Their relationship settled into a comfortable rhythm — a shared language of inside jokes and quiet understandings.

The big, terrifying questions of does he like me? Were gone, replaced by the smaller, sweeter logistics of a shared life.

But Ryan knew the static of his anxiety was a permanent part of his internal weather system.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. They were sprawled on Ryan’s floor, supposedly studying for a English test but mostly just listening to music.

The day was grey, the light was flat, and Ryan felt a familiar, low-grade hum of anxiety under his skin.

It wasn’t a panic attack — just a general off-ness, a sense that the world was slightly out of tune.

He’d gone quiet, his answers to Jude’s questions becoming shorter, more clipped.

Jude, now a fluent reader of Ryan’s silences, put his pencil down.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging Ryan’s foot with his own. “You okay?”

Ryan shrugged, tracing the lines on his notebook paper.

“Yeah. Just... staticky,” he mumbled. “It’s hard to find the words when it gets loud in my head.”

Jude was quiet for a moment, processing. Then:

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice full of gentle, problem-solving energy. “So when you can’t find the words, you just need a signal. A code. Like a bat-signal, but less dramatic. A Ryan-signal.”

Ryan looked up, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“What’s something... quiet and hopeful?” Jude asked.

Ryan’s gaze drifted to a poster on his wall — an art print of a small bird perched on a branch against a bright blue sky.

“A bluebird,” he said, almost to himself. “They’re supposed to be good luck.”

“Perfect,” Jude said, his expression serious and determined, as if they were drafting a treaty. “So, Bluebird. If you ever feel like this, or worse, and you can’t talk, you just text me a bluebird emoji or say the word. And I’ll know. No questions asked. I’ll just be there. I’ll call, I’ll come over, whatever it takes. That’s the protocol.”

Ryan just nodded, a profound sense of relief washing over him.

It was so simple. So practical. So Jude.

He’d taken Ryan’s chaotic, unnamable feeling and turned it into a clear, manageable plan.

He didn’t think he’d have to use it so soon.

Three days later, Ryan’s phone buzzed. It was a number he recognized with a jolt of dread — his uncle.

His mom had been encouraging him to “reconnect,” a well-intentioned but misguided effort.

Ryan hesitated, then answered, plastering on a polite, neutral voice.

The conversation was a masterclass in subtle cruelty.

His uncle didn’t yell or accuse. He just asked questions, his tone dripping with fake concern.

 “So, you still doing that little theater thing? Met any... nice girls there? You know your mother and I just worry. We want you to have a good, normal life.”

Every word was a paper cut. Normal..

He mumbled his way through the rest of the call and hung up, but the damage was done.

The room felt suddenly small, the air thick and unbreathable.

The static was back — not a hum this time, but a roar.

The roar felt familiar in a way that made his stomach drop. Not new. Not sudden. Like stepping into a room that still remembered shouting.

This was the same feeling from before — when people disappeared instead of staying, when silence replaced explanations, when he learned that caring too much could make someone leave without warning.

His chest tightened. Not that again. Not that kind of quiet.

He could feel a full-blown panic attack cresting, a massive, familiar wave. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He started pacing, his hands shaking, his thoughts a tangled, screaming mess.

 They’ll never stop. They’ll never see you. You’re still that broken thing they need to fix.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

And then, through the fog: one word. Protocol.

He hung up the phone, the casual cruelty of his uncle’s words still echoing. The air in his room grew too thick to swallow.

He turned in a frantic circle, searching for something to hold onto — something solid, safe.

His eyes landed on his bed. On the pillow.

On the small, sleek, grey dolphin plushie Jude had given him.

He stumbled toward it, grabbing it in both hands.

Its fabric was cool and smooth, a stark contrast to his trembling, sweaty palms.

He clutched it to his chest like a life raft, pressing his face against it.

It still smelled faintly like Jude’s cologne — crisp and clean, with something warm underneath.

That tiny, familiar scent cut through the panic like a flare in the dark.

Jude.

Protocol.

He fumbled for his phone, one hand still clutching the dolphin, and pulled up their chat.

His vision blurred with tears, but his muscle memory found the emoji keyboard.

He scrolled until he saw it — that tiny, bright blue icon.

He pressed send.

🐦

A single, fragile bird sent out into the void.

The wait was agonizing. Thirty seconds stretched into forever.

 It was stupid. It won’t work. He won’t—

His phone vibrated violently in his hand.

It wasn’t a text.

It was a FaceTime call. From Jude.

He swiped to answer, his hand shaking so hard he almost dropped it.

Jude’s face filled the screen. The lighting behind him was warm and steady, but his eyes burned with fierce, focused concern.

He didn’t ask What’s wrong? He just started talking.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady, a soft anchor in the storm. “Hey, Ash. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re in your room. You are safe.”

Ryan couldn’t speak. He just held the phone, a choked sob caught in his throat.

“Can you breathe with me?” Jude asked gently. “Just match my breathing. We’ll do it together.”

He demonstrated:

“In…” — a slow inhale — “and out.”

Ryan followed, uneven at first, then steadier.

“That’s it. You’re doing great,” Jude murmured. “Again. In… and out.”

The roaring in Ryan’s head started to fade, replaced by the calm rhythm of Jude’s voice.

“I’m not gonna hang up,” Jude said quietly. “I’m not hanging up. I’m staying right here until your brain stops spinning. Just listen to me

Slowly, the storm passed.

Ryan was left exhausted, teary, and limp — but he was back.

The static was gone, replaced by a profound, bone-deep sense of safety.

He sat on the edge of his bed, still holding the dolphin tight against his chest, staring at the boy on the screen — his personal medic, his hype man, his soul warmer.

He didn’t have to say thank you. Jude already knew.

Chapter Word:

Protocol (n.): A pre-agreed set of steps to be taken in an emergency. Not a sign of weakness, but a testament to a love that is smart enough to plan for the storm — and strong enough to see it through.