The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and old paper. The air was too warm, too still.
I stared at the stacks of magazines on the small side table, their colorful covers pretending to be another world—one where nobody asked how much you weighed or when you had last eaten.
An actress smiled from one cover, perfect, flawless, as if nothing about her could break. I turned the magazine over.
Mother sat beside me, hands folded in her lap. Her gaze was empty, but her fingers moved restlessly, rubbing against each other as if searching for stability.
She said nothing, but her silence was louder than any words.
The clock on the wall ticked. Each second hand was a small blow against my nervous system.
I heard the rustling of paper, the murmuring of other patients, the distant clicking of a keyboard.
The door to the consultation room opened.
"Lina Auer?"
I stood up, legs heavy as lead. Mother placed a hand on my back, gently pushing me forward.
