Six weeks

Six weeks.

It started as nothing—

the kind of thing everyone gets,

something that passes through in the fall.

But it didn't pass at all.

It's at 3 AM

and it's during meetings

and it's in the grocery store

while I'm trying to be quiet

and it's at work before

the moment of silence

and I cough—

loud, harsh, my own sound

echoing off the walls.

Everyone goes still.

I feel their attention call

to me like I've violated something.

This thing in my chest

has a schedule.

It doesn't ask.

It won't mask

what's happening.

Everyone keeps saying,

"Oh, that's just going around,"

like it will leave me eventually,

like I'm temporary to this sound

instead of permanent to me.

But I keep waiting for it to be gone

and it won't go.

It's here at 3 AM

insisting,

here at my desk

persisting,

here in the silence

refusing to let me be small.

My body is doing something

against my will.

And I'm starting to understand

that this is what persistence looks like—

not dramatic,

just here,

just louder than I am,

just won't stop.