The Look

“I had a headache all weekend,” I begin, “and yesterday and I’m working on something today,” I tell her.

We are walking through the halls, stretching our legs during a short break in class. I was getting antsy sitting in class for so long, just sitting. My head is starting to ache, I want to get something to eat before I swallow some pills to ease the pain before it starts.

I look at her. She texted me telling she wasn’t feeling good some time during the weekend. I gave her sympathy, not telling her that I had one too at the time.

She gives me “the look”. My stomach sinks. I hate that look. It always feels like betrayal. It says, “you always have a headache. I know you have a headache. I’m tired of hearing it, shut up all ready.”

My mouth slams shut and I don’t say anything else. This is when the pain becomes isolating. That looks makes me realize how strange this condition is, how I’m not suppose to be this way. That look forces me to suffer in silence.


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