The weekend arrives, bringing with it a brief reprieve from the demands of work. Yet, even in the quiet moments, the worry remains, a shadow that refuses to fade.
I try to distract myself with tasks, with errands and chores, but the unease lingers, a constant companion.
“You should take some time for yourself,” a friend suggests, their voice gentle.
“I’ll try,” I reply, knowing that it’s easier said than done.
The discomfort has been growing, a presence that I can no longer ignore. Yet, I hesitate to share my symptoms, wary of more dismissals, more detachment.
The silence feels heavier today, like a pause stretched too long, unsettled and unresolved.
“Have you heard back from the specialist?” another friend asks, their tone concerned.
“Not yet,” I reply, the uncertainty pressing down, a silence filled with shadows.
The power dynamic is clear. Dr. Lawson holds the keys to testing and diagnosis, and I am left feeling small, unheard, and unseen.
For now, I wait.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
