The weight I carry

I haven’t been feeling like myself lately.

The fatigue, the nausea, the strange sensitivity to smells—it’s been creeping in slowly, unsettling and unfamiliar. At first, I told myself it was just stress. Work’s been overwhelming, and maybe I’ve just been pushing too hard again. But now, there’s something deeper, something heavier sitting in my gut that won’t go away.

Whatever it is, I need answers. Today.

I slip on a hoodie, tug the cap lower over my forehead, and step into the hospital, the clean scent of antiseptic hitting me hard. My sneakers echo down the hallway as I make my way toward Dr. Maynard’s office. I keep my head down, hoping no one notices me. It’s been a while since the whole incident with Eva, but the whispers never truly die down.

Even though everything’s been “settled,” the stigma lingers like old perfume—too faint to name but strong enough to make you self-conscious. I still find myself hiding, as though shame is something stitche