Phil's POV.
I didn't mean to make a scene. Honest.
I just couldn't help it.
When the new boy walked in, I was hit with such a tidal wave of déjà vu and fear it was like I'd been physically punched. I felt my breath hitch and every muscle tense, my arm flinching and knocking everything off my desk.
I've never seen anyone like him.
He's gold, almost like the girl I met so many years ago, an ethereal, blinding, celestial storm of glittering gold and silver – or at least he should be. I can see it, pressed against his skin, fighting to be seen somewhere in his eyes – but he's not.
His colour is black, a thick, oppressive, fog that lingers around him and makes my eyes water from here. It's evil, this cloud. Toxic. I can see it trying to smother the gold, put out the stars that should spark from every inch of him.
I think it might kill him.
I think it might kill me.
Before I have a chance to think beyond an overwhelming panic, I hear my name and force myself back to the present. A few girls are giggling, and the new boy (Dan, the part of my brain that was paying attention notes), shoots me a wary glance before frowning and looking away. Reluctantly, he walks towards the back of the room, towards me.
Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshit.
Dan's POV.
By 11:15, I've given up on new starts. Fuck hope. Fuck recovery.
I can't do this.
Just over two hours into the day, it's clear how much I missed before switching schools (weeks as an inpatient in the psychiatric ward won't do wonders for your basic algebra skills), and as if that wasn't discouraging enough, Phil, the drama queen from this morning, can hardly look at me. So much for good grades. So much for making friends too, it looks like.
I know I'm being ridiculous to quit so soon, but I can't think straight; with every second, it's harder to breathe and my skin burns, hot and dry. By the time my vision starts to blur and my ears ring, it's all I can do to stand up and race out of the room. My heart thunders in my chest, racing so that I don't even hear if anyone tries to stop me. Running almost blindly, I lock myself in the first toilet cubicle I can find and ball my clammy hands against my eyes before crouching against the door.
This isn't the first time I've had a panic attack, but it doesn't get any less terrifying. It's a good ten minutes before my breathing steadies, the darkness helping to calm me down, and another twenty before I feel able to stand, my legs shaky and uncertain with fatigue. My whole body aches as if I've run a marathon, and I can tell that if I had the energy I'd cry. Now that my head's a bit clearer, I'm hit with an uncomfortable guilt and shame at giving up so soon. How can I face going back to class having made such a spectacle of myself?
Then again, how can I face myself knowing I didn't?
Sighing, I dust of my trousers and take a last, deep, shuddering breath to steady myself. Now or never I suppose.
Resigned to getting through the rest of the day, I unlock the door and step out of the cubicle – straight into Phil.
Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshit.