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The line rings twice before she picks up, and the sight of her breaks my heart.
Her eyes are rimmed red and puffy, her breathing coming in shallow, panting breaths.
"Nay? What's wrong?" Fear and concern shake my voice, which has Alvie pulling himself out of bed and turning on the bedside lamp.
"I . . . I can't . . . I can't . . ." She cries.
"Breathe for me, Nay. Breathe," I say desperate to help, but she can't seem to center herself. "Nay, where are you? Are you safe?"
She nods, and I let out a sigh of relief.
"Are you alone?" I ask.
Another nod, but her breaths are still erratic.
"Naomi, I need you to breathe with me," I say, but she doesn't seem to be responsive.
Alvie takes the phone from me. "Bunny, stop. Hold your breath for three seconds with me," he commands, and while she struggles to contain her breath, she does try. "Breathe in and out with me, Nay."
His arm wraps around me, drawing me tightly into his body, and I breathe with the two of them until Nay is inhaling and exhaling easily on her own and her tears have slowed.
My heart aches for her, and I desperately wish that I could take her into my arms and tell her that everything is going to be okay.
When she's finally breathing by herself again, Alvie and I wait for her to speak, but the silence drags.
"Naomi, talk to us. What happened," I beg.
Her hiccupping breaths are lighter, but she manages to talk through them. "I can't. I can't do this anymore. I'm so tired. I don't want to be here anymore."
I grab my phone back from Alvie and mute it while it's facing the ceiling.
"Text Durante. See if he's up," I tell him, and he reaches for his own phone.
I bring the phone back to my face and unmute the line. "Baby, where do you not want to be?"
"Here." She sniffles. "I just want it to stop. I want time to stop. I don't want to do this anymore."
"Naomi, I need you to answer me honestly. Are you thinking of harming yourself?" I ask, dead serious.
She lets out a coughing sob and nods.
"Bunny, we need to call in help. Is there anyone local you can go to?"
She shakes her head.
"Okay. If I walk you through things, can you follow instructions?"
"I think so," she chokes out.
"Grab a bag. We're going to pack you up and you're coming here early. Okay?"
"What?" Her eyes go wide. "But . . . I have to teach class tomorrow."
"Not anymore," I say.
Her silence speaks volumes, but after a few moments, she uncurls herself from where she's balled on the ground and gets up.
The next two hours are a blur of activity. I walk Naomi through the emails she needs to inform her advisor of a personal emergency. We pack her a bag and get her in her car in one piece. Each step seems to ground her more and more, and by the time we get her on the road, she seems much calmer, but quieter.
