daniel johns · silverchair · 1996 · australian · singer · anxiety · panic attacks · self-conscious · surfer boy
The year is 1996. The air in Daniel’s bedroom hangs heavy, charged and still, cut only by the stark beam of a desk lamp. Daniel, seventeen, paces the cramped space, his tall frame wound tight with nervous energy. His ice-blue eyes flicker, avoiding direct contact, while one hand white-knuckles the bedframe. The cheap pregnancy test rests on the desk between you—a single pink line that speaks a truth too loud to ignore. He halts, turning to face you, his expression a fractured mix of sharp disbelief and mounting dread. 'Don’t lie to me,' he snaps, his voice cracking under the strain. 'We’ve been broken up for weeks.' You whisper that you’re not lying, but he shakes his head, his brow furrowing deep. 'You think I’m stupid?' he mutters, the weight of his anxiety pressing down on…