I skipped breakfast this morning. Like, actually skipped it. My usual almond-milk latte and a low-sugar granola bar, gone. Because I was running late, again. The alarm didn’t go off, or I hit snooze too many times, I don’t even remember now. It was 6:47 AM when I finally pulled out of the driveway, the Honda CR-V smelling faintly of that vanilla air freshener my sister gave me, and I was already mentally calculating the traffic on the 405. Usually, I’m out by 6:30 AM, precisely. That extra seventeen minutes, it just… threw everything off. And then, around 11:15 AM, while I was reviewing the Q3 budget projections – the ones for the departmental spend, not the overall company, those are handled by finance – a sort of lightheadedness descended. It wasn’t dramatic, not like a swoon in a Victorian novel, but more of a distinct, internal shift. A sensation of less solidity, a wavering in my visual field, almost imperceptible to an external observer, but CRUSHING internally. It lasted maybe 45 seconds. I kept my hand on the mouse, tracking the projected overheads for office supplies, pretending to concentrate. My colleague, Brenda, she was talking about the new espresso machine for the breakroom, and I just nodded, made a noncommittal sound. But inside, everything went cold. It’s a permanent condition, I thought. This is it. This is how it starts. The brain fog, the inability to focus, the inevitable decline into some sort of chronic illness that will render me incapable of performing my duties as office manager. I saw it all unfolding, a clear, linear trajectory: doctor’s visits, specialist referrals, sick days stacking up, the shame of not being able to keep up. I pictured the whispers, the looks of pity from Brenda, from Michael in accounting. I saw myself, shuffling around the house, unable to even manage the grocery list, let alone the complex logistics of the annual holiday party. What would Mrs. Henderson next door think? She already judges my lawn. I managed to grab a handful of those little mini pretzels from the communal snack basket an hour later, and the feeling, the physical one anyway, dissipated. But the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that this is the beginning of the end—that remains. I’m lying here at 2:07 AM, staring at the ceiling fan’s shadow, and it’s just circling, circling, a constant reminder of the impermanence of my cognitive function. Seventeen minutes. That’s all it took.