Last weekend was supposed to be quiet. My girlfriend went out with her friends to a club, laughing as she grabbed her jacket and told me not to wait up. I stayed home, planning to relax, maybe watch a movie and catch up on rest. The apartment felt unusually silent once the door closed behind her, but I didn’t think much of it. That calm didn’t last long. Out of nowhere, a deep, overwhelming pain surged through my body—sharp enough to steal my breath and leave me disoriented. I sat down, then lay down, telling myself it would pass. But it didn’t. Panic crept in as the minutes stretched on.
I reached for my phone and called her, hoping to hear a familiar voice and ask for help. The music on her end was loud, the conversation rushed. I tried to explain that something felt wrong, that I was scared, but my words came out tangled and weak. She sounded annoyed, convinced I was exaggerating or trying to interrupt her night. Before I could finish explaining, the call ended. A moment later, my messages stopped going through. Alone again, I focused on breathing and staying conscious, unsure whether to call someone else or wait it out. Time became hard to measure, and every second felt heavier than the last.
