The private consultation room wraps around us in a hush so profound that every small sound seems amplified—the distant hum of the air conditioning cycling through its quiet rhythm and the uneven, shallow rhythm of my own breathing, which sounds far too loud in the stillness.
I sit on the leather couch, my body leaning back against the cushions in what I hope looks like a posture of calm. But beneath that carefully arranged composure, my lungs feel as though they're shrinking with each passing moment, my chest tightening with a weight I can't name.
I don't understand what is happening to me. The room feels smaller than it did moments ago, the walls pressing inward, the air thickening around me like water rising. My lungs resist, refusing to expand fully, and I find myself taking quick, shallow breaths that do nothing to ease the growing tightness in my chest.
