It started almost imperceptibly—an itch, faint at first, brushing across the skin like a whisper.

Everyone shrugged it off. “Probably an allergy,” they said. “A new soap or detergent.” But beneath that seemingly trivial irritation, something far darker had begun to stir. What started as a minor nuisance would soon reveal itself as the first clue in a life-altering battle that no one saw coming.

It wasn’t just an itch. It was a creeping sensation that flared into angry, red patches, like tiny fires flickering just beneath the surface. At first, we treated it casually: creams, ointments, over-the-counter antihistamines, even diet changes.

Relief came fleetingly, but never for long. Each time it returned, it grew more insistent, more draining.

Nightfall brought no respite. Sleep became elusive, stolen by relentless scratching and a gnawing unease. What had seemed insignificant was now impossible to ignore.

A Doctor’s Uneasy Silence

When concern outweighed hope, I booked an appointment, expecting a routine diagnosis and a simple prescription. But the doctor’s demeanor shifted the moment he examined him. The light, easy tone vanished.

He asked questions that probed deeper, ordered tests that hinted at uncertainty, and conferred quietly with his team. His face—tense, guarded—spoke volumes that his words could not. Something was wrong.