{"id":23,"date":"2026-05-27T20:31:37","date_gmt":"2026-05-28T00:31:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/?p=23"},"modified":"2026-05-27T20:35:20","modified_gmt":"2026-05-28T00:35:20","slug":"short-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/?p=23","title":{"rendered":"Short Story"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

In and out<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019ve 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\u2019t name what.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We had only stepped out for a minute. Just to walk. Just to breathe. That\u2019s what we told ourselves. She laughed at something Riv said, leaning into me slightly, her weight light then\u2014normal. Nothing about that moment warned me. Nothing told me I\u2019d be counting breaths minutes later, that every second would stretch and blur into something unrecognizable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019ve been. I noticed, but I didn\u2019t notice. Not enough. Not when it mattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then everything started moving too fast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust walk the less you think about it the faster we’ll get there. Hold on, just stay awake, and don\u2019t get sick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lump in my throat won\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Breathe in and out in and out just keep going, don\u2019t stop. I lay her down searching for a pulse. She\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t breathe, no more in and out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0I FEEL SOMETHING. There’s a pulse, she\u2019s breathing, and we’re ok. Fading in and out of consciousness she lets me know she\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Put the head higher. Elevate the legs. Keep her awake. In and out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0People are trying to help. Someone on the phone. Just keep breathing. You can\u2019t add to the problem. I hear sirens in the background. I grab my phone. I can\u2019t think. Contacts, contacts, contacts. I pressed her mom’s number. There’s too much noise. I can\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0\u201cSHE PASSED OUT, SHE\u2019S SOMEWHAT CONSCIOUS BUT NOT. GET HERE AS SOON AS YOU CAN.\u201d In and out, keep trying. Can\u2019t give up now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you call an ambulance?\u201d Her mom responds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a0I 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\u2019t know what to do. Neither do I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Breathing is difficult but I can manage. Hopefully\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sirens are getting louder. A taxi stops on the corner. It’s her mom. It\u2019s the paramedics. There are too many people. Too many voices. Too loud. Too much. I can\u2019t think. I can\u2019t hear or speak. Just in and out, it\u2019s simple, why is it so hard?
I start answering on autopilot. I don\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As quickly as they came they left. The crowd around us had dispersed and I couldn\u2019t think. I look up and Riv is still panicking. I push everything down. I have to help. I can\u2019t add to the problem. Some people need more attention and she\u2019s 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\u2019t speak. We don\u2019t look. We just stay. The company is necessary. Being alone isn\u2019t an option. In and out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We weren\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I should\u2019ve noticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A siren wails somewhere far away again, or maybe it\u2019s just stuck in my head. My hands won\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Riv finally speaks, but her voice cracks like it doesn\u2019t belong to her.
\u201cDo you think she\u2019s okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t answer right away. The question hangs there, heavier than anything I carried tonight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was breathing,\u201d I say finally, even though the words feel thin. \u201cThey got there in time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The phrase loops in my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A breeze moves through the trees, leaves rustling like whispers. Every sound feels amplified\u2014the distant hum of traffic, a dog barking blocks away, footsteps that aren\u2019t there. I keep looking toward the street like the ambulance might come back, like this isn\u2019t over yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because it doesn\u2019t feel over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019re laughing and the next you\u2019re counting breaths like they\u2019re the only thing holding the world together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI should\u2019ve-\u201d Riv starts, then stops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I shake my head. \u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because if she says it, then I\u2019ll say it too. And there\u2019s too much of that already. Too many what-ifs pressing in from all sides.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We sit there longer than I can measure. Time doesn\u2019t move right anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eventually, my phone buzzes in my hand. I didn\u2019t even realize I was still holding it. Her mom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My stomach drops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stare at the screen, my reflection faint against the glow. For a second, I can\u2019t move. Can\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In and out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHello?\u201d My voice sounds small.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s a pause on the other end, then-
\u201cShe\u2019s awake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything stops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The air, the noise, the spinning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s awake,\u201d her mom repeats, softer this time. \u201cThey\u2019re running tests, but she\u2019s talking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lump in my throat finally breaks, but not like before. This time it\u2019s lighter, like something uncoiling. I didn\u2019t realize how tight I\u2019d been holding everything together until it started to loosen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I whisper. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t remember hanging up. I just know I\u2019m looking at Riv now, really looking at her for the first time since everything happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s awake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Riv lets out a sound that\u2019s half laugh, half sob. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe without counting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The park doesn\u2019t feel as heavy anymore. The shadows are still there, the night still deep, but something shifted. Not gone-just different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019re still here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so is she.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":67191,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"send_to_group_blog":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/67191"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=23"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":31,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23\/revisions\/31"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=23"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=23"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/beqiraj.commons.gc.cuny.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=23"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}