“Hera, stop being stubborn. Please just let me carry you. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I could hear the laughter in his voice, hear the way that he was trying to choke it back by speaking, that he was hoping that I would just overlook it, or perhaps not even notice it. I failed to see what it was that was so amusing about me struggling to finish walking, so amusing about me making the effort to actually make it home. Was it my fault that I wasn’t an Olympic sprinter? No. It was just the way that it was, and it could not be helped.
But what did make it fractionally worse, was that I had not once complained. I had not once expressed the amount of pain that I was in, or how tired my body was, and how I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in a very hot batht
