“It always begins the same way, with a sneeze you weren’t expecting.”
You wake up, and your nose is already full of questions.
Your head feels heavy. The air feels thick. Something’s wrong again.
You don’t panic, not yet. Could be the start of something small.
Or the beginning of another week trapped inside your own skin.
You check the calendar. You look at the window. You guess.
Cold or allergy. Again. You whisper both like they mean the same thing.
“Cold or allergy. Again.”
It’s not easy to know. That’s the cruel part.
You count sneezes. You scan for fever. You wait for clarity.
Your body isn’t giving clear signs. Just hints.
Your nose runs like it’s chasing something, but you’re not sure what.
It’s early spring. Or maybe late fall. The seasons blur.
Everything seems to mimic something else now.
“Everything seems to mimic something else now.”
They say colds come with fatigue. But so do long nights and bad air.
They say allergies itch. But so does dry skin in winter.
You try to isolate the feeling, separate it from all the noise.
But it’s buried beneath layers of routine.
You wonder if this has happened before. You remember, but not clearly.
Symptom journals don’t capture confusion.
“Symptom journals don’t capture confusion.”
You try not to Google it. You already know the results.
Check for mucus color. Consider duration. Look at the calendar again.
Colds go away. Allergies linger. But sometimes colds linger too.
And allergies come on suddenly, without an invitation.
They arrive with sunlight and wind and invisible signals.
You don’t remember asking for this ambiguity.
“You don’t remember asking for this ambiguity.”
You ask others. They shrug. They offer tea.
Their answers are vague, their confidence louder than their experience.
They tell you it’s nothing. You nod, unsure if you agree.
You’re not looking for drama. Just something to hold onto.
Because being uncertain in your own body is exhausting.
Even uncertainty has weight.
“Even uncertainty has weight.”
You start looking for patterns. You remember last year.
Your eyes stung the same way. You took pills then too.
Did they work? Maybe. You don’t remember relief.
Only the waiting. Waiting for the air to settle.
Waiting for sleep without waking up choking.
You stopped wearing perfume. Even flowers felt like betrayal.
“Even flowers felt like betrayal.”
Cold symptoms fade with time. That’s what they say.
But you’ve waited before, and nothing faded.
It shifted instead. Moved into your throat. Hid in your ears.
You spoke less. Whispered more.
Tried saltwater rinses and ginger tea.
Still, your skin prickled like it was keeping score.
“Still, your skin prickled like it was keeping score.”
Allergies don’t come with fever. That’s the rule.
But sometimes your face burns anyway.
Not hot. Just warm enough to worry you.
You check your forehead. Nothing. But it still feels off.
Your body sends mixed signals.
You’ve stopped trusting the rules.
“You’ve stopped trusting the rules.”
Doctors ask questions you can’t answer.
“How long has it been?”
“Do you feel achy?”
You pause. Try to sort memory from present.
Try to be useful. But everything feels vague.
You smile. Let them decide.
“You smile. Let them decide.”
You take the medication, whichever one feels right that day.
Antihistamines or decongestants. Sometimes both.
Sometimes none. You wait instead.
You try to read your body like a stranger’s handwriting.
Some days it feels legible.
Other days, you give up and go to bed.
“You try to read your body like a stranger’s handwriting.”
Someone tells you about triggers.
Dust. Mold. Pollen. Stress.
You nod again. Maybe all of it. Maybe none.
You start cleaning obsessively.
You open windows, then close them.
You vacuum even the air.
“You vacuum even the air.”
Eventually, it passes.
Not because you figured it out.
But because time moved.
Symptoms recede like waves, without explanation.
You don’t celebrate. You just breathe.
And wait for it to begin again.