Between Heartbeats

I was dying.

“Miss Graves?”

Is this what a heart attack feels like?

I needed to go home. I was too far—

“MISS GRAVES?”

I looked up, startled by the slightly raised tone. The clock next to the brunette woman ticked on, showing me the remainder of time.

“Sorry.” I felt the heat on my cheeks as I licked my lips nervously.

“It’s okay. How’s the adjustment to the new medication?” I looked as her eyes softened at the question.

Guilt stirred, and I wanted to tell her I wouldn’t know—that the medication bottle sat on my nightstand untouched for two weeks.

“It makes me less anxious,” I lied, glancing at the clock again. Ten more minutes and I’m home. Safe.

“Penelope.” Dr. Kennedy tried again, her eyes narrowing.

“It makes me feel worse.” And God knows that’s the truth.

“What about the exercises I’ve been encouraging? Have you tried anything new?” she persisted.

I could barely stop myself from grimacing. Every day, I wake up at 7 a.m., head to Lollie’s Library for work before returning home again. The two places I’ve felt the safest—and she wanted me to try something new, like it’s easy. Suddenly, we were interrupted by knocking on her door, indicating her next client was here.

“I’ll see you next week.” I scrambled to collect my bag, thankful for the interruption.

“Penelope, wait!” she responded, holding her hand up to stop me. “I know anxiety is hard, but it only gets worse if you won’t meet me halfway. Trying something new—people, restaurants, hobbies—once you’re outside, it can help with the developing agoraphobia. Stick with the medication. The tunnel is only dark because you haven’t reached your end.”

I barely felt my head nod before dashing toward the downtown train to Brooklyn. I felt like screaming. I have been trying! I wanted to shout. Just by being in the crowd of strangers, the pure thought of the train getting stuck—or worse, a collision—and my heart began to race. I tugged at my cardigan, feeling the heat rise. There was no room to breathe, but here I was on a train trying to see my therapist once a week. The numbness in my hands spread as they grew almost stiff. Taking slow breaths, I began flexing my fingers. The brightness of the light made my eyes shut so tightly that it hurt. Counting down the stops, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

I don’t think people understand that the aftermath of an anxiety attack can be just as bad or worse. The feeling of not being able to move, my body exhausted, and all I can do is lie there numbly until I regain even a crumb of energy. This vicious cycle had its claws in me for four months. I was nothing but a numb vessel with an over-panicked, beating heart.

I let the next few moments become hazy as I tumbled my way through the station, barely making it to my apartment complex a few blocks down. I dropped everything quickly, lying down before I passed out.

The library and my complex were both within walking distance of one another, and tomorrow I would have no reason to travel to Upper Manhattan until next week. I’d have easy access to home if an attack crept up on me. I felt my eyes slowly close as I drifted asleep, comforted by that knowledge.

The next morning, accompanied by an egg salad sandwich and a cup of peppermint tea, I made my way to Lollie’s to open up for the day. The old lady resided upstairs in the library and was kind enough to hire me when I was in desperate need of a job close to home. I clutched the tea, letting the heat warm my hands. The sensation was enough to keep me focused on people entering rather than the ticking time bomb of my mind.

“How was the morning rush?” I glanced at the old lady with her warm smile and cane at her left leg.

“Manageable. Lots of romance readers,” I responded, smiling to myself. I loved the genre and was always happy when someone took my recommendation. Working here felt so easy and comfortable; it was my home away from home.

“My granddaughter is coming to visit. Why don’t you join us for dinner? She was very fond of you from her last few visits.”

Lollie’s granddaughter, Charlotte, was two years younger than me, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sprightly personality. While she was the total opposite of me in looks—I was a brunette with light brown eyes—I always appreciated our conversations that came naturally.

“She made reservations in SoHo for next Wednesday,” Lollie continued.

My mind reran my conversation with Dr. Kennedy, and suddenly my chest felt tight.

“Maybe next time,” I returned weakly, suddenly needing air at the thought of being miles away from home.

“The invitation still stands if you change your mind,” Lollie kindly offered, but we both knew I wouldn’t accept. I made my way to the back door after flipping the lunch-hour break sign at the front. I couldn’t help but be mad at myself for panicking at a simple invitation. Four months ago, saying yes to something like that would have been easy, and now it was enough to make me lose my breath. Resentment pushed through my anxious thoughts. I was mad at my body’s response to an interaction that was so easy for everyone else.

Bark! Bark!

I looked up, startled, my eyes raking over a small white dog with a pink collar.

“What’s your name, sweet girl?” I asked, lowering myself to her level. She flipped over, giving me her entire stomach, pawing at the air for pets.

“Puffy!”

My head snapped toward a guy racing down the alleyway. Blonde curly hair, glasses hiding his eyes, and a Superman T-shirt that wrapped him in a way that would make any girl blush. My heart raced a bit at the sight of him picking the dog—Puffy?—up into his arms.

“Is she your choice?” He smiled down at her, and she nuzzled into his neck. Without a second thought, he stretched his arm out toward me, motioning for me to take her.

“W-what?” I squeaked out, confused.

Suddenly, she was dropped into my arms, and he stepped back, flashing me a toothy smile.

“She eats twice a day, barks constantly so she can go for a w-a-l-k—I don’t recommend saying the word out loud. She has all her shots. She’s a five-year-old Maltipoo and—oh—her name is Puffy. I don’t know if I said that.” He rushed out the words, barely out of breath, and with one swift movement, he leaned down and kissed her head. An unknowing look passed over his face before it quickly vanished and he began walking away.

“Wait! Hey! Where are you going?” I exclaimed. Before I could stop myself, I was rushing after him.

“She chose you. I’ve been waiting for her to choose someone. She’s not much of a people person, you know. She must feel safe with you, and that’s all I want. You’ll keep her safe, won’t you?”

His abrupt stop made me almost slam into him. He looked back at me with complete seriousness in his eyes.

“I—yes.” I felt myself agreeing in a daze, my mind taking longer to catch up than my mouth.

“Wait, no. Is she not your dog? I can’t keep a dog. I can’t even…” I trailed off. I couldn’t even take care of myself.

“You know—” he began, tilting his head sideways. “No wonder she chose you. You’re beautiful.”

My eyes widened at his remark, my heart racing—and for once, it was for a different reason. A safer reason.

“Let me take you to lunch as a thank you!” he continued, practically bouncing on his feet before intertwining our hands and yanking me forward.

I pulled back, startled. Who is this person? The energy radiating off him was enough to power the sun.

Puffy wiggled in my arms and barked eagerly at the sound of lunch, and before I knew it, the handsome stranger was leading me toward a diner a few blocks away.

“Wait, I can’t go in there!” I exclaimed, trying to pull away. My breaths became heavy, and my body flushed with heat. I felt numbness run through my arms and legs, making me quickly shove Puffy back into his arms. She let out a long whine in response.

“Whoa, hey. It’s okay. Close your eyes. Try to concentrate on the warmth of the sunlight against your skin. Do you feel the breeze? The softness of your clothes? Hold your breath and then exhale. Longer now. Again.”

I felt my eyes widen and looked up at him. A gentle calmness began to flourish in me. My heart still raced, but the light didn’t bother my eyes, and the prickling in my fingers lessened.

“How did you know to do that?” I whispered.

“My mom.” Sadness flashed in his eyes. “She once said that you can accept a racing heart in two ways: one, when there’s something wrong and you let your body go into distress, or two, your body is in love with being alive and it’s reminding you of it. The sound of a loud heartbeat is a reminder of life. Don’t let it scare you.”

I wanted to ask him more but something in his face told me I shouldn’t.

“What's your name? And why are you giving random people your dog?” I asked instead. Dr. Kennedy is going to have a field day with this interaction next week.

“I’m Jack and I—she’s my best friend, and she deserves someone to take care of her. I can’t see her ending up in a shelter.”

“Why would she be in a shelter?” I was completely puzzled.

“How about lunch first?” He opened the door and let me enter. My heart tightened again. It was rush hour in the diner, and my body didn’t know how to cope with the small space and loudness around me. I felt Jack lean down, his closeness putting me on high alert.

“You see that guy over there?” Jack asked, nodding toward a bald-headed man with a little girl eating cake. “See how she looks up at him? Now he definitely looks like he’d win #1 Dad award at his house.”

I smiled at that remark and at the others he continued making as he people-watched on our way to our seats.

“The world can be lonely on its own—worse if you don’t have your own mind to comfort you. The loudness you hear? Try to focus on one sound—laughter. Everyone says it’s the best medicine, after all.”

He smiled, but something about it didn’t reach his eyes.

My breath hitched. Who was this guy sitting opposite me, and how did he understand without me uttering a single word? I took his advice, and everyone’s laughter became soothing. Puffy lay at my feet, sniffing the air, hungry for a taste of anything. The first time eating at a restaurant in months, and I felt hopeful. I felt normal.

Jack told me to go ahead and order while he went to the restroom, and I did. When the food came, I looked around and he still hadn’t returned. I kept giving fries to Puffy, who now sat on my lap. A thought crossed my mind, and my heart sank. I waited a little longer for confirmation. I took deep breaths, focusing on the happy laughter of people, the sound of music, the coolness of the AC vent, and—in a good way, for once—my beating heart.

“He left, didn’t he, girl?” I whispered.

Puffy didn’t move as she lay soundly in a food coma. I waved at the waitress for the bill, and she said it was already paid by the gentleman I came with.

Jack.

I frowned. I didn’t even know his last name, but I couldn’t just leave Puffy on her own. It felt wrong. I held onto her leash as I walked back toward the library to finish the day. He didn’t even ask my name. None of it made sense, but here I was with a new pet and a new experience—just like Dr. Kennedy hoped for.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t try searching for Jack on the internet or that I didn’t wait eagerly over the next two days in case he showed up at the library. On the third day, I stood outside the diner where I last saw him, with Puffy pacing excitedly to go in.

“Focus on the laughter, the sunlight, the taste of the food,” I muttered to myself encouragingly before entering.

Hope sparked in me as I took my seat, my little companion lying next to me. Puffy continued worming her way into my heart as I refused to put her in a shelter or rehome her. It’s not what Jack wanted, I kept thinking. He was a person I barely knew, and I refused to betray his somewhat comedic trust in me. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be sitting in a crowded area, my heart beating fast but not fast enough to throw me into despair. Although I was here for myself, it was only half the truth. I glanced around the diner, longing for the curly-haired boy.

Then it happened—a moment so small but life-changing.

His blonde hair, round glasses, and a smile I almost forgot could knock the wind out of me. And so it did.

On the TV screen over the diner’s bar, the picture of Jack—or, as it read, James Jackson Samuel, 24 years old—found hanging by his neighbor in his apartment complex. The reporter came on the screen, and the neighbor said James was quiet, kind, but there was always something a little off. As the day went by and he didn’t see James or his dog, and while smelling something odd, he got worried.

Everything was loud. Too loud.

My lungs forgot how to work. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed Puffy’s leash and ran straight home. My chest tightened as I slammed my door open and let out a shrill scream. Puffy began barking continuously at the ruckus. The light was too bright, my body wasn’t mine, and I began crying.

I was shaking—angry at my mind, my body, and the boy I met for barely an hour. A boy who didn’t even know my name, and I guess I didn’t know his. I had so many questions and no answers.

I wiped my tears and reached for the medication bottle—the same one that had sat untouched on my nightstand for two weeks.

I couldn’t live like this anymore.

I needed to be free in a way Jack never got the chance to be.

So I swallowed a pill.

Tomorrow, I would do it again.

I would visit somewhere new every few days with Puffy by my side. It wouldn’t be easy. My heart would still race. The light would still feel too bright sometimes. But his words were rooted in me now, and I refused to let them wither.

When I sat across from Dr. Kennedy and told her everything, I cried—but I stayed. I told her about the diner, about the laughter, about a boy who helped me.

My heart still raced. It probably always would. The light would still feel too sharp some days. Crowded rooms would still press in too close. But now, when my pulse thundered in my ears, I heard his voice tangled in it.

A loud heartbeat is a reminder of life.

For the first time in a long time, I did the bravest thing of all—

I chose.

I chose to live.

I chose strength and control.

I chose every morning, every crowded train, every unfamiliar doorway.

I chose when my heart raced and when it settled.

Lastly, I chose that the light at the end of the tunnel would shine as brightly as Jack—and never diminish.