The soft whir of the treadmill starts the panic. 

I let go of the crutch, hobbling onto the threatening machine.

I cringe, my weak, small foot resting on the slow track.

I try to put weight on my foot and stifle a cry.

“Three minutes.”

Bracing myself with the handles on the side, I start going by step by step.
A harsh wind from the vent covers the tears welling in my eyes.

Slowly they start dripping down, no matter how hard I try to ignore them.

The pain gets worse until I can’t bear it anymore.

Until

“You’re done.”

Some of the greatest words I’ve heard in my life.

But,

They can see the tears.

They can see I’m weak.