The air in the room was thick, like I could carve through it with a knife and still not reach the other side. My lungs barely expanded with each shallow breath I took, and though the world outside was still, something inside me trembled violently. It wasn't just fear anymore. It was instinct. A terrible, prickling sensation crawling beneath my skin that something was coming. Or maybe it had already arrived.
I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, gown loose against my shoulders, my arms cradling my stomach like muscle memory still believed it held life. My gaze was fixed on the wall opposite me, blank and unforgiving, a shade of white that mocked the chaos brewing inside my chest. The nurse had said I should rest, but rest felt like a foreign word.
How could I, when every part of me screamed with questions that had no voices?
