By Friday, the world had been wrapped in gauze. Conversations required her to tilt her head, leaning in like an old woman with a bad hearing aid. Her children’s laughter came through as muffled chirps. The high-pitched whine of the refrigerator, which had always annoyed her, was gone. In its place was a low, internal hum—her own blood, she realized, pulsing against clogged channels.
The ceiling fan’s chain clinked against the glass globe. Outside, a dog barked, sharp and real. Her own breath sounded like a windstorm. She sat up, dizzy with the sudden rush of noise. The refrigerator kicked on with a groan she had forgotten existed. She laughed—a strange, wet sound—and the laugh echoed slightly in the newly opened chambers of her head.
“Mild case,” the doctor said over a staticky video call, his voice tinny and compressed. “The congestion is Eustachian tube dysfunction. Common with the new variants. It should clear up in a week or two.” ears feel clogged covid
Lena was making coffee when she noticed it. The usual percussive clatter of beans grinding sounded distant, like someone had placed a pillow over the machine. She shook her head, yawned wide, and swallowed. Nothing. Just a dull, pressurized fullness deep inside both ears.
She walked to the kitchen, barefoot, just to hear the slap of her heels on the tile. She called her mother just to hear her say “Hello?” in that scratchy, familiar voice. For the first time in a month, the world felt solid again. Not silent. Not muffled. Just beautifully, overwhelmingly loud. By Friday, the world had been wrapped in gauze
That’s when the fatigue hit. Not the tiredness of a bad night’s sleep, but a bone-deep heaviness. She took a test on a whim, more to rule it out than anything else.
“Probably just allergies,” she muttered, the words sounding thick and underwater in her own skull. The high-pitched whine of the refrigerator, which had
It started on a Tuesday. Not with a cough or a fever, but with a soft, cottony silence.