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Each good day feels like a ticking time bomb,
waiting for the inevitable to explode. They say lightning never strikes twice, but maybe three, four, five times -- each hospital visit, another diagnosis, each bolt leaving burns I never asked for. The doctors call it chance. I call it a pattern etched in static, my body — a map marked with burns. I used to think lightning was rare, just a freak of nature. Now I know it waits in silence, and when it strikes, it doesn’t ask if I’m ready. They admire my strength, but they don’t see my fear. I’m more than the list they use to define me. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend -- I’ve got ambitions, dreams that stretch beyond this storm. When will it end? I whisper to the thunder rumbling beneath my skin, but even as I crumble, I stand -- courageous, unbroken, and unashamed, a fierce light with the strength to carry on.
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