We climb into the roller coaster cars. The plastic seat is cold and uncomfortable, the seatbelts dig into our shoulders, and the metal restraint lowered from above presses down so tightly it's hard to breathe. A sharp pang twists in my stomach—I can't move, can't even take a full breath. I grip the armrests, trying to hide how much I hate this, but my heart is already pounding wildly. The ride isn't even that tall or long, yet every centimeter of the track ahead feels like a threat. Fear coils inside me like an icy hand.
The cars lock into place, a mechanic checks the harnesses, and the train slowly pulls away from the station toward the launch zone. My chest lurches unpleasantly as we pass the switch—a massive mechanism that lets them run up to four trains on two tracks simultaneously. My thoughts fracture, and a single question flashes through my mind: What if something goes wrong? But it's too late to back out now. Way too late.
The train rolls back slightly, preparing for launch, and then—a sharp mechanical clunk—the brakes release. A loud voice blares from the speakers:
"Hands down, head back, hold on!"
My body tenses to the limit. My fingers clamp onto the armrests so hard my knuckles turn white. My chest tightens, my breath turns shallow. Five more seconds, and this nightmare begins. Time stretches endlessly, each second dragging us closer to the inevitable. Then—a hissing sound, like steam bursting free—and we're hurled forward.
It's terrifying. My teeth clench; inside, I feel hollow, like an empty barrel vibrating at its limit. I shut my eyes, trying to focus. Maybe counting will help. But my thoughts scramble—the numbers blur together, and I can't remember what comes after five. Panic claws at my throat, my heart hammers so loudly I swear it's about to burst out of my chest.
Sometimes I open my eyes, desperate to see how much is left. But instead of relief, the sight of the approaching finish only spikes my fear. Rails, sky, ground—everything blurs into a deafening whirlwind of speed. I want to scream, but an invisible vise grips my throat. Not a sound comes out—just short, ragged gasps, more like whimpers.
At the end of the launch section, the cars catapult up the main tower, reaching the peak. For a split second, the world tilts—we bank 90 degrees to the right, and I feel blood rush to my temples. Then—freefall. We plunge down, hurtle through a 270-degree spiral, and shoot back up. My body goes weightless; my stomach lurches into my throat. I almost scream—but then magnetic brakes kick in, pressing us smoothly back into our seats as the train slows.
Another sharp turn—left this time—and finally, the station. It's over. But I can't move. My body trembles faintly, as if my muscles don't believe we've survived. My limbs won't obey; my head rings like a shattered bell. I try to ground myself, but the world stays hazy.
When Rebel turns to me, her excited "Wow! That was amazing! How about you, Max?" sounds distant, unreal, like she's underwater. She freezes when she sees my face. Concern flickers in her eyes, but she quickly grabs my arm.
"Max, what's wrong? Come on, get up."
I try to stand, but my legs buckle, and I nearly collapse back into the car. Luckily, she catches me in time.
We shuffle to a bench, and I sink onto it, feeling the ground sway beneath me like waves in open sea. With every second, the disconnect between what I feel and what's happening around me grows wider.
Rebel dashes to a drink stand and returns with a water bottle. I take it gratefully, though I'm not even sure I can hold it steady.
"Here, drink a little. You okay? Not gonna puke, are you?" Her voice is soft, but there's clear worry in it.
I shake my head, gripping the water bottle with trembling fingers. I'm not nauseous—just still buzzing with adrenaline, my chest weighed down by something icy, like a fist clenched around my heart.
She runs her hand gently through my hair, then rubs slow circles on my back, as if brushing off the last remnants of fear. Her touch is warm, soothing, but I still feel tiny shivers under my skin.
"Scary," I finally croak out, my voice hoarse, like I haven't spoken in ages.
She sighs and sits beside me, her gaze so tender it almost makes me ashamed of my weakness. Everything about her is soft and warm, and right now, I feel her care wrapping around me, piecing my frayed nerves back together just by being here.
"Why didn't you tell me you didn't want to? If you thought I'd laugh—like, 'real men don't get scared'—that's stupid," she says, shaking her head. There's a hint of irritation in her voice, but it's not aimed at me—just the situation. "Everyone gets scared. And admitting it isn't shameful. Next time, just say it. No drama."
I shake my head again, not in disagreement but because I can't find the words. All I can do is listen as her voice, like a warm breeze, slowly calms me. Katrin hugs me, and I feel her warmth driving out the tremors. There's something fiercely supportive in her hold—like she's holding me together, not just physically but emotionally.
It takes five minutes before my breathing steadies and my hands stop shaking.
"I didn't think I'd get that scared," I admit, finally finding my voice. "I'm kinda afraid of heights, but not like this. I can change a lightbulb—that's my limit. Anything past two meters, and I'm done. At least then I know how to get down. But higher? No way."
"That's fine. I'm not scared of heights, so I'll change the lightbulbs," she says, and in this moment, she seems utterly fearless.
Sometimes, I really think nothing in the world could frighten her. She laughs, and the sound shatters the last of the tension. It's bright and carefree, and despite everything, I feel myself relax.
"I'm good now. We can keep going," I say, forcing a smile even though my legs still feel like jelly.
She sighs, overly dramatic, and rolls her eyes.
"Will one of our dates ever end without some disaster?"
I snort.
"Well, during the fight at your place, we didn't even leave the house."
"Alright, my little scaredy-bunny," she ruffles my hair. "Let's hit the funhouse instead. Ferris wheel's canceled."
Guilt prickles at me—she's giving up what she wanted because of me. Looking at her stirs up mixed feelings: part of me knows she's disappointed, but another part wishes she'd just do what she enjoys.
"If you want, I'll wait at the bottom while you ride," I offer, not wanting to ruin her night completely.
But she frowns immediately and pokes my chest.
"Then it's not a date if I'm doing everything alone. We came together—we stick together."
Her words warm me more than any hug. Something inside me melts. Sure, I'm still afraid of heights—but with her beside me, even the scariest things feel a little less terrifying. The unbearable becomes bearable, just knowing she's there.