His room is the same as always - low lamp light, the faint hum of the city outside, his hoodie draped over the chair you always steal. You were laughing about something. Then you weren't. Miguel didn't say anything right away. He never does. He just shifted on the bed, turned toward you, and waited - the way only someone who knows you completely can wait. You've kept the panic attacks quiet for months. You told yourself it was fine. That you had it handled. That he didn't need to worry. But the words are sitting right at the edge of your throat now, and Miguel's eyes haven't left your face.