He can't breathe, vision wavering, feeling sick, fumbling for a surface with a hand he isn't sure belongs to him, which won't hold his weight. It doesn't, he goes down, hand curving around the edge of something flat, back thudding against something solid. He has to do something, there's something he's supposed to be doing--

He inhales, hesitantly. Better. Less wobbly. Another inhalation, easy this time. He doesn't remember when he forgot how to breathe.

Back against the couch, fingers on the side-table. The phone, five inches from his hand - his, he knows now, cold and damp, still trembling.

Hey -

Donna, he thinks first, because Donna was here before, before when there was a reason. Donna would rush over, huge eyes and masked fear, hold his hand, tell him everything's okay, it's going to be okay, just like before.

No. Not Donna.

Hey, Sam.

His best friend, who's supposed to know, who's supposed to see it, see him unraveling. Who doesn't see anything. A twinge that's almost pain, also almost satisfaction. He's doing that good a job. Pushing them away, hard and fast and cruel, angry that they let him, angry that they don't know.

Except they do. They know.

Hey, Sam, look, I'm sorry.

Too late for that, the casual apology, the quick make-up. It's in the indirect looks, the over-direct looks, the half-beat before speaking, the drawn-out syllables, the subdued gestures, the absence of touching. An invisible fence, six feet around him, always. The danger contained, though he doesn't know if he's keeping it in or shutting it out, doesn't know what it is, doesn't want to know.

But he knows that it's there. That he's alone.

Hey, Sam, look, I'm sorry. I think I'm going crazy.

Can't say that word; they're all thinking it. He isn't sure they're wrong, because he's misjudged everything. Especially himself. Arrogance. Complacency. Something. No. No, he can handle this. This is nothing. Nothing in the daylight. Nothing he can't handle. Just has to remember to remind himself to breathe. That's all.

Or not. There's always that.

Hey, Sam, look, I'm sorry. I think I'm going crazy. I need you now.

Sam would come, of course. Sam would drop everything, and break sound barriers, or at least several laws. His fingers on the phone, almost gripping, then letting go. He can't. Because he doesn't know, doesn't know what might happen. What if it isn't any different? What if he tells Sam everything, and nothing changes? He couldn't-- Because if it's the same, then that's it, he's done. No. Better to be like this, and feel like this, than to let Sam in and find out that this is all there is now, that this is all he is.

There's a way out. He just can't take it.

He pulls himself up from the floor - hands almost steady, couch conveniently absorbent - decides he needs a drink, doesn't look at the phone, tells himself nothing can change because nothing is happening.