Page 23 of Hymns of the Broken

Breathe. Four in. Hold. Four out. I try and get shards. My pulse is a snare roll in my ears, too fast to count. Five things I can see: the curtain edge, the red outlet dot, the camera strap, the scuff on the wall, my knees. Four things I can feel: the seam in the mattress, denim at my hip, the strap biting my wrist, my heartbeat—wild, useless.

Facts don’t help. He isn’t here, but my body doesn’t care—my body remembers the script. The room tilts. I taste metal. If I close my eyes, I hear his voice in the hallway. If I open them, I read the message again. Either way, he’s in the air. And I can’t get enough of it into my lungs.

The bunk curtain shifts.

I freeze.

It pulls back slowly.

“You hiding in here already?”

His voice is low—rasp wrapped in velvet. One hand on the frame, black hair pushed back, lip ring catching the light. The smirk dies the second he really looks at me.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “Sawyer.”

Air scrapes in my throat. I angle the phone face-down like I can shove the words back inside it.

He climbs in, but he doesn’t crowd. He stays a breath away, palms up where I can see them. “Can I touch you?”

I manage a nod.

His hand slides to my forearm, rubbing slow lines; the other settles warm on my thigh, anchoring. “With me,” he murmurs. “Four in… hold… four out.”

I try and my breath catches. He exaggerates his own breath so I can follow—long pull, beat, long release. His thumb keeps a steady rhythm on my arm, patient as a metronome.

“Look at me,” he says when my eyes skitter. I do. “Good,” he murmurs. “You’re here. On the bus. Safe.” A beat. “Tell me three things you can see.”

“Curtain. Red outlet light. Your ring.”

“Yeah.” A ghost smile. “Two things you can feel.”

“The strap. Your hand.”

“Perfect. One thing you can hear.”

“You.”

“Always.” His thumb keeps time on my forearm—slow, steady. “Right now it’s just this. You and me breathing. In… and out.”

The tight band around my ribs loosens a notch. The bus hum thrums beneath my spine; the curtain feels like fabric again, not a lid.

He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t demand answers or look for something to fix. He just stays, warm and solid, rubbing my arm and the outside of my thigh in quiet circles until my breaths match his without counting.

“Better?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Better,” I manage.

“Good.” He doesn’t move away. “If you want the curtain closed, I’ll close it. If you want space, I’ll go.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not.” He leaves the curtain mostly closed, hands up like a peace offering. The smirk eases into something quieter. “Do you want to talk about it? I can shut up and listen. No judgment. Or we can sit here and breathe and say nothing. Your call.”

I hesitate. The phone feels like a hot coal in my palm. If I show him, it’s real again. If I don’t, it keeps eating the room.

He doesn’t push. Just bumps his knee against mine. “I’m here either way.”

I stare at the screen a second longer, then flip it over and hand it to him.