At 2:40 every afternoon, I would begin calculating how long I could wait before visiting the restroom again.
Not because I needed the toilet.
Because the skin beneath my breasts had started feeling damp, and dampness usually meant the itching and burning were not far behind.
My handbag carried powder, tissues, a small towel, two creams, and a spare bra. On long days, I planned my clothes around access to a bathroom. I knew which restroom at work had enough counter space to lift the fold, wipe carefully, dry the area, and start my routine again.
The rash was miserable.
But the routine had quietly become just as exhausting.
I did not merely want relief for the evening.