Earl
The day started before the sun.
My alarm went off at 5:30, the sound muffled and distorted, like it was coming from the bottom of a pool. I fumbled for the phone, heart already heavy, and shut it off before it could ring a second time.
For a few seconds, I stayed still.
I tried to measure how I felt, whether today was a good hearing day or a bad one. The room hummed faintly. The air conditioner clicked on and off. I could hear it, but everything felt dull around the edges, like someone had turned the world's volume down unevenly.
Good enough, I told myself.
That was how I'd learned to start my days now. Not with hope. Just with enough.
By six, I was dressed and sitting at the small kitchen table while my mom moved quietly around the apartment. She asked if I'd slept okay. I nodded, because explaining felt harder than lying.
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and coffee.
I checked in, got my wristband, and took a seat in the waiting area. The TV on the wall played a morning show with subtitles scrolling across the bottom. I watched the words more than I listened.
When they called my name, my stomach tightened automatically.
The first session was testing. Headphones on. Buttons in my hand. Beeps and tones that came and went without warning.
Press when you hear it.
Sometimes I did. Sometimes I hesitated, unsure if the sound was real or just my brain filling in gaps. Every pause felt like a mistake.
By the end, my temples throbbed.
The second session was treatment.
Machines hummed. Not loud... never loud but constant. The kind of sound that settled deep in your bones and stayed there. I stared at the ceiling tiles and focused on breathing evenly while the technician adjusted settings and asked me how it felt.
"Full," I said. That was the word I always used. "Heavy."
She nodded, made a note, told me we were almost done.
Almost had become a dangerous word. It sounded like relief, but it never meant rest.
After a short break, there was another round of tests. Then consultation. Then more waiting.
By midday, my head felt stuffed with cotton. Conversations blurred together. My ears rang faintly, like a distant alarm I couldn't quite locate.
I ate lunch because my mom reminded me to, not because I was hungry. Every bite felt like effort.
The afternoon session was the hardest.
My body was there, sitting upright, answering questions, following instructions—but my mind lagged behind, slow and foggy. Sounds came late. Sometimes not at all. I asked people to repeat themselves more than I liked.
Frustration simmered under my skin.
When it was finally over, the doctor said, "That's enough for today. You did well."
I nodded. I always nodded. I wasn't sure what doing well meant anymore.
The walk back to the apartment felt longer than usual. The city noise pressed in from all sides, cars, footsteps, voices, none of it sharp, all of it exhausting.
Once inside, I went straight to my room and lay down fully dressed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message from Dawn.
How did today go?
I stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.
Long. Tired.
Two words. All true.
He replied almost instantly.
I'm here if you want to talk. Or if you just want company.
I closed my eyes, phone warm in my hand.
My ears still felt full. My head still ached. Tomorrow would bring another round of the same thing.
But today was over.
And for now, that was enough.