Lydia's Point Of View
The air in my private office had turned toxic, saturated with the smell of my own brewing panic and the expensive lavender diffusers that now only intensified my mounting migraine. I couldn't sit still. Every time I glanced at the digital clock on my desktop, the numbers seemed to mock me with their relentless progression.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The first twenty-four hours had nearly vanished, swallowed by my own paralysis. The walls felt as though they were physically pressing in, the mahogany paneling closing like the lid of a very expensive coffin. My chest tightened with each shallow breath, and I realized I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
I needed air. I needed to see people who weren't my parents looking at me with those mournful, "you're-our-only-hope" eyes that made me feel like I was drowning in their expectations and my own inadequacy.
