Ayla did not look back as she ran out of the hospital.
The automatic doors slid open too slowly for her panicked steps, and when she burst into the open air, the cold morning wind struck her face like a slap. She barely registered it. Her hospital clothes fluttered loosely around her body, thin cotton offering no protection, no dignity, no warmth. A nurse called out behind her, confused, startled by the sight of a patient fleeing barefoot down the pavement, but Ayla did not stop. She could not. If she stopped, she knew she would crumble right there, collapse onto the concrete, and never stand up again.
Her chest felt tight, painfully tight, as if something heavy had been placed directly over her lungs. Each breath scraped instead of soothed. She tasted metal at the back of her throat, though she had not bitten her tongue. Her hands shook, fingers curling and uncurling uselessly, as though they were searching for something to hold onto and finding nothing.
