One afternoon, as sunlight cut through the curtains, she caught her reflection while nursing. The scar gleamed faintly, angry against her pale skin. She whispered aloud, “You don’t belong here.” Speaking to it felt strange, but also necessary. The silence from others left her needing to fill the void herself.
She began to document every change with meticulous detail. Measurements, photographs, and written notes. If no one else would take her seriously, she would gather evidence herself. Each entry in her journal felt like staking a claim to the truth, brick by brick against the wall of denial.