She stopped going to the doctor after the third visit.
Not because they found nothing. They found plenty. Just not the same thing twice.
One said inflammation. Another said anxiety. A third asked if she'd been under "unusual emotional stress" and looked at me when he said it, like I was furniture that might answer back.
Her scans came back clean in the way that feels like an insult. Clear images. Proper spacing. Organs where they were supposed to be. She stared at the lightbox longer than necessary, squinting like the problem might appear if she looked hard enough.
"But it hurts here," she said, pressing her palm into her lower abdomen.
The doctor nodded sympathetically. "Pain doesn't always mean damage."
On the drive home, she pressed harder, fingers digging in like she was trying to hook something and pull it closer to the surface.
"It feels heavier," she said. "Like something's sitting wrong."
I kept my eyes on the road. "You've lost weight. Things feel different when there's less padding."
She went quiet after that.
At home, she lay on the couch and didn't move for hours. Not sleeping. Just still. Her eyes tracked things that weren't there. The ceiling fan. The light shifting across the wall. Her own hands.
She flexed her toes slowly, one by one. When the left foot lagged, she frowned.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
"See what?"
She tried again. This time, nothing happened at all.
Her foot stayed still.
Panic came in waves. Not dramatic. Controlled. She swallowed it back like she'd been trained to. She grabbed her ankle and shook it, forcing movement manually, like she was operating a machine that no longer responded to commands.
Eventually it moved.
She laughed weakly. "Guess it fell asleep."
I watched the muscles ripple belatedly, like the signal had taken a longer route than usual.
That night, she woke me up crying.
Not sobbing. Crying the way people do when they're afraid to be heard. Silent, shaking, tears soaking into the pillow.
"I can feel it when I lie still," she whispered. "Something inside me keeps shifting. Like it's trying to get comfortable."
I turned toward her. She smelled sour. Not unwashed. Internal. Like something fermenting.
"You're imagining it," I said gently. "Your body is adjusting."
"To what?" she asked.
I didn't answer right away.
She rolled onto her side, curling inward. Her knees pressed too tightly into her chest, compressing her abdomen until her breathing stuttered.
"It doesn't feel like me anymore," she said. "I feel hollow in some places. Too full in others."
I rested my hand on her stomach.
This time, I didn't press.
Something pushed back.
Not hard. Not violently. Just enough to make itself known. A slow, deliberate resistance under my palm, like a muscle flexing independently of her will.
She gasped.
"Did you feel that?" she asked, eyes wide.
I kept my hand steady. If I pulled away, it would become real. If I stayed, it stayed manageable.
"It's digestion," I said. "Your gut's sensitive lately."
Her eyes searched my face. She was looking for cracks. For hesitation. She didn't find any.
She relaxed incrementally, like an animal deciding not to bolt.
The next morning, she couldn't smell her coffee.
She leaned over the mug, inhaling deeply, frowning harder with each breath.
"Is it burnt?" she asked.
"No."
She tried again. Nothing.
Her face crumpled, not with fear, but confusion. Like she'd misplaced something essential and couldn't remember where she'd last put it.
Later, she burned her hand on the stove and didn't notice until the skin blistered.
The blister was strange. Not clear fluid. Thick. Cloudy. When it finally broke, the skin underneath looked pale and slick, like it had been soaked too long.
She stared at it, detached. "I didn't feel that."
"You're overtired," I said. "Your nerves are misfiring."
She nodded. She always nodded now.
That night, I found her in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, naked.
She had drawn lines on herself with a marker. Arrows. Circles. Question marks along her ribs, her thighs, her neck.
"I'm mapping it," she said quietly. "So I don't forget what belongs where."
I looked at the lines. Some of them were already wrong.
Her hips sat lower than they should have. Her shoulders sloped unevenly. Her neck tilted forward slightly, like it was compensating for weight she couldn't articulate.
"You're obsessing," I said. "You're hurting yourself."
She dropped the marker. It rolled under the sink.
"What if I wake up one day and I don't fit anymore?" she asked. "What if there's not enough room?"
I stepped behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.
"Then you let go of what doesn't belong," I said.
Her reflection looked smaller beside mine. Less certain. Easier to guide.
She closed her eyes.
Behind her ribs, something shifted again.
This time, it stayed.