“Breathe in. Good. Now, hold your breath for a moment.”

My chest feels tight and the pinkish lighting in the doctor’s office makes me nauseous. My hands start to shake and I start thinking about it again. I start thinking about talking to him, about never talking to him again, about talking to him for the rest of my life, and I don’t know how to feel but I know I’m confused. I know I want to take a leap but I don’t know if the cliché’s are true. I don’t know if I want to lose it all and I don’t know if I will, and I don’t know if I really want to leap, because I never was that coordinated anyway. I fall further into my thoughts, tumbling and diving down, and I’m falling, and I’m falling. And everything’s surrounding me that I don’t want to risk, all the friendships and conversations and meaning, and my footing is nowhere in sight. Someone’s calling my name. He’s calling my name. Why is he calling my name? Now the doctor’s calling my name. Why is the doctor calling my name?

The squares on the ceiling of the office appear fuzzily in my eyes. My head kills.

“Tova?” the doctor says, his face materializing in front of me.

“Uh huh?”

“You forgot to breathe out.”

I forgot to what?

“I fainted?”

“Just a little bit,” the doctor chuckled. “Next time, breathe out eventually.”