You didn’t plan to notice that cough again
It came back, soft at first.
You cleared your throat. Blamed the air. The weather. The dust.
But it stayed. Stayed longer than comfort. Lingered like a question without an answer.
You said nothing. Just drank more water.
Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe not.
The tired isn’t from running—it’s just there
You slept. Yet still, your limbs drag behind you.
Not exhaustion. Something deeper.
You pause between steps.
You don’t run for the doorbell anymore.
You skip the stairs.
The body feels older, but not from age.
From something unspoken.
Weight slips away without permission
Pants fit looser. Belts cinch tighter.
You didn’t mean to lose anything.
But meals feel smaller.
Appetite doesn’t leave loudly.
It just doesn’t return.
You don’t feel hungry.
You just feel less.
There’s a whisper behind your ribs
A pressure. Not pain. Not sharp.
But noticeable.
You stretch, hoping it fades.
It doesn’t.
You ignore it.
You’ve always ignored little things.
This one stays.
You breathe—but not like you used to
Not deep. Not easy.
Like breathing through cloth.
Like there’s not enough air, even when you inhale.
It’s subtle.
Until stairs remind you.
Until walking across the room makes your chest flutter.
You tell yourself you’re just out of shape.
The voice sounds different
People ask if you’re sick.
You say allergies.
But your voice cracks more.
Feels tight by evening.
Speaking takes more.
You stop answering phone calls.
You text instead.
Mornings arrive with a heaviness in your chest
You wake slower.
The sun feels brighter.
The blanket heavier.
You sit longer before rising.
Chest tightness becomes part of the routine.
Coffee doesn’t fix it.
Neither does rest.
You start turning down invitations
Not because you don’t want to go.
Because you’re not sure you’ll feel up for it.
You cancel last minute.
You say you’re just tired.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the unknown weight.
It follows everywhere.
You notice you clear your throat more often
Mid-sentence.
In meetings.
Alone in the kitchen.
Like something wants out, but nothing comes.
You buy cough drops.
They help for minutes.
But the urge returns.
Laughter takes more effort now
Not because things aren’t funny.
But because your chest doesn’t want to join.
You hold back.
Let others laugh louder.
You smile instead.
The sound feels expensive.
Your skin tells stories in shadows
Pale. Maybe.
Dryer than you remember.
You check your reflection more.
Not for beauty.
For difference.
You try to remember when you looked brighter.
It’s hard.
Your shoulders tense without reason
Like preparing for something.
A weight.
A message.
You stretch.
Roll your neck.
But it returns.
Not pain.
Just readiness for something your body knows before you do.
You begin to need more pauses
Between chores.
Between thoughts.
Between conversations.
You sit more.
Let others carry the bags.
You breathe deeper—not because you want to, but because you must.
No one sees the shifts but you
You don’t bleed.
Don’t collapse.
You just…slow.
And in that slowing, something whispers louder.
You pretend not to notice.
But some days, pretending is harder.
A cough that doesn’t leave isn’t just a cough
It moves in.
Becomes part of your soundtrack.
It’s dry.
Persistent.
You Google it, then close the tab.
Then open it again.
You don’t talk about it.
But you hear it.
Always.
You tell yourself it’s nothing serious
Because serious means doctors.
Tests.
Rooms that smell like questions.
You’ve always been healthy.
You walk fine.
You laugh sometimes.
You think you’re fine.
But your breath hesitates.
That’s new.
Your back aches in new ways
Not sharp.
Just present.
In bed.
On the couch.
It nudges you.
You stretch again.
Blame posture.
Blame the chair.
Blame the day.
You don’t recognize your energy anymore
It dips without warning.
Not after effort.
During rest.
You sit.
And still feel like you’ve done too much.
The rest doesn’t land.
It just floats above you.
You avoid mirrors—not from vanity, but memory
You look.
Then look away.
Something feels faded.
Not aged.
Just dulled.
You used to glow.
You can’t explain what changed.
But you feel it.
The silence between breaths becomes noticeable
You wait for the next inhale.
You catch yourself watching your own chest.
Hoping it rises easily.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Breath doesn’t feel automatic anymore
It used to be background.
Now it’s a thought.
A process.
You become aware.
And in that awareness, fear starts to grow.
Not loudly.
But firmly.
You wonder if others feel this too
You don’t ask.
It sounds dramatic.
But inside, the questions pile up.
You search symptoms late at night.
Then erase your history.
Just in case.
You start measuring your days by ease of breath
Some days are good.
Some, not.
You don’t mention it.
You don’t want to be the one who complains.
But your body keeps score.
And the numbers are changing.
Every breath comes with a small question
Will this one feel light?
Will this one arrive slow?
You count them now.
Not aloud.
But always.