A sentiment of being sick, I had followed with a memory. It was like a thread pulled from my brain, one of those strands that run through our rememberings in different directions, some leading here, others there. Eventually, the whole thing came together in one continuous narrative. By then, it was too late to stop it.
I tried to tell myself this wasn't true, and I felt this weird sense of dread at being there, that there must be some other explanation for my strange behaviour. But the smell of the food still filled my nostrils, even though I'd eaten nothing all day except the small glass of water I had forced down at night and the bitter taste of the coffee I tried to drink before leaving the house. The smell of food didn't make me hungry. There was something about it that made me feel unhealthy. The scent of something, the way my nose told me it was wrong.
Then I thought of all those moments in my past that had made me sick with worry and fear. I had realized that it wasn't any of those things making me ill. I remembered a moment, a flash from before. I had walked into a room full of people and smelled them. I also remember being in that moment; I no longer felt sick. I only felt the hunger.