Morning arrives slowly, the light creeping through the blinds with a hesitant warmth. I stir, the ache in my body a familiar wake-up call.
Today is appointment day.
The thought sends a jolt through me, a mix of nerves and resignation.
“Just get through it,” I murmur, pushing the covers aside.
The ritual begins—shower, dress, a sip of tea that does little to calm my racing heart.
The mirror catches my eye, a reflection I avoid yet can’t escape.
“You are more than this,” I remind myself softly, though the words feel worn.
The journey to the clinic is a blur of sights and sounds, my mind elsewhere, bracing for what’s to come.
Inside, the waiting room is its usual mix of sterile and somber.
Faces come and go, each one carrying their own story, their own battles.
I sit, hands clasped tightly in my lap, eyes fixed on the door.
When my name is called, the sound echoes in my chest, a summons I can’t ignore.
The office is bright, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic.
The specialist sits across from me, eyes scanning the charts before looking up.
It begins.
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