I am scared. Not screaming scared just that quiet hum That crawls beneath your skin When something feels off, Like a clock ticking slower than it should. Three days late. Not much in a world of centuries, But in mine? It's enough to make my breath skip double-time. They say stress twists time, That worry can fold the calendar, That cravings can come from the mind, And sleep can hide in shadows of unrest. But why does my stomach feel Like it’s whispering secrets I don’t understand? Why do I ache, Why do I curl in bed and still feel like I’m not in my body? Craving, Weakness, Tired eyes that never truly close, A headache that feels like a question mark tapping at my skull And the craving again, Like something’s missing, Or something’s begun. But it **can’t be.** It shouldn’t be. It’s impossible. I’ve never given that piece of me away, Never crossed that line, Never danced that dance they say leads to this. So why does everything feel Like I’ve stepped into a story That was never mine to write? I want someone to say: “You’re okay. It’s just the storm your body throws When your soul is carrying too much.” But even reassurance feels like a maybe. So how do I react? Do I breathe slow and tell myself it’s nothing? Or do I count every symptom Like beads on a string of worry? I don’t have answers. I only have this moment, This confusion stitched into every thought, And the hope that this too Will pass like a tide. Not everything that feels big Ends up being a wave. Sometimes it’s just a ripple Echoing through an already tired mind.