The flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room swam before Amelia's eyes. Each pulse hammered a rhythm against her skull, a painful echo of the constant throbbing in her limbs. She clutched the worn edge of the chair, knuckles white, trying to ground herself. The incessant itch, the burning ache, it was a living prison inside her own skin. She’d tried everything – ice packs, scalding showers, meditation apps – nothing offered a moment's reprieve.
A man across the room, hunched and picking at his nails, caught her eye. He looked… familiar. Not in a recognized-him-before kind of way, but a shared anguish in the slump of his shoulders, in the nervous twitch of his leg. He met her gaze, a flicker of something desperate crossing his face.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice raspy. "Is it… is it the itch?"
Amelia nodded, a tight, jerky movement. The question felt like an accusation, like he somehow knew her secret, the thing that held her in its grip. A shared burden.
He sighed, a sound that seemed to scrape against the silence. "They said it was Fibrous Histiocytoma Syndrome. Rare, they said. Probably nothing to worry about." He said, almost as though he was trying to convince himself. His hands began to scratch at his own arms.