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Some relics of your worst experiences hung around in a way you never expected them to.
Paul never knew when the growing sense of dread would slowly unfurl at the back of his mind, running ghostly cold fingers down his spine, and catching his breath mid-exhale. He’d clench his hands so the pressure against his palms reminded him he was there, in the moment, and find something to count.
The tiles of a floor, the cracks in a pavement, the leaves on a tree.
Anything until the moment passed and he could exhale properly once more, letting the worry leave his body.
If Marjan was with him, she seemed to just know, no matter how well Paul tried to hide it. She’d touch her fingertips to the back of his hand, to his elbow, to the tensed muscles of his forearm, and apply just enough pressure to be reassuring. To ground Paul back in the present.
Then, when his breathing returned to normal, she’d withdraw her hand without a world. Never drawing attention to the moment again.
Those moments of worry were becoming fewer and further between and, one day, Paul would thank Marjan properly for her role in that.