Monday: four pills, swallowed without thinking. Tuesday: four, still routine, still background noise. Wednesday: three — the doctor's gentle optimism. Thursday: three, and a headache I didn't expect. Friday: two, and the headache has a name now. Saturday: two, white-knuckled, counting hours.Sunday: one.Monday: none.And somewhere under the missing weight of them,my own pain, waiting exactly where I left it.
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Marisol Vega13 October 2026
The shape did something the words alone couldn't — I felt the dose shrink before I finished reading the line. "Waiting exactly where I left it" is the one I'll carry.