By the following Monday, the review was imminent, and my anxiety had reached a peak. I woke early, the tension in my neck a constant companion, a reminder of the stakes.
In the quiet of the morning, I turned once more to the exerciser, hoping for some last-minute relief. The routine was familiar now, each movement an attempt to ease the discomfort, to find some semblance of balance.
The sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the floor. It was a small comfort, a moment of calm before the chaos of the day began.
“You’ll be okay,” I whispered to myself, a fragile pep talk.
As I went through the motions, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was enough—if I was enough. The doubt lingered, a quiet voice that refused to be silenced.
“You’ve got this,” my partner reassured me as he passed by, his words a balm against the worry.
I nodded, grateful for his support, even as uncertainty gnawed at me.
The day loomed large, and with it, the questions that had no easy answers.
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