To the person who came to my rescue:

You saw me: hot hurricane winds heaving past my lips, violent chest, boa constrictor hands contracted around chair handles. You saw me: eyes like waterfalls, eyes like the moon, eyes like a hive of bees.
You saw me with panic wrapped around my shoulders like a cloak and you came.
I felt your hands on mine like life rafts. I heard your voice float to me like a breeze through black smoke. Breathe, breathe, breathe, you said.
I choaked.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. I’m here.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. Like this.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, You’re safe.
I watched your chest rise and fall like gentle waves and I let them bring me to shore. My hands slithered to yours and squeezed. Over the sound of my heart crashing through my ears, over the sound of my buzzing brain, I let you teach me how to breathe again.
I had arrived safely through the storm guided by a strange lighthouse and before the salt had washed from my eyes you were gone. The only memory I have of you are your strong, sure hands and the siren’s song that called me home.
I never learned your name, or the color of your eyes, or the reason you came to my rescue.
I never got to thank you.
So thank you.