I recently met a woman at the supermar
I woke up thinking about her smile.
Ten seconds later, I was staring at a stranger in the mirror.
Red sores, yellow crusts, burning patches across my forehead — like my skin had melted overnight.
Panic hit first, then shame, then a crushing fear: What did she give me?
I stood there, gripping the sink, replaying every second of the previous night.
Her laugh. Her kiss on my forehead. The warmth I’d felt falling asleep.
I went from Googling “chemical burn” to “STDs on face” to “skin-eating bacteria,” each result worse than the last.
By the time I called the doctor, I was shaking, convinced my life had just split into “before” and “after.”
The diagnosis felt almost anticlimactic: impetigo. A contagious but treatable bacterial skin infection. Antibiotics, ointment, careful hygiene.
No, my face wasn’t ruined forever. Yes, I could heal. But the emotional shock stayed.
One perfect evening had turned into a brutal reminder of how fragile our bodies — and illusions of control — really are.
Now, every time I look in the mirror, I see more than scars; I see how quickly normal can shatter.
