I recently met a woman at the supermarket and we started seeing each other.

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.