Work has become a refuge, a place where I can lose myself in tasks and deadlines. Yet, even here, the worry lingers, a shadow that I can’t quite shake.
Email notifications ping in the background, a constant reminder of the demands that never seem to end.
“Are you okay? You seem distracted,” a colleague asks, their voice tentative.
“Just tired,” I reply, forcing a smile, hoping it masks the deeper unease I feel.
Fatigue has been creeping in slowly, a subtle presence that saps my energy and leaves me feeling drained. It’s one more symptom in a list that feels longer each day.
Still, I hesitate to share the full extent of my discomfort.
“You should take a break,” they say, but I know it’s not that simple.
There’s a weight—a pressure—that I carry quietly, tucked beneath practical tasks, a worry that I can’t seem to shake.
The power dynamic is clear. Dr. Lawson holds the keys to testing and diagnosis, and I am left feeling small, unheard, and unseen within the sterile walls of healthcare bureaucracy.
For now, I wait.
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