I leaned back in the gynecologist's chair, my fists clenched, while my doctor peered between my legs. For the previous few days, I'd been experiencing pain.
Yes, it's herpes,” she told me matter-of-factly, pulling off her gloves and giving me a look of practiced, clinical sympathy. She'd been down there all of five seconds.
I felt all the blood drain from my face and the air seep out of my lungs. Until that moment, I had still hoped it was something else.
But none of that mattered, apparently. Because I had still contracted herpes. In the week that followed my diagnosis, things only got worse.
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