoke every day, whether it was through messages or on the phone. He wanted to ensure I kept looking for the right person to assist me.
I was currently messaging RM as I sat in the lobby of my third therapist. He had sent me a paragraph of words of encouragement when the lady at the desk called my name. "Dr. Rob is ready for you, miss," she stated.
I made my way over to the door, sending a quick response to RM to tell him I was about to meet my third (and hopefully last) therapist.
"hwaiting!" he responded.
I took a breath and reached to open the door.
But someone beat me to it. The door swung open and standing on the other side of the door, was a tall redhead. An easy smile was on his face as he said, "Welcome Maya."
AN: Thank you to whoever is reading this. I appreciate you giving this story a shot. I have been working on it for close to a year, not wanting to start posting until I had the majority of the story finished. I want to release a chapter on a weekly basis and I know myself well enough to know I get writer's block every once in a while; I don't want it to get in the way of a regular posting. ?
Also, I posted this as "reader" to bring in more audience. I'm doing my best not to be too specific in Maya's look. I gave her a name because it works better for me as a writer. I find "Y/N" too much of a distraction. I always end up calling the reader "Yoon" or "Yuna" in my head to make it easier.
There WILL be smut, but it will be many chapters from now.
