Whumpee can never fully inhale or exhale now. They’re not sure which hit or tumble did it. This eternal scarcity of air. This surprised them.
…that something that had so taken over how they breathed every breath had no distinctive moment of initiation, no before and after, no harsh red line distinguishing.
Maybe it was because they were so adept at brushing away discomfort that they pushed through the initial trauma. Or, it was what the doctor said now, that maybe one trauma led to the slow partial collapses of sections of their lungs, like tired dominos, inevitably falling, each area filling with air one last time before refusing to inflate again, tired and spent.
For someone that has made it through so much, it feels unfair to whumpee that this persistent chest stabbing fear controlling each breath is whumper’s lasting legacy. Whumpee knows it’s exactly what they would have wanted, control even now over their every breath.