A tremor coils in my chest, small at first, then swelling like a tide I can’t stop. The room feels sharper, every sound amplified, as if the air itself is leaning too close. My hands twitch, restless, useless, and I press them together hard enough to hurt. Then it comes—a shiver, quick as lightning, sliding down my spine. It leaves me raw, as though my nerves are exposed wires sparking in the dark. I try to breathe steady, to remind myself that nothing is wrong, that I am safe. But my body disagrees. It whispers danger where none exists.

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