Chapter Text
The bus smelled of damp fabric, medication, and exhaustion. Conor sat all the way in the back by the window, his forehead resting against the cool glass as the sky outside slowly began to brighten. Gray clouds hung low over the sea stretching somewhere beyond the dunes. You couldn’t see it yet, but when it was quiet, you could hear it. The distant rumble of waves.
The driver said something over the speakers, but Conor barely listened. Instead, his fingers rested on the cover of his black leather notebook, which he held tightly on his knees as if it were the only thing still connecting him to himself.
Climate therapy center. The word sounded to him like a prison with a nice view. A few rows ahead, someone coughed; another girl nervously flipped through a brochure about breathing exercises. Everywhere on the bus, there were inhalers, water bottles, and medication. Objects belonging to people who couldn’t breathe properly… people like him.
The bus turned onto a narrow road. Gray buildings appeared on the left; to the right, the view suddenly opened to the sea. The Atlantic—rough, dark, and endless. Conor slowly lifted his head. The surf crashed against jagged rocks, white spray carried away by the wind, seagulls circling overhead, crying. Somewhere out there, he thought, you could breathe.
The bus stopped, and the door opened with a quiet hiss.
“Welcome to the Atlantic Respiratory Center,” the driver said. No one clapped.
The teenagers got off in silence. When Conor stood, he had to pause for a moment. The air in his chest felt heavy—the familiar sensation as if someone had wrapped a band around his ribs. He reached into his pocket for his inhaler, hesitated, then put it back. Not now.
He grabbed his backpack, his notebook, and stepped outside. The wind hit him immediately—salty, cool, and wild. For a moment, he just stood there and took a deep breath. The air felt different from home. Fresher, maybe—or just unfamiliar.
The therapy center consisted of several low buildings made of gray wood and glass. Behind them rose sandy dunes, and beyond those, you could sense the vastness of the ocean. A few staff members stood by the entrance, greeting the newcomers.
Conor barely looked at them. He pulled his black jacket tighter around himself and walked off a few steps until he reached a low wooden fence leading to a narrow path through the dunes. The wind tugged at his dark brown hair as he stared at the horizon. The sea looked even bigger from up here.
“Hey.” The voice came from behind him. Conor slowly turned. The man standing there was taller than he expected. Broad shoulders, muscular arms beneath a gray sweater. His long blonde curls were tousled by the wind, and his eyes were the same color as the sea behind them—ocean blue.
He smiled. “You’re one of the new ones, right?”
Conor didn’t answer immediately. His ice-blue eyes studied the stranger briefly, intensely, then he turned away again, looking back at the sea. “Yeah.”
The stranger stepped closer and leaned casually against the fence. “I’m Shane.”
Conor gave a short nod. “Conor.”
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The wind rustled through the dry grass of the dunes.
“The group’s meeting inside in a minute,” Shane finally said. “Introduction, room assignments, therapy plans and all that.”
Conor grimaced slightly. Therapy plan.
“You should come in,” Shane added. “The wind out here is pretty harsh on the lungs at first.”
Conor shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Shane looked at him briefly. His gaze lingered maybe two seconds longer than necessary, as if he were checking something. Then he nodded. “Okay.” He pushed himself off the fence and was about to leave when something caught his eye. “What’s that?”
Conor followed his gaze to the black notebook he was still holding against his chest. Automatically, he pulled it closer. “Nothing.”
Shane smirked slightly. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Conor didn’t respond. Instead, he opened the notebook.
The pages were filled with his tight, dark handwriting. Without looking at Shane, he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and started writing, the wind lightly flipping through the pages.
Shane stayed a moment longer. “You write?”
Conor barely nodded. “Poetry.”
“Can I—”
“No.” The answer came immediately, sharp as a blade.
Shane raised his hands in surrender. “Alright.” He took a few steps toward the building, then stopped again. “Just a tip.” Conor didn’t look up. “If you go down to the beach,” Shane said, “watch the tides.” Now Conor lifted his head.
“The tide comes back faster here than you’d think.”
For a moment, their eyes met—ocean blue against ice blue. Then Conor shrugged. “I can swim.”
Shane smiled crookedly. “That’s not the problem.” He continued toward the building.
Conor watched him for a moment, then looked back at the sea. The wind grew stronger, and slowly, he continued writing on the blank page beneath his fingers.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I envy the living sea.
It breathes without fear.
Waves come and waves go,
no one counts their breaths.
My lungs are a cage.
A cage made of invisible fingers.
And every inhale feels
like I have to pull the world through a keyhole.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Exhaling heavily, Conor closed the notebook. Somewhere behind him, someone called his name, but he ignored it. Instead, he looked out at the sea again. Maybe, he thought, out here you can learn how to breathe—or at least forget that you can’t.
-°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°--°-
The common room smelled of disinfectant, coffee, and that indescribable something all medical facilities shared. It could be summed up like this: too clean, too controlled, too far removed from real life.
Conor sat at the edge of a circle of chairs, his back slightly hunched, the hood of his black jacket half pulled over his head. His gaze didn’t wander to the others, not to the large windows overlooking the sea, not even to the woman standing in front explaining the therapy plan. Instead, he stared at the notebook in his lap—closed this time. His fingers rested on it as if waiting for it to open on its own.
“…breathing exercises twice daily, adapted to your individual needs,” the woman said calmly. “In addition, we’ll have activity sessions on the beach—light endurance, coordination…”
A boy next to Conor sighed audibly, and a girl cautiously raised her hand to ask a question. But Conor didn’t listen. He only felt that pull in his chest—not strong enough for panic, but there. Always there. Steady, like a quiet, invisible pressure.
“Conor?” His name hit him unexpectedly, making him lift his head. Shane stood at the side of the room, arms loosely crossed. His curls were still slightly damp, probably from the wind outside, and his ocean-blue eyes were fixed directly on him.
“Mm?”
“You okay?”
A few heads turned toward him curiously. Conor hated that—this unwanted attention. He shrugged. “Yeah.”
Shane nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer, but his gaze lingered again—too long, too attentive. Conor looked away and down again.
“Good,” the woman said, clapping her hands lightly. “Then we’ll start with a small exercise. Nothing strenuous.”
Of course. Conor knew exactly what was coming.
“Sit up straight, feet flat on the ground,” she continued. “We’ll focus on breathing. Slowly in through the nose… and out through the mouth.”
Chairs creaked as everyone straightened up. Everyone except Conor.
“Conor,” Shane said calmly from the side. No reaction. “Hey.”
A light tap on his chair made Conor lift his gaze, annoyed. “What?”
Shane gestured slightly toward the others. “At least try.”
“No.” Quiet, but firm.
Shane stepped closer. “Why not?”
Conor let out a short, humorless laugh. “Because it doesn’t help.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” Now Conor looked at him directly. His ice-blue eyes were cold, closed off. “I’ve done all of it. Exercises, medication, programs…” He shrugged. “In the end, I still can’t breathe like a normal person.”
The room grew quieter. The others tried not to listen—and yet they did.
“That’s not the point,” Shane said calmly.
“Yes, it is,” Conor replied. “That’s exactly the point.”
A brief moment of tension, like before a storm.
Shane held his gaze, then said quietly: “The point is that you’re breathing at all.”
The words made Conor swallow. For a moment, something cracked in his expression—something fragile—before it disappeared again and he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll pass.”
The therapist cleared her throat. “Conor, it would really be important—”
“I’m fine.” It was a lie. Everyone knew it, but no one said anything. Instead, the exercise continued. Inhale. Exhale. Calm. Controlled.
And Conor just sat there. He didn’t count. Didn’t want to count. Didn’t want to think about how many breaths he might have left.
An hour later, the session ended, and the group slowly dispersed. Some headed toward the dining hall, others outside. Conor was one of the first to stand. He grabbed his notebook and slipped out before anyone could stop him.
“Conor!” Too late. He was already out the door.
The path through the dunes was narrow, the sand soft beneath his shoes. The wind had grown stronger, carrying the scent of salt and cold water. Conor shivered briefly and pulled his jacket tighter. His lungs felt tighter than in the room—or maybe he just imagined it.
He kept walking, determined, until he reached the beach. The sea was rougher now.
Gray waves rolled heavily onto the shore, pulled back, and came again. It reminded him of breathing—in and out. Conor stopped, taking it in, then sat down in the sand, a little distance from the rocks. Alone, just as he wanted.
He opened his notebook. The wind flipped through the pages until it found a blank one. His pen hesitated briefly, then he began to write.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They tell me to breathe more calmly.
As if my lungs were a stubborn animal
that could be tamed.
Inhale and exhale.
They count the seconds
while I try not to count
how often I thought this time wouldn’t be enough.
The sea doesn’t ask for permission.
It comes and goes and comes again.
I stand still between two breaths
and wonder
if I’ll ever arrive.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“You disappeared pretty fast.”
Conor froze briefly. He hadn’t heard the footsteps. Of course not—the wind was too loud, drowning everything else out. He didn’t turn around. “So did you.”
Shane stepped up beside him, but this time he simply sat down in the sand, leaving a bit of distance. Not too close. Not intrusive.
Conor finished the last line and closed the notebook.
“You should stay with the group,” Shane said.
“You too.”
A soft snort. “I work here.”
“Then work.”
Shane let his gaze drift over the sea. “I am working.”
Conor said nothing. The wind passed between them. A few seconds of silence—maybe more.
Then: “You really think none of this helps?”
Conor answered immediately. “Yes.”
Shane nodded slowly. “Okay.”
That surprised Conor enough to glance at him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Shane repeated. “Then I won’t force you.”
Conor frowned slightly. That was… not the reaction he expected. Not the answer he usually got for his silent resistance.
“But,” Shane added, “I’ll still be annoying.” A small, almost invisible smile crossed his face. “I’ll keep reminding you.”
Conor snorted softly. “Have fun.”
Shane looked at him again, softer this time. “And I’ll keep warning you.”
“About what?”
Shane gestured toward the sea. “Things stronger than you.”
Conor followed his gaze. The waves looked bigger now, darker. Restless, like they were fighting something. “I’m not afraid of water,” he said.
Shane shook his head with a quiet snort. “You should be.”
Silence. A brief exchange of looks. Then Shane stood up. “Dinner’s in an hour.” He brushed the sand off his pants. “At least try to show up.”
Conor didn’t answer. He just watched Shane walk back toward the dunes—tall, steady, like nothing could stop him. Shane was nothing like him.
When Shane was gone, Conor opened his notebook again and stared at the last page.
Then he added one more line beneath it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And maybe the sea is just another name for things
that will catch up with me eventually.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Carefully, he closed the book.
The wind grew stronger, and somewhere deep in his chest, something tightened.
Not bad… not yet. But enough to remind him:
He could run as much as he wanted.
His breath would always follow.