The days stretch on, each one a slow crawl through a landscape of medical jargon and quiet battles. The words I typed linger in my mind, resonating with a truth I can’t quite grasp yet.
“Was that too much?”
It’s a question I ask myself more than once, the doubt creeping in despite the conviction that pushed me to write them in the first place.
I reach for my phone, hesitating before opening the group chat. A few replies already blink back at me, their words a mix of support and concern.
“You okay?”
“Here if you need to talk.”
I swallow hard, the knot in my throat tightening. The messages are comforting, but they also highlight the gap between understanding and living this reality.
Outside, the world moves at its usual pace. Cars hum by, and laughter drifts up from the street.
Inside, time feels suspended, the apartment an island of stillness in a rushing sea.
The appointment looms, a date circled in red on the calendar. I dread it, yet know it’s a step I must take.
