You think it’s probably nothing, so you wait
You touch the spot again.
It’s still there. Maybe slightly larger. Maybe not.
It doesn’t hurt.
But your hand keeps returning to it.
As if your fingers know something you won’t say out loud.
You tell no one.
It’s easier that way.
To stay uncertain in private.
To carry the maybe in silence.
You keep brushing it off.
But the doubt doesn’t leave.
It just moves deeper.
But the doubt doesn’t leave
You start to cough more often.
It’s dry. Persistent. Slightly embarrassing in quiet rooms.
You clear your throat constantly.
You tell people it’s allergies.
You say it’s the dust in the air.
You smile when they look concerned.
You don’t go to the doctor.
Because what would you say?
There’s no fever.
No chills.
Just something that won’t go away.
And you’re tired of naming things you can’t explain.
Something that won’t go away
You used to sleep through the night.
Now you wake soaked in sweat.
You throw off the covers.
Blame the blanket.
Open the window.
Close it again.
It keeps happening.
Each time at a different hour.
You change your sheets more often.
You stop mentioning it to anyone.
Because it sounds small when you say it.
But it doesn’t feel small at 3:12 a.m.
But it doesn’t feel small at 3:12 a.m.
You lose weight.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
Just… less of you in your clothes.
You adjust your belt a notch tighter.
Your jeans fold slightly at the waist.
You tell yourself it’s stress.
You haven’t been eating differently.
Not enough to explain this.
Still, you nod when someone says, “You look great.”
The compliment sits heavy.
Because you know it came from nowhere.
And you don’t know how to return from here.
You know it came from nowhere
You open your mouth to speak.
And your voice cracks.
It’s hoarse.
It doesn’t belong to you.
You try again.
Still wrong.
You clear your throat.
Drink water.
Wait for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
You stop noticing until someone else points it out.
Then you remember how long it’s been like this.
You remember how long it’s been like this
There’s a strange pain in your side.
It doesn’t stay long.
But it keeps coming back.
You move differently now.
Avoid certain chairs.
Sit slower.
You forget when it began.
But now it’s part of you.
Like a background sound.
Quiet, but present.
Sometimes you wonder what it would say
If it could speak clearly.
If it could speak clearly
Your gums bleed more when you brush.
Just a little.
Just enough to notice.
You buy a softer toothbrush.
Brush more gently.
The bleeding doesn’t stop.
You google it late at night.
Close the tab halfway through the article.
You try again two days later.
The answers are vague.
You feel worse after reading.
So you stop looking.
You feel worse after reading
You feel full too quickly.
Like your stomach’s keeping a secret.
You skip meals without noticing.
Food loses its color.
Your appetite wanders.
You chew slower.
Some days you force yourself to eat.
Just to stay normal.
But it doesn’t feel normal.
Not anymore.
Even familiar flavors taste distant.
Like they’ve forgotten how to reach you.
Like they’ve forgotten how to reach you
A mole looks different.
You try to remember what it used to look like.
You can’t.
You search through old photos.
None show it clearly.
That’s worse than not looking at all.
You measure it with your eyes.
Trace the edges.
You think about making an appointment.
You don’t.
Because that would mean saying it out loud.
And you’re not ready.
That would mean saying it out loud
Your energy disappears by noon.
Not tired—empty.
You rest, but it doesn’t refill.
You start rescheduling things.
Saying no more often.
Saying you’re just overwhelmed.
People believe you.
You believe you.
For a while.
Then something shifts.
You wake already tired.
And the day hasn’t even asked anything of you yet.
The day hasn’t even asked anything of you yet
Your breath shortens.
Not always.
Just sometimes.
Walking from one room to another feels different.
You sit down faster.
You stay seated longer.
You tell yourself it’s just winter.
The cold.
Maybe the mask.
But then spring comes.
And the breath doesn’t return.
It stays shallow.
And the breath doesn’t return
You start forgetting things.
Not big things.
Just words.
Just names.
Just dates that used to come easy.
You write them down now.
Sticky notes gather on your fridge.
On your mirror.
Inside your bag.
You laugh about it to friends.
Then go home and wonder if it’s still funny.
Or if it’s something else entirely.
Then go home and wonder
You feel something pressing beneath your ribs.
Or maybe just under your skin.
It wasn’t there before.
You know that much.
You press on it.
It doesn’t hurt.
But it doesn’t belong.
You wait a few days.
You check again.
It’s still there.
Still not painful.
Still not gone.
Still not gone
Eventually, you call the doctor.
Not because you’re sure.
But because you’re tired of guessing.
Tired of negotiating with your own body.
You explain carefully.
They listen.
They don’t laugh.
They don’t rush.
They ask how long it’s been.
You say, not that long.
They nod.
You both know that’s not true.