The wind whistles through the trees surrounding me, causing my hair to brush up against my face. I take a big breath as the blast of fresh air hits me, attempting to settle my anxiety after what transpired in the home behind me. I extend the distance between me and the house that my family calls home, walking into the street with the overpowering thought of lying in the middle of it, defeated by the sound of my brother calling out from the door. As the door shut behind him, I exhaled, not knowing how long it had been, but it didn't matter; it didn't seem long enough. I heard his footsteps becoming louder and louder until he was a few steps behind. I could tell he wanted to start a conversation, but he didn’t know what to say. Understandably, I didn’t know what to say either, or maybe I didn’t want to say anything. We stood there at that moment, not saying anything to one another. At one moment, I noticed that he was beside me instead. Nothing else changed. We were just there, in the moment, trying to comprehend the events that occurred in the house, the house that held so many memories, good and bad, of what we called our home. From what I remember, we stood out there until we felt the rain coming, and then, mindlessly and numbly, we went back inside. The house was pretty small, with yellow siding and a black roof. It held four bedrooms; technically, my parents made the garage into another bedroom after the fire. You’d be introduced to the living room when entering; it had green walls. Well, the whole house had green walls, besides the rooms that separated the main part of the house. I still remember that my mom wanted to paint them gray, and everyone hated the idea because it wouldn’t feel like a home, more like an IKEA show. Right beside the living room was the dining room. We had the old wooden table that needed to be replaced but never was. Then there was the kitchen that could only fit maybe two people in it, one and a half at best if you wanted to move and do something. When we entered through the front door, we were greeted by stares. I don’t remember who was there; I just remember the stares. I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing my brother's arm for a sense of security. I don’t even remember going through the motions of doing it, it just happened. It was like my flight or fight sense. He squeezed my hand in response, signaling that it was okay and he was with me. I looked up from the floor and thankfully they weren’t staring any longer. I exhaled a breath that I didn’t know I was holding and saw a spot on the couch, enough room for two people. I quickly looked back at my brother and pointed to the open space. He nodded and we went. Sitting down, I looked on either side of us; some unfamiliar faces, cousins I presumed, and my sister, whom I had barely known. You see, growing up, she wasn’t there. She left and got married early on in her life, once she was eighteen, so I was maybe four, and the only thing that she’d talk about was the other half of her life, his family, Everything she said was circulating drama about them, and she made everything that happened within that family her business. Knowing her wasn't on my bucket list of things to do before I died because everything else she said felt or sounded racist or homophobic. My heart was racing and my breathing was becoming shallow. I began to notice signs that my anxiety was rising, and I felt compelled to leave. The idea of disappearing into thin air was alluring to me; I wanted to vanish into thin air and disappear from everything and nothing at the same time. My hands began to fidget, and my feet began to move. Any movement was preferable to none, and I knew that if I made it public that I was struggling, it would draw everyone's attention back to me, which was the last thing I wanted. I tried not to make it obvious that I was struggling by not bouncing my leg because that would irritate everyone and reveal my phony persona. It wouldn't have helped me in any case, because before I knew it, I had a glass of water in my hand and dried tears on my face. Whenever I looked up this time, though, it was only my close family. Everyone else had left. How long have I been crying? How long was my episode? So many questions were popping up in my head all at once, so much so that my brother had noticed and grabbed hold of my hand that wasn’t holding onto the water and squeezed. I went quiet, hearing Ms. Elle’s pencil stroking the paper, drawing my mind to reality. My ears perked up, trying to figure out some way to find out what she was writing. “Uh... can I know what you're writing?” Ms. Elle looks up from her paper and looks at me in the eyes. While I was looking for something to stare at other than her piercing blue eyes burning a hole into my skin, she responded, “I’m afraid not, but don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.” I nod like I understand when really I doubt that, like come on, this is therapy for god's sake, I know it’s bad.