The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 426

Under Garrison's relentless, grounding rhythm, Sloane's violent tremors finally began to subside.

The suffocating, icy grip on her chest slowly loosened. The phantom blood faded from her vision, and the deafening ringing in her ears receded, replaced by the damp smell of the rainy alley, the dull yellow glow of the streetlamps, and the faint scent of tobacco radiating from the man holding her.

She pulled herself out of his arms, planting her hands on the wet concrete to push herself up, her knees still trembling weakly.

Her canvas bag lay in a muddy puddle nearby, her textbooks and notebooks scattered across the ground. She bent down to grab them, her fingers still shaking uncontrollably.

"Let me."

Garrison scooped up the ruined notebook. As he handed it to her, their fingers briefly brushed. He immediately pulled his hand back.

"Thank you," Sloane whispered, wiping the mud off her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, her voice still raw. "My brain... it just short-circuited. I couldn't move."

Garrison gave a curt nod. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and took a deliberate step back, instantly reestablishing the sterile distance of a doctor and his patient.

When he spoke, his voice had completely reverted to the flat, clinical tone of a medical professional—steady, articulate, and completely devoid of emotion.

"The next time you experience an episode like this, try using the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique. Focus on something you can see, a sound you can hear, an object you can physically touch. Force your brain out of the flashback and back into your immediate reality. You are suffering from classic childhood PTSD. The trigger is clear, and with the proper intervention, it is entirely manageable."

Sloane stopped brushing the dirt off her bag.

She slowly looked up, her brow knitting together as she stared at Garrison.

The streetlight cast harsh shadows across his face. He looked the picture of professional detachment, but she recognized that mask. Every time he spoke to her like a walking medical textbook, he was hiding something.

Sloane stared at him, unconvinced, but ultimately swallowed her questions. Whatever he knew, freezing in an alley wasn't the time to interrogate him.

Garrison bent down to grab the last few items from the puddle—a pen, a tube of hand cream, and a library card currently soaking up dirty water.

He flipped the card over. The name "Sloane Sutton" stared back at him. He looked at it for a second before sliding it into the cover of her notebook and handing the stack back to her.

"Let's go. I'll walk you back."

The walk to Emerald Grove was only a few hundred feet. They walked side-by-side, maintaining exactly one arm's length of distance between them.

The streetlamps stretched their shadows across the slick, black asphalt. The night wind whipped through the buildings, rustling the leaves of the ginkgo trees. It wasn't until they reached the front gate of her apartment complex that Sloane suddenly realized something.