In and out

The night felt too loud for something that was supposed to be simple. Music bled out from the house behind us, muffled now by distance but still pulsing like a second heartbeat. Streetlights lined the block in uneven intervals, some flickering, others dead, leaving patches of darkness that felt deeper than they should’ve been. It was late, later than we planned, and the air had that heavy, restless feeling like something was about to go wrong, even if you couldn’t name what.

We had only stepped out for a minute. Just to walk. Just to breathe. That’s what we told ourselves. She laughed at something Riv said, leaning into me slightly, her weight light then—normal. Nothing about that moment warned me. Nothing told me I’d be counting breaths minutes later, that every second would stretch and blur into something unrecognizable.

Looking back, there were signs. The way she slowed down. The way her words started to slur just slightly, like she was more tired than she should’ve been. I noticed, but I didn’t notice. Not enough. Not when it mattered.

And then everything started moving too fast.

“Just walk the less you think about it the faster we’ll get there. Hold on, just stay awake, and don’t get sick.”

The lump in my throat won’t go away and the weight on my back is slowly getting heavier. Then it all dropped at once. Turning, I saw my friend who I was helping walk; passed out.

Breathe in and out in and out just keep going, don’t stop. I lay her down searching for a pulse. She’s not breathing. I can’t find anything. The cars fade in the background like white noise. Riv, who was also helping me carry our friend, was confused.

I can’t breathe, no more in and out.

 I FEEL SOMETHING. There’s a pulse, she’s breathing, and we’re ok. Fading in and out of consciousness she lets me know she’s alive. The lump became heavier than I ever knew it could. I’m woozy, everything is spinning, and someone is talking to me but it sounds like I’m underwater.

Just in and out, just one more time. I need to be better. I need to keep her safe. Black dots are all I see. In and out.

Put the head higher. Elevate the legs. Keep her awake. In and out.

 People are trying to help. Someone on the phone. Just keep breathing. You can’t add to the problem. I hear sirens in the background. I grab my phone. I can’t think. Contacts, contacts, contacts. I pressed her mom’s number. There’s too much noise. I can’t think. 1 ring then 2 then 3. Pick up pick up pick up. I hear a voice talking to me on the phone. It’s her mom.

 “SHE PASSED OUT, SHE’S SOMEWHAT CONSCIOUS BUT NOT. GET HERE AS SOON AS YOU CAN.” In and out, keep trying. Can’t give up now.

“Did you call an ambulance?” Her mom responds.

 I hear someone say yes and she seems to hear it too. The phone call stopped and I was back to trying to wake her up. Riv is still confused and panicked and she doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I.

Breathing is difficult but I can manage. Hopefully…

Sirens are getting louder. A taxi stops on the corner. It’s her mom. It’s the paramedics. There are too many people. Too many voices. Too loud. Too much. I can’t think. I can’t hear or speak. Just in and out, it’s simple, why is it so hard?
I start answering on autopilot. I don’t hear their questions or my voice but it looks like I’m doing something right. The paramedics start working around me since my friend is halfway on me. They roll her over and bring the stretcher out. The lump is getting lighter. It’s ok. She’ll be okay. Some people can help now.

As quickly as they came they left. The crowd around us had dispersed and I couldn’t think. I look up and Riv is still panicking. I push everything down. I have to help. I can’t add to the problem. Some people need more attention and she’s one of them. Helping her up I feel the weight on my back again. In and out.
We walk. Silence is impossible but no one is speaking. The park is right there. There are benches. We sat. Silence looms over us. We don’t speak. We don’t look. We just stay. The company is necessary. Being alone isn’t an option. In and out.

The streetlights flicker above us, casting shadows that stretch too long across the cracked pavement. The night feels colder now, like something shifted when the ambulance doors slammed shut. I can still hear it-the echo of metal, the finality of it.

We weren’t supposed to be here this late. It started as something small. Just walking. Just getting air after everything felt too heavy inside those walls. The music, the heat, the way she laughed like nothing could touch her. I remember thinking she looked fine. Better than fine.

I should’ve noticed.

A siren wails somewhere far away again, or maybe it’s just stuck in my head. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them into my knees, grounding myself against the rough wood of the bench. The park smells like damp grass and something metallic, like rain that never came.

Riv finally speaks, but her voice cracks like it doesn’t belong to her.
“Do you think she’s okay?”

I don’t answer right away. The question hangs there, heavier than anything I carried tonight.

“She was breathing,” I say finally, even though the words feel thin. “They got there in time.”

In time.

The phrase loops in my head.

A breeze moves through the trees, leaves rustling like whispers. Every sound feels amplified—the distant hum of traffic, a dog barking blocks away, footsteps that aren’t there. I keep looking toward the street like the ambulance might come back, like this isn’t over yet.

Because it doesn’t feel over.

My chest tightens again. Not like before, not panic-something else. Something slower. Guilt, maybe. Or the realization that things can change in seconds, that one moment you’re laughing and the next you’re counting breaths like they’re the only thing holding the world together.

“I should’ve-” Riv starts, then stops.

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

Because if she says it, then I’ll say it too. And there’s too much of that already. Too many what-ifs pressing in from all sides.

We sit there longer than I can measure. Time doesn’t move right anymore.

Eventually, my phone buzzes in my hand. I didn’t even realize I was still holding it. Her mom.

My stomach drops.

I stare at the screen, my reflection faint against the glow. For a second, I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

In and out.

I answer.

“Hello?” My voice sounds small.

There’s a pause on the other end, then-
“She’s awake.”

Everything stops.

The air, the noise, the spinning.

“What?”

“She’s awake,” her mom repeats, softer this time. “They’re running tests, but she’s talking.”

The lump in my throat finally breaks, but not like before. This time it’s lighter, like something uncoiling. I didn’t realize how tight I’d been holding everything together until it started to loosen.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

I don’t remember hanging up. I just know I’m looking at Riv now, really looking at her for the first time since everything happened.

“She’s awake.”

Riv lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

And for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe without counting.

The park doesn’t feel as heavy anymore. The shadows are still there, the night still deep, but something shifted. Not gone-just different.

We’re still here.

And so is she.