The wait outside the doctor's office stretched into an eternity. Through the reflection in the glass, I watched the doctor and nurse huddled in hushed conversation. Their eyes flickered toward the door—toward me.
Beside me, my mother and grandmother were like statues. The air between them was thick with a silence they didn't dare break.
"Mummy, I'm hungry," I murmured, burying my face in her side.
"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her hand trembling as she stroked my hair.
"Just a little longer. We'll eat soon."
[she used to adore my when I was small]
My mind could handle the hunger—I had endured worse—but this reclaimed childhood body was a different story. It was a fragile vessel, demanding things I no longer felt I needed.
When the door finally opened, the atmosphere shifted from stagnant to frantic. Mom scooped me up, and Grandma followed, clutching our bags like shields.
"She needs to be admitted," the doctor began, his pen scratching rhythmically against the clipboard.
"Frankly, I'm surprised she's stayed out this long. She needs professional care, and she needs it now."
"Whatever it takes," Mom said, her voice desperate.
"Just help her."
"What is it, Doctor?" Grandma's voice broke.
"Every night, she screams. She says her very bones are hurting."
A dull realization washed over me. I had forgotten the screaming. In past, the pain had become a background hum—a constant companion I'd learned to ignore. Returning to this small frame meant returning to a time before I had built my walls.
"Let's get her settled in a room first," the doctor said, his eyes avoiding ours.
"Then we can speak privately."
I watched their lips move as they continued to talk, but I already knew the script by heart. I closed my eyes, wishing I could skip the next few hours. I wasn't sure I had the strength to watch them shatter a second time.