There was a pain in her chest. It was buried there, between her lungs. It was barricaded in tissue and blood. It was so deep that it was never seen. X-rays couldn’t produce an image to make doctors understand. MRIs left much to be desired.

Soon, no one believed her. But the pain throbbed like a second heartbeat.

Why didn’t anyone believe her? She wouldn’t lie. Not that she didn’t lie. Because she did. But if she was lying , it was to cover up pain, not make it up. It was to dispel attention, not attract it.

And she was trustworthy. Hadn’t she she shown at least that? Hadn’t she become someone to lean on, someone worth telling secrets to? So why didn’t they trust her when she said she was in pain?

She writhed against the feeling of something in her own body betraying her. She gave up on telling her pain. On describing it. On hoping for relief. And as they doubted every pain she had, she began to doubt herself. She began to wonder if it really was just all in her head.

And what a pity that would be: if she suffered long because of a pain she felt, one easily treated, and the only reason she suffered was because she finally believed she was making it up like they thought she was all along. Too afraid to trust her own feelings. Too afraid to show who she was for fear that no one would believe her anyway.



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