I woke up thinking about her smile.
Ten seconds later, I was staring at a stranger in the mirror.

Red sores, yellow crust, burning patches across my forehead—it looked like my skin had changed overnight. Panic came first, then shame, then a spiraling fear of what could be wrong.

I stood there gripping the sink, replaying the night before. Her laugh, her touch, the quiet comfort of falling asleep. Then the search began—every possibility more terrifying than the last.

By the time I called the doctor, my hands were shaking. It felt like my life had split into before and after in a matter of hours.

The diagnosis was unexpected: Impetigo. A common, treatable infection. Antibiotics, ointment, and care—nothing permanent, nothing life-ending.

Relief came, but slowly. The fear didn’t disappear as quickly as the explanation did.

What stayed was the realization of how quickly normal can fall apart. One ordinary moment, one peaceful night—and everything suddenly feels uncertain.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t just see healing skin. I see how fragile control can be, and how fast everything can change.