They Laughed While I Was Dying

My shoulders were jerking with every breath, each inhale shallow and sharp, each exhale accompanied by a faint, broken wheeze.

I lost my balance and nearly folded forward.

Adrian reacted on instinct, crouching down and gripping my arm to keep me from collapsing completely.

“Is it really that bad?” he asked, his voice noticeably lower now, uncertainty bleeding through the edge of impatience.

My mouth opened—but no sound came out, only a thin, strained gasp that burned all the way down my throat.

Before I could force another breath, his adopted sister suddenly let out a soft, trembling sob.

“Adrian…” Her voice trembled as she covered her mouth, her eyes reddening almost instantly.

“I—I truly don’t understand how things ended up like this.”

She looked at me with wounded disbelief, as if she were the one being accused of something unforgivable.

Then she reached into her bag.

“Look at this,” she said, turning it toward Adrian first.

“This is my latest SCI publication. It’s a peer-reviewed study on asthma triggered by psychological stress.”

Her voice steadied as she spoke, professional and calm.

“It focuses on desensitization therapy—an internationally recognized method used to reduce panic-induced respiratory responses.”

She scrolled slowly, deliberately, letting everyone nearby see.

“This approach has been clinically validated,” she continued.

“It’s used precisely because patients often convince themselves they’re suffocating when they’re not. The more they rely on emergency medication, the worse the dependency becomes.”

She looked back at me then, eyes glossy but resolute.

“I didn’t give her anything harmful,” she said quietly.

Her voice trembled just enough to sound wounded, restrained, reasonable.

“I was trying to help her break a psychological loop,” she continued, lifting her head slightly, eyes glossy but steady.

“This is a desensitization approach—clinically validated, published, peer-reviewed. I’ve spent years researching how panic disorders can manifest as asthma-like symptoms.”

Her shoulders shook, as if she were forcing herself not to cry.

“So what is this supposed to mean?” she asked softly, almost helplessly.

“That my academic work is fake?”

“That my judgment is flawed?”

She paused, then looked around at everyone, her voice dropping lower, heavier.

“Or is she trying to say…” she swallowed hard, “…that I intentionally harmed her?”

Her gaze flicked briefly to me—collapsed, shaking, barely breathing—then away again, as if she couldn’t bear the accusation.

“Is acting like she’s dying her way of turning everyone against me?”

“Of labeling me as a murderer?”

Silence followed.

To anyone listening, her logic was flawless.

And beside her, I lay gasping for air—

looking, to them, exactly like someone performing an accusation rather than surviving one.

She shook her head slowly, disbelief written across her face.

“Vivienne,” she said, voice breaking, “I know you don’t like me. I’ve always felt that.”

“But you can’t accuse me of something like this just because you’re uncomfortable, can you?”

Then she turned to Adrian, her eyes shining with restrained tears.

“We grew up together,” she said quietly.

“You know me better than anyone.”

Her lips trembled.

“If she insists this was deliberate… then she’s not just panicking.”

She paused. “She’s calling me a murderer.”

Adrian stiffened.

He looked down at me—curled on the deck, gasping violently, my fingers clawing at the floor—

then back at her, standing upright, composed despite her tears, armed with evidence, logic, and reason.

His jaw tightened.

“I believe you,” he said at last.

He released my arm and stood up fully, positioning himself in front of her instead.

“This is my fault,” he added, his voice edged with frustration.

“I shouldn’t have let it escalate like this.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“I’ve spoiled her.” he said, not unkindly—but dismissively.

“When she feels the slightest discomfort, she assumes someone is attacking her.”

His gaze returned to me, disappointment clear and heavy.

“I’ll make her apologize.”

I lay sprawled on the cold deck, my body barely responding to my own will.

Small stones scraped against my skin, one skidding dangerously close to my eye.

Around us, people moved quickly—around her instead.

“It’s okay, don’t cry.”

“We all know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“She’s clearly overreacting.”

“Adrian, seriously, how did you even put up with this?”

Someone let out an awkward laugh.

“She really knows how to turn nothing into a spectacle.”

Adrian stood beside her, one hand resting protectively at her back.

His voice softened as he spoke to her—low, patient, reassuring.

It was the same tone he had once used when he told me he loved me, when he promised he would always be on my side.

That was when my gaze drifted past the crowd and landed on the white metal cabinets bolted along the wall of the deck.

The emergency medical stations.

This ship belonged to my family.

Every deck was required to have one.

Each box stocked with oxygen masks, emergency medication—

including asthma inhalers.

If I could just reach one.

Hope flickered weakly through the suffocating darkness as my fingers twitched against the deck, my body dragging itself forward inch by inch.

I only needed a few more breaths.

I dragged myself forward, every movement tearing through my lungs.