Grace Has a Panic Attack After Bridget Peppers Her With Questions

Grace always considered herself a quiet person. It wasn’t that she minded conversation, but she preferred when it came slowly, gently, like the delicate petals of a flower unfurling. That’s why she looked forward to Sunday afternoons—a time she reserved for herself, a reprieve from the constant stimulation of the outside world. The gentle hum of jazz in her apartment, a teapot whistling softly, the sunlight dappling the kitchen table. Everything on Sundays was soft, manageable, serene.

Except for Bridget.

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.

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Bridget was the tornado to Grace’s calm. They had met in college, and over the years, despite their differences, had become friends. Bridget was an extrovert, blessed with boundless energy and relentless curiosity. She could fill the space around her with stories, laughter, and rapid-fire questions that sometimes felt more like a game of dodgeball than a friendly chat.

That Sunday began like most: Grace curled up with her favorite mug, a book in her lap, the world at a comfortable distance. When the doorbell rang, she started, a little jolt of anxiety running up her spine. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Tentatively, she opened the door.

“Grace!” Bridget burst in, her red curls bouncing. She carried a canvas tote full of groceries, bottles of kombucha rattling, arms flailing in animated greeting. “I thought I’d surprise you with the makings for a Sunday brunch! Pancakes, or eggs? I couldn’t remember if you’re still doing the gluten-free thing. Is oat milk okay? You haven’t added any new allergies, have you? Oh, did you see my text from Friday? I got offered the project I was telling you about—what do you think I should do?”

Grace felt her pulse quicken. Bridget didn’t pause to breathe, let alone wait for answers. She watched, heart pounding, as Bridget bustled into the kitchen, emptying the contents of her bag and narrating the items as they emerged.

“Maple syrup from that little place upstate—you remember, right? The one where we almost got lost in the woods? Wait, do you still like syrup? You’re not doing that sugar detox, are you? Have you ever tried yogurt with pancakes? What do you think?”

A tightness crept into Grace’s chest, the walls feeling like they were inching closer, the air thickening. She ran a shaky hand through her hair. She wanted to say something, anything, but found herself trapped between the barrage of questions and her inability to form an answer that wouldn’t come out frantic or wrong.

Bridget peeled bananas, slicing them into perfect rounds as she chattered on. “So, anyway, how’s your job going? Still hating it, or have you warmed up to your new boss? Did you get to see that movie yet? Do you want to go next week? Actually, I was thinking we could do a road trip—just the two of us. Oh, sorry, do you have plans? You’re not busy, are you? When’s your mom visiting again? Oof, I forgot to ask—do you have the cinnamon?”

Grace squeezed the edges of the counter, knuckles blanching. Her breathing grew shallower, faster. Each question landed like a pebble in a pool, rippling out into chaos. She tried to focus on one, just one, but they blended together, an endless stream.

“Bridget, I—” she rasped, but Bridget, lost in her enthusiasm, didn’t notice.

“I mean, I could always drive us to the farmer’s market, if you’d rather do that. Or we could just stay in. You always did prefer quiet weekends, right?” Bridget paused, looking expectantly at Grace as she whisked batter.

Something inside Grace snapped. She felt lightheaded, the edges of her vision blurring. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Grace?” Bridget’s voice was suddenly distant, distorted.

Grace’s hand shot out, bracing herself against the countertop. Some distant part of her recognized this—her body’s warning flare. She tried to breathe, in and out, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate. The walls pressed in. Dots danced before her eyes.

“Grace! Hey, what’s wrong?” Bridget’s tone finally shifted to alarm. She reached for Grace’s arm, eyes wide with concern.

“I—I can’t—” Grace managed to gasp, her chest tight as a vice. Tears pricked at her eyes.

Bridget stilled, the kitchen suddenly silent except for the hissing pan. The realization hit her, and she cursed herself for not recognizing the signs sooner.

“Oh, Grace, I’m sorry. Breathe with me, okay?” Bridget said gently, dropping her boisterous energy. She took Grace’s hand, grounding her with slow, measured breaths, carefully demonstrating: in… and out… in… and out…

Grace tried to match Bridget’s rhythm. It was hard—the anxiety wouldn’t let go without a fight—but Bridget stayed with her, patient and steady now. Her voice was low, soothing, a lifeline in the storm.

Minutes passed before Grace felt the tension begin to slowly ebb, the world focusing again around her. Her breathing slowed. The colors sharpened. The kitchen became a kitchen again, not a whirlpool.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I just—sometimes when there’s too much—too fast—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Bridget interrupted softly, guilt clouding her features. “I get carried away. I know you need space, Grace. I just… I wanted today to be fun.”

Grace let out a small, shaky laugh. “You don’t have to try so hard. You’re my friend. I just… need a slower start, that’s all.”

Bridget put the bowl aside and pulled Grace into a gentle hug. “No pancakes today. Just tea. And quiet, okay?”

They sat together on the floor, backs against the old wooden cupboards, sipping tea in silence. Every now and then, Bridget would glance at Grace, ensuring the calm held. It did. Grace focused on her breathing, the rhythm of Bridget’s presence beside her, and the steady warmth of her mug.

After a long stretch, Bridget finally broke the silence, but this time her question was soft, careful. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Grace nodded. “Maybe. Later.”

“That’s okay,” Bridget said, squeezing Grace’s hand. “I’ll be right here.”

Grace smiled. For now, that was more than enough.