The mirror reflects a version of me that seems different, more weary.
I avoid looking too long, afraid of what I might see.
The bus ride to the clinic is uneventful, the city passing by in a blur.
People get on and off, each wrapped in their own lives, their own concerns.
My mind drifts back to the article, the images of skin conditions that now seem all too familiar.
At the clinic, the waiting room is crowded.
Faces around me are a mix of hope and resignation.
I check in and take a seat, my foot tapping nervously on the floor.
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second stretching into an eternity.
A nurse calls my name, her voice breaking through the fog of my thoughts.
I stand, feeling the eyes of strangers on me, and follow her down a long hallway.
The examination room is cold, sterile.
The nurse takes my vitals, her hands efficient but detached.
“Doctor will be in shortly,” she says and leaves.
I’m alone with my thoughts again, the silence heavy.
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