Sam’s Journal of Survival

Lunch With Paul the PI

020626. This journal is fiction. The voice you’re reading is a character, not the author.

Friday

Lunch didn’t go the way I expected.

We were sitting there, talking through the report, page by page. Paul was explaining things carefully, keeping his voice even, making sure I understood what each part meant. I was listening. I really was. And then, somewhere in the middle of it, my body decided it had other plans.

It started with a strange lightheaded feeling, like the room had tilted just slightly off its axis. Then my chest tightened. Breathing became work instead of something automatic. I tried to hide it at first, but there was no point.

Paul noticed immediately.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t crowd me. He didn’t ask a dozen questions. He simply spoke, calm and authoritative, like he knew exactly what was happening and exactly what to do.

“Sam, you’re having a panic attack,” he said, steady and sure. “You’re safe. Stay with my voice.”

He offered me his arm, not touching me, just holding it there, letting the choice be mine. That mattered more than I can explain. I took it. The solidness of him helped anchor me back into my body.

He walked me out to my car, unhurried, as if there was nowhere else in the world he needed to be. He waited while I got into the driver’s seat, then, without making a big deal of it, he sat down in the passenger side. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I wasn’t weak or broken or embarrassing.

We sat there for a few minutes. He talked me through slowing my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. Again.

Eventually the shaking eased. The air came back.

What stays with me isn’t the panic. It’s the way he handled it. The respect. The calm. The way he made me feel protected without ever taking control away from me.

I drove home afterward, still a little shaky, but not ashamed.

That feels important.