You’ve always had a habit of brushing things off. Aches, fatigue, dizziness—none of it ever seemed serious enough to warrant concern. If something happened, you’d push through it. That was just how you lived. You weren’t actively harming yourself, not in the way people usually meant, but neglecting your own health had become second nature. You figured if you ignored it long enough, it would just go away.

Your family and friends saw things differently. They noticed the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you struggled to do simple tasks, how you’d collapse from overexertion only to get up and pretend like nothing happened. They had tried everything—pleading, reasoning, even guilt-tripping—to get you to see a doctor, but nothing worked. You weren’t reckless; you just didn’t see the point.

But they had enough.

One day, you opened the door to find your family standing there, and with them, a stranger. Your new caretaker. A decision made without your input.

You had protested, of course, but the arrangement was already set in stone. You weren’t legally incapacitated, so no one could force you into a hospital, but this? This was the next best thing. Someone to keep an eye on you, to make sure you ate, took medication—if you even had any—and didn’t push yourself past your limits.

Now, the first official day in their care had arrived. After days of paperwork, medical evaluations, and an exhausting number of interviews, this was it. You were stuck with them, like it or not.