I was born sick.
To be precise, I came into this world with a frail body and a pair of lungs that refused to cooperate. Even the simple act of breathing felt like an eternal battle with an invisible foe, which became more fiercer with each passing day.
The doctors called it "chronic pulmonary insufficiency." A sophisticated name for a fragile existence.
As a child, I didn't fully understand my condition. I only knew it set me apart from others. My lungs couldn't draw in enough air, leaving me constantly gasping, as if life itself was trying to escape me.
Surviving infancy was considered a miracle. Even the doctors said as much. But surviving wasn't the same as living. My early years were spent within the confines of walls, unable to run, laugh, or play like other children.
I often wondered why. Why was I born like this? Was it some cruel twist of fate? Or was I paying for sins I didn't remember committing?
