How to Breathe in a Vacuum

There will be no air in the room. This will be both true and not true. Schrödinger’s air, but she won’t laugh. She will only have thought it, not said it aloud.

Step one: Stand up straight, don’t slouch.

There will be a din of voices in the room. None of them hers. Strangers’ voices, though she’s known many of these people most of her life. She’ll try to meet their eyes, sharp like sour candy. Find clues to who they are, sweet with memory.

Step two: Breathe from the stomach, not the chest.

The ground will be unsteady in the room. This will not be true. It’ll be the shoes she only wears into rooms like these. High heels will always remind her of champagne and fairy lights, and floors that seem to pitch and yaw underfoot.

Step three: Breathe through the nose, not the mouth.

The meanings of words will be inconstant in the room. This will be true for everyone, though it will feel true only for her. Some jokes will not be jokes. When a meaning shakes off the shape she intends for it, those jokes will be shame in sheep’s clothing.

Step four: Breathe slowly, do not allow yourself to hyperventilate.

Physical touch will be dangerous in the room. It too will have meaning. There’ll be some people she won’t be able to touch, though she won’t be sure why. Or how she knows it. And there will be people she doesn’t want to touch her, though they will. The way to ask them not to has been lost. If it was ever known at all.

Step five: Keep breathing, don’t ever stop.

There will be no air in the room. This will be true and not true. It will be a feeling. Everyone else can breathe.