Last night, I got into bed and lay down on my stomach.
I felt an itch on my chest.
By the way, when I say "night," it's just a figure of speech—the sun was coming up.

Anyway, the itch went on for a while.
I thought, "It’s probably a mosquito bite," and went to sleep.

I woke up at noon, and while washing my face in front of the mirror, I noticed dozens of pink, round sores on my chest.
I thought, "My liver must have failed," and got scared.

I went straight to the hospital.
The doctor said, "You have pityriasis rosea."
I was like, "Pityriasis rosea...?"

They added, "It usually happens due to extreme stress."
I said, "But I’m not the kind of person who gets stressed over things like that. There must be another reason."
They insisted, "No, it’s from stress."

That’s when I realized—there’s another me inside of me.
A me that I don’t even know about.
While I go through life not caring about anything, that other me must have bottled everything up.
It swallowed it all without letting me know.

I asked the dermatologist, "Should I see a psychologist?"
They said, "Don’t you have friends or family? Just talk to them."
They wrote me a box of pills and a cream and sent me on my way.

But I had no friends or family.