Good numbers. Cold hands.
Every number on the page was fine. Cholesterol, fine. Triglycerides, the kind of number the nurse comments on. And you still hit a wall at three in the afternoon.
A blood test is an inventory. It counts what is floating in your blood. It has never once measured how your blood moves.
Not the speed. Not the thickness. Not whether your body still clears what it builds, the way it did at forty.
That is the half nobody measured. It is also the half you can feel.