Panic often sounds like the truth. It doesn’t knock—it kicks the door in and calls itself a blessing.
Your screen floods with shaky screenshots, breathless voice notes, and urgent texts that say, “Trust me, it’s real this time.”
Your chest loosens, just a little. You start to picture groceries paid, lights that stay on, a week where the air feels lighter. People swear they know someone who’s already received it. You do the math, maybe shift a few things around—just enough to breathe.
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