The first bump didn’t scare me. The pattern did. By the second night in my friend’s old apartment, my skin felt like a map of something gone wrong. Tiny, angry clusters appeared where my body touched the mattress, each itch a quiet alarm I tried to ignore. I hadn’t changed my soap, my food, my routine—only my surroundings. That’s when the unease started to grow. Old walls, old carpets, old furniture… and suddenly, my own body was reacting like it had discovered a secret I couldn’t see. Some bumps faded, others throbbed longer, pulsing with irritation every time I scratched. I lay awake wondering: was it bugs, mold, chemicals—or something worse hiding in the dark? My skin knew before I did, and by the time I finally listened, the message was impossible to mis… Continues…