The light in the consultation room was harsh, almost too clear, as if it wanted to tear every secret out of the shadows.
The white walls looked so clean they hurt. Even the smell – a mixture of disinfectant, paper, and metal – crawled into my throat.
I sat on the chair between my parents, my hands pushed deep into the sleeves of my sweater. My fingers searched for warmth, stability, anything that reminded me I was still in my body.
The doctor – naturally my father had chosen him, as always when control was needed – flipped through the file.
Each rustling sounded like a verdict, as if the paper itself knew what I had done wrong.
He looked up, pushing his glasses onto his forehead. "Lina," he began calmly, almost kindly, yet the calmness was more dangerous than any thunder.
"Your weight is currently at 41.3 kilograms. That officially puts you in the underweight category."
The number fell into the room like a stone into still water.
