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... nce.
Heavy curtains are drawn tight across the glass walls, swallowing the afternoon light before it can reach the floor. The room sits in a muted twilight, lit only by the soft glow of the monitors beside my bed. The air smells of antiseptic—cold, clinical, settling in my lungs like smoke.
I lie on the bed, an IV taped to the inside of my elbow, a thin tube feeding something clear and cool into my veins. The tape pulls at my skin when I move, a small, persistent reminder that I’ ...
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