SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW
I dropped to my knees and held the toilet bowl like it was some holy altar. My stomach twisted again and before I knew it — vomit. Bitter, ugly, gut-wrenching vomit. The fourth time today. Fourth. Freaking. Time.
I wiped my mouth with shaking hands, my body trembling like I’d just run ten marathons barefoot.
What the heck was going on with me?
I couldn’t eat. Not even strawberries — and strawberries were my thing. Nothing was satisfying. No amount of rest was enough. And God knows I’d tried to ignore it, brush it off as stress, overworking, a flu, maybe. But this wasn’t flu. This wasn’t burnout. This was different.
My feet couldn’t stand heels anymore. My head spun every time I stood too fast. I couldn’t even wear perfume without gagging. Something was off and
