The thin morning light slices through the dusty curtains of my cramped city apartment kitchen. The kettle whistles softly, a gentle punctuation in the quiet.
I lean over the steaming bowl I’ve just made—clove steam rising sharply, its scent thick and biting.
This ritual started a week ago, a curious attempt at finding relief from the mounting stress.
But today, the scent feels different, almost sharp enough to pinch nerves raw.
“Am I really doing what I should?”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as I breathe in the steam.
The days have blurred into a repetitive loop: wake up, shallow breaths with the clove steam, a long day at the clinic.
I’m a junior nurse, pushing through understaffed shifts, coming home to my own mounting anxieties about health.
The ritual is meant to soothe, yet it underlines my unease.
My supervisor barely notices my presence unless there’s a mistake; otherwise, I’m just a ghost on the floor.
