I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror at 3 a.m., clutching the edge of the sink. My nose was completely useless. Not stuffy. Not blocked. Sealed. Like someone had poured quick-drying cement up both nostrils. I tried to inhale. Nothing. I tried again, mouth clamped shut, desperate for a single wisp of air. My chest hitched. Panic bloomed hot in my stomach.
By Wednesday, the tickle had turned into a dull pressure behind my nose. By Thursday, I understood what true congestion meant.
That night, I did something I’m not proud of. I found an old box of Afrin in the back of the medicine cabinet. The label said “do not use for more than three days.” I didn’t care. I sprayed once in each nostril. The relief was instantaneous and almost religious. Air rushed in—cold, sweet, real air. I took a deep breath for the first time in a week. Then another. I cried again, but this time from pure relief.
