He comes without knocking. Sits down next to you. And stays.
At first, he seems helpful. Calms the nerves. Fills the pauses. Gives a reason to step out of the room to be alone. But that is only the first chapter.
Then he starts asking. Asking you to go out into the cold while others drink tea. Asking you to hand over money that could have gone to something real. Asking for time β minute by minute, hour by hour.
Then he starts taking. He takes away taste β food becomes bland. He takes away smell β flowers grow fainter. He takes away breath β a simple walk turns into a trial.
He changes your voice, making it hoarse and unfamiliar. He changes your complexion, adding a gray filter. He changes your rhythm of life, bending it to one desire β to light, to inhale, to receive.
Many think this is a matter of willpower. But it is not about strength. It is about deception. You think you are in control. In truth, you stopped being the main voice in this conversation long ago.
The scariest part is not the numbers on medical charts. The scariest part is getting used to the limitations. Accepting that you cannot run an extra hundred meters. Accepting that children turn away from your smell. Accepting that the morning begins not with sunlight, but with a cough.
You can break this cycle in only one way β by stopping to feed what grows inside you at your expense.
Try to imagine yourself one year from now without him. What will your morning look like? What will your voice sound like? What will your breath feel like?
The answer does not need words. It needs action.