I wake to find myself laying on my side on a hard surface, a light breeze blowing. I sit up, squinting my eyes against the harsh sunlight and pressing a hand into the wood beneath me to support myself. My hands are shaking and my cheeks are wet, throat still sore from... what? What actually happened?

My arms and hands are shaking, and I feel a chill all over despite the sun above. I fell asleep, and I dreamt. I had the dream. In public. I feel like I'm going to be sick.

I keel forwards so that my head is between my knees, and they're knocking against my head they're shaking so hard. My hands press into the bench on either side of me, but it's not doing anything, so I bring my arms above my head, wrists pressed against the skin on my neck and hands clasped together, nails digging into my palms. If I can focus on the pain in my hands maybe I can forget about the pain inside of me.

Pressure is building in my head, until I feel like it's going to explode. I press my nails deeper, ignoring all the warning signals in my brain that it's painful; that it's bad. How long must this go on? It feels like hours.

A minute.

A second.

An endless amount of time.

I am stuck in this loophole of ragged breathing and terror that fills my mind until- I am not. The grip on my head releases, and I fall forwards onto my hands and knees in front of the bench, chest heaving. The park is deserted around me. Not even a gardener is in sight.

The pressure in my head is still there, but it's easing off. I try to sit, and a bout of dizziness overtakes me, so that I press my head back to the ground, teeth clenched. This has to stop. This has to stop. This has to stop...

I stare at the grass below me, and an ant crawls over my unsteady hand, skittering about as it tries to get a grip upon my shaking skin. I try to blow it off, but I don't have enough breath left in me, and I start to panic, because suddenly I can't breathe again.

In-out, in-out, in- and it can't go back out again. It's stuck inside of me, blocking my airway so that I cough again and again, tears filling my eyes and flowing freely down salty trails already made a million times over.

My chest is tight, so that my insides feel clenched and tense. But despite this, I have no control of my limbs. I couldn't move if I wanted to, and I feel a blackness creeping at the corners of my mind. Sleep. I need to sleep.

But I can't; not here. Not now. If I sleep so soon afterwards I will have the dream again, and repeat this living nightmare. There's always one, be it waking or sleeping.

I try to calm my breaths, breathing in slowly, and then out even slower. I only succeed in feeling like I don't have enough oxygen, until my head goes fuzzy again and I'm forced to breathe rapidly once more.

The ant is gone, and I find myself desperately trying to look for it. It's the only sign of life other than myself I've seen here since I woke up. In-out, in-out.

Nails digging deeper. Mind wandering and grasping at silhouettes of things I don't have the energy to remember. But in this there is one prominent thing: pain. Physical pain, from my nails, in my chest, and in my aching head. Mental pain from the pressure, from the heartache, and from the strain of these past six months. My emotions are raw, cutting into me like knives until I almost can't breathe again- but I control it, pressing my fists further into the ground.

I have got to stop this. Stop breaking down every single time. This is the fifth time in six months, but each time it shocks me, and I don't know how to deal with it.

"Bailey..." My voice is hoarse, scored raw from any sound I must have made during the nightmare, and during the attack. It comes out as more of a moan than I intended, cutting the air, and the birds in the trees around me go silent. I say it again, throat tight. "Bailey."

I press my skin into the Earth, feeling the cool grass against it and reveling in it. I breathe in, and then out, flushing my system through until my head is clearer, and I can think more easily. I'm in a park, laying on the ground. I need to get up and at least sit back on the bench. But the best thing I could do right now is get home.

I think of calling someone, and then I think of Ashton's face, or Mum's face, were they to come here and see me like this. I think of the embarrassment, and of their fussing. I just need quiet. I need to be alone, and I need to be somewhere safe, and I need reduced noise. Just thinking is making my head pound a little harder.

I unsteadily push myself to my feet, using the bench beside me for support. My legs and hands are shaking, and I nearly end up right back where I started, but I grip the bench tightly, gradually regaining my balance. I allow myself one step forwards, trying to quell the rising dizziness that still threatens to overwhelm me. I just need to get home.

One step forward, and then another. And another. But now I have a problem, because I need to let go of the bench, and I can't trust my legs to support me on their own.

I look around, assuring myself that there's no one nearby, which could either save me some embarrassment, or lead to something awful. A risk I'm willing to take if it saves a run-in with my Mother. Well-meaning as she is, she is not what I need right now.

I take another step, and another, prying my hands from their grip on the bench. I wobble, another bout of dizziness smacking into me, and I stand stock still until it passes, eyes flitting about.

I make my way home at this slow pace, stopping at the first sign of dizziness. My limbs are weighed down by fatigue, and I can barely keep a one train of thought going.

"Alex."

I hear my name said softly behind me, and turn my head slightly to the side. Something moves at the corner of my eye, but it's gone in an instant and doesn't come back. I continue walking.

"Alex."

Again, that same, soft voice that I faintly recognise. But it's difficult to pinpoint when it's so quiet. I turn a full circle, steadying myself with a hand to a lamp-post near me. Passersby glare at me, but I ignore them, determined to find out who it is saying my name out here in a street of strangers.

"Alex. Look behind you."

I turn right around this time, and there she is, stood in the middle of the street. Her blonde hair is untouched by the wind that ruffles my shirt, and her blue eyes are wide and earnest. They have a fire burning in them I do not recognise.

"Bailey?" My voice comes out weak and hoarse, and people walking past me shoot me a funny look. One bashes right into Bailey, and I reach out with a yelp, my instinct to protect her still as strong as ever. "Is it really you?"

I reach forward a hand to touch her arm, and just as I'm about to, she disappears. Just like that. It's all in your head, Alex. Sort yourself out.

I turn back towards home, feet dragging against the ground and head pounding. I need to lay down. I need to eat. I need to calm down. I need to remember. And I need to forget.

My hands won't stop shaking as I hear her say my name again, but I force myself to ignore it, carrying on home. I can't get distracted again. She's just an illusion. She's not real.

But that's not right, because she was real. She was. It's just this Bailey that isn't. This Bailey is all inside my head. Which is also where the real Bailey now resides. So where and how do I draw the line between them?

The only other place the real Bailey now lives is in her ashes. And in her family. But there's no way I can go and see them, so her ashes will have to be the thing that grounds me. They'll have to be.

So when I get home, the first thing I do is head upstairs, crumpling to the floor next to my bed and reaching a hand underneath for the box of her things. It pulls out, still just as dusty as before, but I don't care. I open it, take out the urn, and replace the lid. I will not get distracted today.

And then carefully- oh so carefully- I unscrew the lid. A few ashes fall out into my lap, and I pause, staring at them. They're just like in my dream. And suddenly the dream takes on a new meaning inside my head. Those ashes in my dream aren't the ashes of our relationship. They're the ashes of her. Just like these. I drown in the ashes of her.

I drown in Bailey.

And just like that, I drop the urn, and the ashes spill all over my lap, and the carpet, and tears are streaming down my face. The pressure in my head is back, and my hands are covered in ashes. I don't try to brush them off. I don't have the energy anymore.

Distress and fear are overtaking my brain once more. One of the last remaining things I have of her. And I just spilled it all over the rug. All over me.

All over me.

I am drowning in her once more. But this time it's real. It's real. She's gone. Bailey's gone.

And with this thought, I give in to the pressure and let the darkness take me, tears running down my cheeks.