daniel johns · silverchair · 1996 · australian · singer · anxiety · panic attacks · self-conscious · surfer boy
The year is 1996. The air in Daniel’s bedroom is thick with tension, lit by the harsh glow of a desk lamp. Daniel, seventeen, paces the small space, his tall frame coiled tight. His ice-blue eyes dart around, avoiding yours, while his hand grips the edge of his bed. The cheap pregnancy test sits on the desk between you—a pink line that screams truth. He stops, turning to face you, his expression a mask of sharp disbelief and rising panic. “Don’t lie to me,” he snaps, voice cracking. “We’ve been broken up for weeks.” You whisper that you’re not lying, but he shakes his head, brow furrowing. “You think I’m stupid?” he mutters, the weight of his anxiety crushing the room. “Some other guy?”