The waiting room is peaceful and a kid's cartoon is playing on the television in the corner.

I arrived early, I like to be safe, it's good to be safe, I like to be good. The receptionist checked me in, told me to wait, told me that someone would be with me shortly. She smiled at me, I smiled at her.

Now, I sit in a little chair with green padding. There's a table covered with magazines beside me, to keep people entertained while they wait. I am waiting. I arrived early, I have plenty of time, I won't be late.

I look around. On the far side of the waiting room, there's a little girl sitting beside her mother, a distracted-looking woman with tired eyes and a low ponytail. The little girl is wearing a shirt with some cartoon character and her eyes are fixed upon the television. I don't recognize the character, I don't want to stare. I look away.

Sitting on a wall close to the television is a middle-aged man. His hair is dark and curly, and there's something sad about the way he sits. His posture, maybe. He wears an old jacket, ripped in some places, but made from quality material. I don't want to stare. I look away.

On the wall across from the man sits a woman, likely in her 20s. She's beautiful, her hair is light brown, she sits with grace and elegance. She's holding her phone, but her eyes are fixed upon the middle-aged man. I can't read her expression. I don't want to stare. I look away.

A little ways down from her sits an elderly couple holding hands. The man has white hair and spectacles, the woman has gray hair and a smile. Their legs are angled toward each other, and I know that they're in love. I don't want to stare. I look away.

With nowhere else for my eyes to turn, I look down at my knees, staring at pants that I don't remember putting on, staring at arms bearing scars from old nightmares, old enemies. I know why I am here. I know why everyone is here. We're getting help, right? Help. That's good, we're all being good, so good. I take a deep breath. I arrived early, I won't be late.

And then, something changes.

I feel different, I feel exposed. I look up, looking across from me at the little girl and her mother. Her mother is looking at the little girl, the little girl is looking at the middle-aged man with the tattered jacket, the middle-aged man with the tattered jacket is looking at the beautiful brunette who sits with grace, the beautiful brunette is looking at the elderly woman with a smile, the elderly woman is looking at the elderly man with spectacles, the elderly man with spectacles is looking at me. He's looking at me, he's staring.

His expression is blank and I am scared, I am mortified. He knows something I don't. Beside him, following his gaze, the smiling elderly woman fixes her eyes on me. Slowly, surely, like a domino chain, the eyes of the other patients in the waiting room make their way to me, until suddenly everyone is staring at me, everyone is looking and perceiving and judging me.

The world begins to constrict, my lungs begin to scream for air, I realize that I wasn't breathing, that I had been holding my breath so as to not make a sound, so as to not take up any space in this room.

They know, they know that I'm not a good person, that I'm a bad person. They hate me although they do not know me. There's something about me that informs their hatred, there's something about me that tells them I deserve to be judged. They judge me, they judge me, I judge myself.

I clench my fists and the world grows tighter and my vision goes dark at the edges. I am holding back sobs, but not well. I feel my heart beat faster and faster and I close my eyes. If I can't see them, they can't see me—no, they can see me, they can still see me, there's nothing I can do to get away from the persistent gaze of these people, there's no way to escape this horrible sensation of being perceived.

My eyes are closed and everything is dark. I can hear my heart beating, and I'm sure they can hear it to. I'm sure they hate me, they think I'm a horrible person, they think I'm weird and gross and disgusting and evil and worthy of all the blame in the world. They think I'm useless, they see it in the way I sit, the way I fidget. I know they do, I know it.

It's not like my brain would lie to me, right?

I am not friends with myself, I haven't been friends with myself for a long time. Deep within me exists a division between who I am and who I should be. I should be someone different, someone better, and I know I should, and these people in the waiting room know it too.

I tremble, I shake. I hate that I am so weak, but I am weak, I have always been weak, and I know I cannot hold back the tears forever.

My anxiety is a vice and I am trapped in its grip. My fear is an eagle with talons that gouge deep scars into my back. My worries are a shark that has me clenched in its jaw. I am afraid, so afraid, I am always afraid.

My eyes are still closed and everything is dark and I am waiting for this horrible feeling to end, waiting to be left alone again, waiting, waiting—I am in the waiting room, I am waiting to be permitted to exist in a comfortable state of relative anonymity once more.

I open my eyes, slowly, cautiously. The other patients are no longer staring at me, the woman beside the little girl has opened a magazine, the man with the tattered jacket has started to watch the kid's cartoon on the television, the beautiful brunette is texting someone on her phone, and the elderly couple are talking quietly to each other. Everyone is occupied with something else apart from the little girl.

I still don't recognize the cartoon character on her shirt. She knows this, she hates me for it.

I start to cry.

His right hand rested gingerly upon the rung near her left, fingertips almost touching hers. They chatted and giggled and chatted some more, recalling memories of childhood and how they met.

At last, a chill ran over them both. It was dark, and they had completely lost track of how long they'd been standing there. She looked up into his malachite eyes and slid her wrist across the rung, intertwining their fingers with a smile. In this sweet moment, an exchange of words and feelings brought them close. He pulled her to his chest and kissed the top of her head. She caressed his back with her free hand as tears formed beneath her lids.

"I'm scared," she cried, making one last attempt to yank free from the restraint as water rose rapidly all around them.

"Don't worry," he whispered, holding her tighter, "Everything will be okay."