Saying five years aloud seems almost innocuous, like a short chapter quickly turned. Yet, when those five years are measured not in calendars, but in hospital corridors, prescription renewal times, and the persistent smell of antiseptic that clings to clothes, time no longer flows normally. It freezes. It weighs on your chest. It becomes a burden rather than a living entity.
My name is Marianne Cortez, and I am thirty-two years old. When I look in the mirror, I no longer recognize the woman staring back at me. Her shoulders are hunched, as if she were bracing herself for a shock. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles that sleep hasn't touched in years. Her hands tell their story more clearly than her face: rough from constant washing, from carrying loads she should never have had to bear alone, from gripping the bars of wheelchairs and the edges of hospital beds.
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