EXPIRATION DATE 20**

Is book feels like a glimpse behind a facade that has long "worked"—and yet has repeatedly developed cracks. At its center is a narrator who, even as a child, learned to read her surroundings like an early warning system: moods, potential dangers, unspoken expectations. Not because she was "too sensitive," but because her inner self understood early on that security is not a given. From this attitude arise patterns that extend to the present day: taking responsibility before anyone demands it; looking for fault within oneself before anyone assigns it; striving to create stability, even when the foundation for it is actually lacking. In parallel, the text opens a second level: life with chronic illness—not as an abstract medical topic, but as a daily reality. Multiple sclerosis appears here as an unpredictable path that drains energy, narrows choices, and divides everyday life into limits of pain and exhaustion. It's a life where "normal" doesn't mean everything is fine, but rather that one has learned to plan, manage, and endure with limitations. And it is precisely through this that the amount of inner work involved in seemingly small things becomes palpable: getting through the night, making it through the next day, not losing oneself. The text's description of relationships is particularly poignant: not as clear categories of "good" or "bad," but as fragile spaces where love, loyalty, grief, and the need for self-protection can coexist. There's, for example, the sibling relationship, which has been difficult since their teenage years. Not loudly dramatic, but worn down by repetition: accusations, misunderstandings, the feeling that one's own pain is not believed or is downplayed ("you're faking it"). At the same time, there remains a willingness to consider the other side: that a sibling might feel overlooked…