Finding Atlas

I don't know how many times I called his name before I found him sitting against a tree trunk with his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms around his knees, his cheeks wet with tears. He was breathing so hard and so fast when he wasn't gasping for breath and it struck me that he was having a panic attack.

I started walking slowly towards him and my knees were bending more and more until I was kneeling beside him and holding his hands. When I looked up at him his eyes told me everything. He was petrified, he felt like he was choking, running out of air, he thought he was going to die.

"Atlas," I said lowly, "I want you to look at me. Don't look anywhere else, just look at me." Atlas's eyes flickered everywhere save the one spot they should have been focused on. "Hey, it's gonna be okay, I'm here, all right?" I asked him, and after a bit of wavering, he finally nodded. "I want you to listen to me, okay?" He nodded again before I took a breath and the words spilled out.

"When I was a kid, I used to have panic attacks when my dad wasn't home. I'd be alone because my parents didn't know about these attacks I'd have, so my housekeeper didn't know, either, and she thought I'd be in my room, reading a book or something. But I used to have these panic attacks and I was so, so scared. I thought I was gonna die," I admitted, and Atlas's shaking grew weaker, so I took that as a sign that I should continue.

"I knew that I had to relax and even out my breathing, so as a coping mechanism, I'd count the number of lines on my hand. I'd just hold my hand up real close to my face and I'd count the lines to try to calm myself down." Atlas was staring intently at me, and he slowly stopped shaking. His breathing was still a little bit off, so I delved further into my childhood.

"I'd start with the big lines on my hand," I said as I held up my left hand to him and traced the longer and wider lines that lined my palm. "And then I'd count the smaller ones." I took Atlas's hand and used his fingertips to trace over my own.

"As I got older, I stopped having so many panic attacks, but I still wanted to know if the lines on my hand meant anything. So I researched, and I found out that this line," I said, pointing to the longer line below his pinky, "is called the Line of Heart, and it tells of the emotions of a person, and of the inclinations of physical and mental love." Atlas's breathing calmed to a steady rate as I traced the line.

"You okay?" I said as I set his hand down. He took in a deep breath and let it out as a gust of air before he nodded slowly and relaxed his legs.

"I think so," he said, his voice firm, but wavering at the same time.

"You know, it's okay to not be okay," I replied quietly. After a few seconds of silence, Atlas started shaking again, but it wasn't from a panic attack.

"I just—I don't understand," he trembled as more tears trickled down his cheek and hit my hand, which was still holding his. "Why would she do this? How could she do this? I-I mean, yeah, my dad's in the hospital but that doesn't give her the right to go and sleep with some other guy, especially when we only moved in a few months ago."

"Sometimes, things happen and they suck," I said, shrugging, before I really thought about his words. His dad, the hospital? What was going on in his life? Atlas just laughed bitterly as he wiped away his tears.

"Don't I know it."