I stood there, gripping the sink, replaying every second of the previous night. Her laugh. Her kiss on my forehead. The warmth I’d felt falling asleep. I went from Googling “chemical burn” to “STDs on face” to “skin-eating bacteria,” each result worse than the last. By the time I called the doctor, I was shaking, convinced my life had just split into “before” and “after.”
The diagnosis felt almost anticlimactic: impetigo. A contagious but treatable bacterial skin infection. Antibiotics, ointment, careful hygiene. No, my face wasn’t ruined forever. Yes, I could heal. But the emotional shock stayed. One perfect evening had turned into a brutal reminder of how fragile our bodies — and illusions of control — really are. Now, every time I look in the mirror, I see more than scars; I see how quickly normal can shatter.
