The sun hangs low, casting long shadows on the porch.
Each passing car on the street below seems to echo the rhythmic ticking of time slipping by.
Inside, the clock on the wall ticks steadily, a constant reminder that the appointment is drawing nearer.
I’ve rehearsed the conversation with Dr. Harris in my mind a hundred times.
Each scenario plays out with the same vague answers and advice.
“Just watch your portions,” she’d repeat, dismissively.
The anxiety knots tighter in my stomach, twisting with every thought of the impending discussion.
I wish I could make her understand the silent struggle, the constant vigilance over what I consume.
But the words never seem to come out right when I’m there, sitting across from her in that sterile office.
The porch creaks softly beneath me as I shift, trying to find a comfortable spot.
The juice from the peach has dried sticky on my fingers, a reminder of the sugary dilemma.
Despite the oppressive heat, a shiver runs through me at the thought of another failed explanation.
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