There's this feeling you get when you think you are on the verge of dying. Your heart squeezes so tight that you are convinced you are feeling the very last set of heartbeats it will ever give.

And your stomach sees this and decides to join in the panic fun by either trying to make you expunge everything you've ever eaten or ever thought about eating and then mimics your heart by turning into a death grip of pain inside of you.

These were the two constants as I ran around my apartment in a blind panic, before having the common sense to grab my phone, a bat, and my car keys for good measure.

The police found me sitting in my car, holding the baseball bat in a death grip, unable to move until the third time they ordered me from the car. And even then they couldn't get a coherent word out of me until Sanders arrived, bringing me back to reality with a fierce hug of concern.

The police seemed puzzled when they learned that there was no evidence of anyone breaking in other than the lipstick on the mirror. My front door and windows had all been locked. No one other than my eighty-year-old landlady had a copy of my key, and I had no flatmates. And yet somehow, someone had been there. Had watched me humming a song, and left me a creepy note on my mirror.

After taking my statement, and asking me if I had anywhere else to stay for the night, Sanders saved me from dying of embarrassment when she announced to the police officers that I would be staying with her. I stared at the ground, baseball bat still tight in my hands as tears sprung into my eyes, the reality of my situation hitting me harder than the baseball bat ever could.

I nodded mutely, agreeing without protest. There was no point in arguing. We both knew I had nowhere else to go and had no one else to turn to. I was alone other than my books and Sanders. And this situation had been a heartwrenching reminder of a past I didn't want to remember.

So after another half an hour of questions and waiting, I was shuffled off with a tender arm wrapped around my shoulders, tucked into an extra pair of large pajamas, and given the pull-out couch in Sanders large studio apartment to lick my wounds for the night.

Other than her desk, which was covered in manuscripts, Sanders' apartment was immaculately clean, organized in blues and greys that would have been cold if Sander's warm and welcoming presence wasn't included in the makeup.

Handing me a hot cup of camomile tea, she offered me a kind, encouraging smile before slipping into protector mode."I really don't like you living there."

"I know," I murmured over the steam of the cup that had begun to warm my hands, encouraging feeling back into my body.

"Too many people know you," Sanders said, beginning to pace now that there was nothing left for her to do but worry. It would have been a comical sight with her fluffy holiday slippers and bright pink pajamas if she wasn't on a rampage to fix my life.

"I don't think—."

She cut me off. "They do. This isn't the first time someone has tried to scare you Laliana. If it was I wouldn't be acting like this."

I sighed. She has a point. It couldn't go on like this. I was getting jumpy. Everything was starting to freak me out. "You haven't been sleeping well, which means I haven't been sleeping well. And we BOTH know that is a very bad thing." Sanders stopped pacing and threw her hands up in the air. "I NEED MY SLEEP SUMMERS!"

I winced. Sanders only called me by my last name when she was serious. I knew I would be lucky just getting off with a lecture. She had wanted me to make changes when the notes had begun to pop up. But I had ignored the problem, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that my private life was growing smaller.

You can't have fame without sacrifice Laliana! Sanders had said when people began to recognize me as I went about my daily routine. I had pushed back. I didn't think anyone cared to remember an author's face. But I knew now that she had been right. Things had gotten out of control.

"I know. I'll do something about this," I said after taking a long sip of my camomile tea and putting it down on the coffee table with shaky hands. I instantly missed the warmth of the cup, feeling the cold air wrap around me in an unwanted embrace.

Sanders stated at me, sighing as she deflated slightly, looking exhausted. Her short black hair poked up at odd angles from the number of times she had run her fingers through it that evening. "No. Not something vague." Sanders's arms were waving again, a clear sign of how frazzled she felt. "I want a REAL change. Something that will keep you safe."

I swallowed, mentally preparing for whatever she had in mind. "Okay, I'll get the alarm system," I suggested.

She crossed her arms. "No, bigger."

"I don't want to move Sanders."

"Summers," she warned. "Don't argue."

I rolled my hands into fists on my lap. "Come on. There's gotta be something else. A middle ground. I don't have time to move. Not with the schedule you have me on. The book tour just started."

She paused, seeming thoughtful. "True."

I smiled, relaxing slightly at my victory.

"Okay. No moving."

"Thanks—."

"I'm not finished," Sanders said with a wave of her hands. "You're getting a bodyguard."

My jaw fell open. "You can't be serious."

"I am." Her brown eyes were sharp, hard.

"Any chance of going back to the moving thing?"

She shook her head. "You made a good point. You don't have time. And we need a solution now. Because we both need sleep."

I groaned, feeling like a small child that had lost an argument with her mom. "Where on earth am I going to find a bodyguard?"

At that Sanders smiled brightly, a knowing grin crossing her face as she began to weave together a plan that I would no doubt protest when she presented it to me in the morning. Yawning, she made her way to her bed, eyes on her phone as she began to scroll through her endless list of contacts. "Let me handle that. I'll find you someone great. Just wait."

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If you were to chose a comforting hot drink to have when you are feeling down, which drink would it be?