“You don’t have to know anything yet,” she says softly. “But this is step one.”
I stare at the tests like they might explode.
“And in case you’re wondering,” she adds, quieter now, “I got them from Stella’s. She didn’t ask questions. Just rang me up, handed me a chocolate bar and a box of ginger tea, and told me, ‘Just in case, sweetheart.’”
That does it.
My vision blurs instantly. “Why is everyone sonicehere?” I croak. “I can’t… why is she like that?”
Maya pulls me into a hug without hesitation. “Because this place is filled with people who show up when it matters. Even if it’s with chocolate and unsolicited life-altering tests.”
I bury my face in her shoulder. “I’m not prepared for this.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But you’re not alone. We’ll figure it out together. I promise. You have all of us.”
My hands tremble as I reach for the bag. My whole body feels like it’s floating, like none of this is real, but somehow, I know what I have to do.
I don’t know what the answer is yet.
But I’m about to find out.
Reluctantly, I grab one.
Okay, fine. I grab three and spend the next fifteen solid minutes pacing, stalling, and threatening to yeet the entire bag of tests out the window.
Maya watches me like a calm, nonjudgmental lighthouse in a storm. She’s propped on my couch with her legs tucked under her and a smug little mug of tea in her hands like she’s not the person who just turned my whole world upside down with one paper bag and a knowing look.
“Do you need me to read you the directions?” she offers sweetly.
“I’m not building a rocket,” I mutter. “I know how to pee on a stick.”
“Then what’s the holdup, champ?”
“I’m gathering my strength.”
“You’ve been in a stare down with a box for nine minutes.”
“It’s staring first!”
She snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”
I point a finger at her. “I’m about to pee on something that may or may not change the course of my entire life. I think I’m allowed a little drama.”
“Try not to pee on your hand.”
“Goodbye. Forever.”
I storm into the bathroom, dignity flapping behind me like a sad little cape. The instructions are easy enough—pee, wait, suffer, and I try to focus on the science of it instead of, you know, the world-crushing implications.
Two minutes later, I shuffle out like a sleep-deprived gremlin and toss the capped test on the coffee table between us like it’s cursed.
“There,” I say, collapsing beside her. “Now we wait.”
Maya sets a timer on her phone. “Want to scroll TikTok to pass the time?”
“I want a lobotomy.”
We sit in silence, and the seconds stretch out like a bad first date. My heart is hammering. My mouth’s dry. My foot won’t stop tapping.
