The morning began with a heaviness that went deeper than fatigue.
My legs felt as if I were carrying lead.
Yesterday's number – 41.3 – burned in my mind like a brand.
I couldn't shake it.
Even brushing my teeth felt like fighting against something invisible.
I stood in front of the mirror, looking at my face.
Pale skin, cracked lips, dark shadows under my eyes.
I looked like an erased version of myself.
But I forced myself to take my school bag, throw on my jacket, as if nothing was wrong.
If I hurried, Mom wouldn't stop me.
Outside, fog hung over the street, gray and heavy.
Fiona was waiting at the gate, as always.
She had that concerned look I hated yet needed at the same time.
"You need to eat something," she murmured as we started walking.
I shook my head. "I can't."
"Then at least drink something. Otherwise you'll collapse on us."
She held out a water bottle. I took it, drank a sip, though I felt nauseous just swallowing.
We barely talked.
