In her life, Stella has never had a difficulty holding her breath.

Her struggle has always been the exhale. Getting out of the pool at the end of a swim, emptying all that air out of her lungs, that is where she's always stumbled.

But here, now, stood on the narrow wooden dock of the Wilson lake house in the early morning sun, she feels it. It's not easy, but it's there.

The ability to breathe is right there. It's not quite in her reach yet, but it's there.

And with it – lingering in the horizon of the bright blue sky – is the promise of a summer of solitude. The promise of new beginnings. Of the troubles weighing her down becoming smaller, lighter.

A summer away for herself. Away from the madness.

Not to forgive, clearly not to forget – she knows as much after the past one and a half years – but to continue to heal.

Weighing back on her heels, she rolls through the soles of her feet.

Angelina and Geoffrey Wilson had been right. Faye had been right. Her moms had been right. Ms Flores – her therapist – had, unsurprisingly, been right.

This is exactly what she needs.

She reaches up on her toes, drawing in a breath, and launches off the dock.

Her dark brown hair flows out as she dives through the surface of the blue lake water in an elegant arch, a tightlipped smile tugging at her lips as she's enveloped by her oldest confidant.

Surrounded by nothing but white noise, she senses herself relaxing. Her eyes slowly grow accustomed to the murky blur below as she takes a few strokes forward, her arms paling by the light of the sky reflecting the surface above.

Once – back in fifth grade – during a makeshift geography lesson, her teacher Mrs Ross had asked the class where each of them would most want to live in the world. Stella's answer? Easy. The water. Any water. She'd settle for a deep puddle on the side of the road if it meant she could swim in it, float upon its surface, surrounded by its comfort forever and ever. Though life deep beneath the sea did, and still does, sound far more welcoming.

She stays beneath the surface for a long moment. So long that if anyone else had been around they would probably have called for the lake patrol by now, she's never had a difficulty holding her breath, only breaking back through the surface for air as her once superstar lungs can suffice no more.

With a few strokes she swims further out, kicking around to float on her back.

Sprawling her fingers, she feels the still overnight cold water between them. She stares up at the sky, the blue behind the few white clouds dotting the above a milder shade than that of the body of the lake, as she lets her smile widen.

Ever since she learnt how to swim as a four year old, the water has been Stella's one constant thing. Her one place to be.

She thinks she's finally falling back in love with it, learning to trust it once more.

It's been a long journey.

Less than years, more than months.

Pools are still more difficult. The chlorine sunk deep into the floors and the walls of the natatoriums even worse. But she's getting there. Day by day, she's getting there. And she has a lot of days left of this summer.

Closing her eyes, she lets the rays of the early morning sun light up the smile on her face. Breathing in the scent of lake – of earth liquified, soil wet in the best way –, she senses it again; that feeling of peace, just out of her reach.

There's a comfort in knowing it's right there, waiting for her once she's ready.

━ ♡♡♡ ━

Despite the towel loosely draped around her shoulders, water still drips from her hair, trickles down her skin, to join the dew lingering across the newly mowed lawn as Stella treks back up the slight hill from the dock to the house.

The birds have awoken now too, chirping from their tree branches and the roof of the two-story house. The buzz of a lone bee accompanies them, whirling about the path of flowers to the left of the garden.

Though the inside of the house looks the same – as if no one has touched it at all in the years she's been gone – the exterior has been provided a facelift. The once flaked green walls are now painted in a light gray, melting together effortlessly well with the terra-cotta of the simple yet elegant stone patio and its woven furniture.

As she steps onto it, leaving a trail of wet footsteps in her wake, she drops her towel to the backrest of one of the lounge chairs and slips into the oversized white cotton shirt she left there upon heading down to the dock.

The patio is still covered in comfortable shade, the sun yet to have moved far or high enough on the sky to shine its light upon the stone floor, making it a perfect contender for a spot to have her breakfast.

Though, considering she didn't arrive to Blue Wildflower Lake with the coach-bus until late last night, she has to first navigate her way to a grocery store. She wonders if they're open yet; she may as well make it a walk instead of a bike ride into the town hub to better her chances of not having to wait impatiently outside the door.

But, step one: get dressed.

She never did spend as much time here during the summers growing up as the rest of her family. The house has never been hers, but stepping back through the wide sliding doors into the kitchen, there's a familiarity to it all. It does feel a lot like returning home.

Just as she's about to close the door behind her, a gust of air travels through the house – fluttering the sheer floor-length beige curtains and the fabric of her shirt.

Her brows knit together, a trail of goosebumps prickling her skin from the wind. She's almost completely certain the breeze did not come from the back of the house.

Whirling around on her feet, eyes scanning the open-concept first floor of the house, her heartbeat picks up speed.

The front door is wide open.

Paranoia settles in her chest, getting the overhand before her mind has even had the chance to catch up.

Instinctively, without even beginning to search for valid reasons the door would have swung open on its own, she reaches out for one of the knives stood in the stand on the wooden kitchen island.

Fight or flight.

That's what they always tell you about the human stress response.

The Psychology Today writers. The TED-talkers. The eager Behavioral Science majors.

Each an expert in their own right.

Stella used to be one of them.

Early mornings spent in the pool, relishing in the home it provided her even during the most straining practices. Nights spent delving far too deep into whatever had caught her interest that week – turning every horrifyingly fascinating psychological aspect of matters such as Abu Ghraib inside out and upside down, pencil between her teeth and cup of tea by her side long forgotten.

But that was before.

Fight or flight.

She wishes it was true. Wishes they were right. Wishes she had been right.

But the few times in her life she would have needed said response to kick in – to have her either run for the hills or brace herself for combat – she's found herself nothing but frozen, numb.

Her eyes cast to the kitchen knife clutched in her clammy palm, wondering exactly what it will do for her if there is in fact an intruder in the house. Fend them off in an improvised duel? Fight.

Maybe she should spin on her heel, leave the knife alone, slip back out the patio door and run to the next house down the street – use her neighbor's phone to call the police, just in case. Get out of this house. Flight.

She does neither. Instead, she's simply stood frozen – staring at the open front door and the rays of sun casting through it, sprawling a pattern over the light wooden floorboards.

Her heart thunders in her chest, a pounding to her ears as a lump catches in her throat.

Then, as if broken out of a spell, she relaxes in an instant.

From somewhere on the other side of the house, she hears a familiar voice.

It's more mature than last she heard it, deeper, definitely lacking every trace of the prepubescent tone it once carried. It's different, yet familiar.

Slowly putting the knife down on the countertop of the kitchen island, she finds herself moving closer to the door – lingering by the wide bookshelf stood on the imagined threshold between the kitchen and the living room.

The sound of a car door slamming shut in the driveway echoes through the house, followed by a melodic whistling sound: as if beckoning for a dog.

"Fizzy!" The voice calls out as it comes closer. Another whistle. "Come on, let's head inside!"

Before she knows it, a flurry of golden fur on four legs bounds into the house – skidding to an abrupt halt upon spotting Stella. And then, tail wagging with such violent force it could probably hit a home run, leaps straight toward her.

She's barely fallen into a crouch to pet the Golden Retriever as the thud of a heavy bag dropping to the floor sounds, having her glance away from the kind hazel eyes of the energetic dog.

Somehow, Jake looks the same as ever.

Tall but not tall. Traces of his high school football days still etched deep in his features, from the picture perfect posture to the lean muscles to the tiny faded scar on his jaw. Boyish – but not in the scrawny kid way, rather in the 'I bet you I can eat this entire box of cereal in five minutes and then sprint up that hill without throwing up'-boyish. Maybe it has to do with the way his lips always seem to rest in a smile.

Staring down at the screen of his phone, he runs a hand through his hair; it's shorter than the last time Stella saw him, the shoulder-length black curls all gone.

She racks her brain for just how long it's been since they were both in the same room.

A while. Faye's eighteenth birthday – maybe.

That was six years ago.

A long while.

Her hand doesn't leave the dog's fur – having fallen into a pattern of gently stroking her palm over its back – as her eyes linger on Jake.

She knows she should say something, announce her presence like any sane person would.

Once upon a time she would probably have been out on the front porch as soon as she heard his voice. Would have run down the driveway in her surprise to hug him, the way they used to do when they were children; words falling eagerly off her tongue to tell him of Faye's and hers latest escapades. Maybe push her Nintendo DS console into his hands before he'd even made it over the threshold of the house, pleading for his help to unlock the next level on whatever game she'd been playing at the time.

Back when they were Jake, Faye and Stella.

The past years – the past decade really – whenever they've all been together, they've been Jake and Faye.

And Stella.

Glancing up, Jake turns sideways and reaches out to close the door behind him.

His brown gaze widens as it falls to where Stella's sat next to the dog on the floor, brows etching together as a hint of something similar to amusement crossed with pure surprise tugs at his lips.

"Stells?"

Rather dumbfounded, still as surprised to see him as he seems to be her, she lifts her free hand in a weak wave. Her own lips twitch into a faint smile. "Hi."

. . .

let's include an author's note to kick things off

so much for waiting for june, right?

hello my friends!!! I've missed you SO much. SO MUCH. like crazy much. if you're new to linn-land, welcome! here we eat microwave popcorn, act on our impulses and let our hearts beat for soft boys (and girls) with kind hearts.

I'm equally nervous as I am excited to bring 'Coming Up For Air' into the world. it's been living in my head for a very long time, and I do hope I'll be able to do it justice written down. be kind while I try to figure it out, will you?

as for updates, I won't be following any specific update-schedule. I will however try to post a chapter once a week, sometimes several chapters if I'm on a roll. it worked with 'Wrong Quarterback' and I hope it'll work with this one, though some things have changed since then: 1, it's beginning to look like summer meaning I won't spend all my time inside hiding from the cold writing. 2, I got promoted (yay) so I'll be spending more hours at work and 3, I'm supposedly going back to school this fall –, meaning I may have to rethink how much time I'll be able to spend on writing since it's something I do for fun. But we'll see! Let's start with once a week and see where life takes us.

to stay up to date with me and my crazy, I suggest you follow me here on wattpad. if you'd like to enjoy my sometimes too-much personality on other social media platforms as well, you'll find those linked in my bio <3

I also want you to know I do read all the messages spilling into my inbox but I have a tendency of letting days or weeks pass before writing back, but I do write back to every single one, so just be patient with me. I appreciate every single one of you who've messaged me with your kind words.

hugs to you all (unless you despise hugs, then a nice wave and a smile), I love you lots

yours, linn