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Go outside, down the sidewalk, cross the street, and enter the Matthias building. Once a month at first. Now, twice a month. I plan on getting those two days out of the way back to back for the first time.

It should take less than five minutes. A few minutes more if the crosswalk takes its time.

I’m going on hour two of psyching myself up for this.

I look past the walkway to the street, and my vision goes blurry. My stomach pitches as my heart rate increases.

Agoraphobia makes no sense. Panic induced by the mere thought of setting foot out there and joining humanity. I see Heretic do it every day. Every other person in this building is the same. Every step forward to rejoining society feels like seventy steps back in my mental health. The urge to turn around and go back to my apartment is overwhelming. Even the shame of the thought doesn’t make a dent in the mindless need for escape.

From the corner of my desperate eyes, I see a woman a few inches shorter than I am moving past me.

The new tenant isn’t a part of the Survivors of Tragedy group or the ex-mercenaries that live here. A bland, normal person whose biggest problem is a breakup, of all things. If only that were my worst problem.

She shouldn’t be here. Damn Lily for convincing me to grant her access to this building. The most I can hope for is a lack of drama from this unknown.

So far, she’s been quiet. I haven’t seen her, but the guards say she’s polite and keeps to herself. They noted that she didn’t have many boxes when she moved in. For a woman spiraling into depression, she sure smiles a lot, according to them. I’m starting to think I’ve been taken for a ride by showing any form of sympathy. This is a free-ride apartment, and she’s going to stay as long as she can before I’m forced to boot her out.

My mind is focused on her in desperation. Anything to avoid going out those doors. I struggle uselessly against my body’s actions, my mind no longer in control.

As she steps past me, my hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, anchoring her in place. My fingers clamp down with bruising force. Her wrist is so delicate, I’m surprised I don’t break it. She didn’t seem so slender at first glance. Feeling the fragile bones squeezing under my fingertips makes me want to yank my hand away as if it were burned. In stark contrast, my body ignores the mental command to stop hurting her.

She slowly turns toward me, her body tense with fear. I don’t want to see the look she has on her face. The instant dislike and disgust. I’m a grown man terrified of walking outside. She’s suddenly an anchor that’s keeping me in place. As if she grabbed me to keep me still instead of the other way around. But the only other place my eyes land on is the traffic on the street.

Everything becomes a blurry mess as my brain loops around in panic. I can faintly hear her speaking to me. A distant echo of a frightened voice that’s a little higher-pitched. I think about the breathing techniques. Focus on other things. Listing five different sights or smells. My brain won’t let me do any of that. I’m stuck and ready to vomit.

Until a soft hand cradles the vicious grip I have on her wrist. A comforting touch that gains my attention like a beacon of hope. She steps closer, and I get a whiff of her body wash or laundry detergent. Something bright and citrusy. Lemons and oranges, I think. Maybe a little flower scent mixed in. It’s refreshing, like a wake-up call that’s pleasant instead of Heretic’s impatient, rough shoves.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’m Hazel. I moved in this weekend? What’s your name?”

Her voice is calm now. Coaxing me to interact with her in a gentle way as if I’m a wild animal. The high tone is gone, replaced with a warm cadence that eases. I want to look at her now, but my eyes refuse to move. A blink of my eyes is all I can manage.

And then she starts talking and doesn’t stop.