Fictionlog 2025-10-30T02:40:49Z

FictionlogFictionlog \xe0\xb8\x84\xe0\xb8\xa5\xe0\xb8\xb1\xe0\xb8\x87\xe0\xb8\x99\xe0\xb8\xb4\xe0\xb8\xa2\xe0\xb8\xb2\xe0\xb8\xa2\xe0\xb8\xad\xe0\xb8\xad\xe0\xb8\x99\xe0\xb9\x84\xe0\xb8\xa5\xe0\xb8\x99\xe0\xb9\x8c\xe0\xb9\x81\xe0\xb8\xa5\xe0\xb8\xb0\xe0\xb8\xa3\xe0\xb9\x89\xe0\xb8\xb2\xe0\xb8\x99\xe

New York's August heat pressed down like a physical weight that summer, thick enough to taste. My cramped studio apartment became a convection oven, every surface radiating stored sunlight long after dusk. I'd stare at fire escapes through warped window glass, tracing rust patterns while sweat glued my shirt to the plastic chair. That's when the panic attacks started - not dramatic collapses, but silent tremors that made my hands shake too violently to hold a coffee cup. My therapist called it u

It all started on a dreary Tuesday evening, crammed into a delayed subway car during peak hour. The humid air thick with exhaustion and the collective sigh of commuters, I found myself scrolling mindlessly through my phone, desperate for any distraction from the monotony. That's when I remembered a friend's offhand recommendation and downloaded Fictionlog – little did I know this would become my sanctuary against urban claustrophobia. The initial installation felt painfully slow, chewing through