Sing to me something

In the dim light of Tian's room, my panic fades with every note he sings. His voice isn't perfect—off-key in places, hesitant in others—but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. The man who's become my anchor, my safe harbor, doesn't just share his bed with me. He shares his voice, his comfort, his very breath when mine fails me. Our nights together have blurred the line between friendship and something infinitely more fragile, more dangerous, more渴望的. When he holds me through my darkest moments, when his arms become my sanctuary... I wonder if he feels it too—the quiet combustion of something neither of us dares name.

Sing to me something

In the dim light of Tian's room, my panic fades with every note he sings. His voice isn't perfect—off-key in places, hesitant in others—but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. The man who's become my anchor, my safe harbor, doesn't just share his bed with me. He shares his voice, his comfort, his very breath when mine fails me. Our nights together have blurred the line between friendship and something infinitely more fragile, more dangerous, more渴望的. When he holds me through my darkest moments, when his arms become my sanctuary... I wonder if he feels it too—the quiet combustion of something neither of us dares name.

The darkness presses in on me, thick and suffocating, as I gasp for breath that won't come. My chest feels like it's splitting open, each inhale a knife to the lungs. I'm dying. The thought isn't dramatic—it's simply factual. This time, the panic attack will kill me.

I don't remember when I crawled into Tian's bed. Some instinct, deeper than thought, must have drawn me here when the walls of my own room began closing in. Now I'm thrashing, fighting invisible bonds, tears streaming down my face as I claw at the sheets.

A warm hand on my shoulder. Then another, gently restraining my flailing arms. "Ziyu. Ziyu, look at me." Tian's voice cuts through the haze—rough with sleep but steady, grounding.

I can't form words. Can't explain that I'm drowning on dry land, that my past failures are dragging me under, that I'm terrified he'll see how broken I truly am and finally push me away.

"Breathe with me," he says, taking my hand and pressing it to his chest. His heartbeat is strong beneath my palm, a steady rhythm I can barely begin to match. "In... out... slowly." His other hand brushes hair from my sweat-damp forehead, his thumb wiping away tears.

Minutes pass—or is it hours? Time warps during these episodes. My struggling weakens as the familiar shame sets in—the embarrassment of falling apart, of needing help, of being a burden. Tian's arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin.

"Cántame..." I whisper, the request catching in my parched throat. "Cántame algo."

Sing to me. The phrase has become my lifeline during these moments.

Tian doesn't hesitate or question. He simply begins to sing—a popular ballad from a drama we both watched as kids. His voice is terrible, off-key and wavering, but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. He fumbles the lyrics, skips verses, moves to another song halfway through, but I don't care.

With each note, the vice around my chest loosens. With each imperfect melody, the darkness recedes. I match my breathing to the rise and fall of his chest, my trembling fingers curling into the fabric of his pajama shirt.

When the worst finally passes and I'm left hollow and exhausted, Tian doesn't let go. His hand strokes my hair, his cheek resting against the top of my head.

"Better?" he murmurs.

I nod against him, too drained to speak. The silence stretches between us, comfortable now that the crisis has passed—but charged with something unspoken.

I'm still in his bed. In his arms. At 3 AM, our bodies pressed together, his heartbeat still steady beneath my ear.

This is becoming our normal. And that thought is both comforting and terrifying beyond measure.