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Talking about your feelings wasn't something that happened in this household.
He thought it was common to keep all of his emotions, thoughts, and experiences to himself. To bottle it up, let it all fester inside. It didn't even come to his mind to share when he got bullied in primary school. After all, why should he? No one else in his family did. He didn't have an example to follow.
This didn't mean he didn't feel anything, however. At times, he felt too much. The bottlecap couldn't hold it anymore, and some of it spilt out through the means of tears. So, he was pronounced the cry baby. His peers didn't know how to get along with him, his teachers told him to grow up, the adults in his life told him he was overexaggerating.
The words hunted him through the years; every time the bottle got greater, the cap screwed tighter, materials changed, anything to keep everything inside. Until the point, he didn't know how to express himself anymore.
He got detached; never shared personal stories lest he regrets it. His classmates found him weird; his parents never questioned him as they thought it was just who he was. He did well academically-wise; oftentimes, he got the best grades of his year, so why would they even think something wasn't right?
Studying became his escape. Hours upon hours, he sat behind his desk, working on assignments. It helped him focus on something else than the way his chest constricted, and music was what helped him quiet down his thoughts. It became a necessity for him to carry earphones with him anywhere he went.
Keeping his grades up also came with extra perks. He received more praise from his parents anytime he scored the highest marks, leaving him with a fleeting feeling of pride. His teachers also let him do his own thing more often, trusting he'd do his work.
Though, with pros do come cons.
He got more frustrated with himself whenever he didn't understand an assignment. He felt useless anytime he got less than perfect scores. He ended up having no free time at all, every minute spent studying. Every moment not in school, he was holed up in his bedroom.
Eventually, he got new neighbours. This shouldn't have been a significant factor in his life, but it became a turning point. They had two kids, one of which was his age. They ended up going to the same high school as him, one of them in the exact same class. He kept being compared with the guy because, apparently, his parents knew the people next door. Or better said, his mother despised them. She wanted him to beat the guy in any way possible. Their academic skills were around the same level, however. And so, it became a struggle to stay on top.
He didn't get why he had to compete with him, but his scores were his only safe line, and they were now in danger.
Frustration kept building up inside of him anytime his efforts weren't enough. And, as if that wasn't enough, his mom would also be disappointed in him whenever the neighbours' kid took the crown. No matter how high he would set the volume of his music, it wasn't capable of drowning out his thoughts anymore.
One day it got to him. The carefully crafted bottle burst open, flooding everything on its way.
He got his results back from the latest tests. It wasn't high enough. He knew it wasn't high enough.
He willed his head to glance at the papers from his competition, and it was all over for him.
His heartbeat picked up its pace, making more noise the faster it got. It thumped loudly in his ears as it rushed through his body. He vaguely felt the papers crumple in his hands before he got sucked into the feeling of his body. It was as if someone had a vice grip on his heart while also throwing it to the pit of his stomach. His mom would be so disappointed in him. He was disappointed in himself. Every muscle in his body was tense to the point of shaking. His throat started closing up when a familiar sting behind his eyes appeared. Was it always this hard to breathe? He barely registered that his hands sought refuge in his hair, pulling on it as he lowered his face to his desk.
"-n. Pran," it was hard to allow outside noise through the fog of his brain, especially after his hands partially covered his ears. "Pran, look at me, please," the undertone almost seemed to edge towards desperate. How odd. He blinked harshly before letting his gaze wander towards the sound. Not that it helped him see any better; his vision was still clouded.
"There you are," now it almost sounded relieved? That changed quickly.
"I'm going to touch you, alright? I'll be taking you outside. Let's get some air, okay?" He blinked once more, and a familiar face came into sight. He wasn't sure what to think of it.
As he didn't indicate anything against what he got told, two arms helped him to his feet, slowly leading him outside the building. Or did they walk fast? He couldn't recall as he received help to sit down on the field.
The other figure ungracefully plopped down in front of him.
"Can you do something for me, Pran?"
He blinked at the guy in response, still shaking like a leaf and unable to breathe properly.
"Can you tell me three things you can feel right now?"
He scrunched up his face, trying to focus on his surroundings at the strange request. One of his hands patted the grass underneath him, and he opened his mouth just for it to close again. After trying a few more times, he shook his head, feeling another batch of tears come up at his failure.
"That's alright, thank you for trying. Would it be easier to point at four red things?"
His hand gripped the blades of grass beneath him as he lifted his other arm to point at the guy in front of him. He was wearing a red hoodie.
"That's right! That's one; can you point at another three?"
He let out a shuddering breath as his gaze wandered around his surroundings. After he pointed at a stop sign, an unsupervised backpack, and a parked car, he felt his chest lighten a little bit.
Suddenly, his hand got engulfed by two others. "You're doing great!" The words were punctuated with a soft shake of their hands. And as quick as they came, they left as well, "Sorry."
Pran slowly shook his head at the unnecessary apology. He pushed himself closer towards the person sitting before him, taking one of his hands giving it a light squeeze with his own shaking hands. Pran let his head fall down upon his own knees. Closing his eyes, he took in a hiccuping breath. "Thank you... Pat," he rasped out.
Hesitant fingers threaded through his hair, but when he leaned into the motion, they became more steady. Though he still wasn't alright, his breathing wasn't yet back to normal, and he kept shaking... Things felt a bit easier now.
It was weird that his supposed enemy was helping him out, but he didn't let himself ponder on it too long. After all, he still didn't get why Pat was his appointed rival. So, he let himself just live in the moment for once: a hand comfortingly in his hair, a hand like a lifeline between his own, and soft murmurs to calm him down.
What they didn't know was that this would become a regular occurrence when the pressure became too much for either one of them, though in whatever private space they could find instead.
It was the start of a secret friendship, of understanding what the other went through, of comfort neither could get elsewhere.
They helped each other stop their bottles from overflowing.