The fatigue clings no matter how many hours I sleep like a heavy fog I can’t shake. I stop recognizing myself in the mirror.
There are dark crescents under my eyes, and my skin feels too tight.
My reflection becomes a stranger.
The circles under my eyes look like bruises, my cheeks have lost their color.
My skin feels too tight like I’m living in someone else’s body.
I start skipping meals not because I mean to but because nothing tastes right. Sometimes when I brush my teeth in the morning, I have to grip the edge of the sink just to keep from getting sick.
I buy the test later that night, intentionally picking the cheapest box from the pharmacy with my hands stuffed in my pockets the entire time, praying no one from campus recognizes me.
The walk back to the dorm feels endless, every step heavier than the last.
By the time I get to my room, it’s well past midnight.
I wait until I’m sure everyone’s asleep before I slip inside one of the bathroom stalls, barefoot, clutching the box like it might explode.
The tiles are freezing under my feet.
My hands shake as I tear the wrapper open.
The little plastic stick looks so harmless, too small to hold the weight of what it might tell me. I tell myself it won’t matter, that I’m overreacting.
That the timing, the exhaustion, the nausea…it’s all just stress. Just bad food.
Justanythingelse.
But when I finally use the test, wait the three minutes, and look down, all that denial collapses.
Two pink lines. Bright, bold, and unforgiving.
Pregnant.
I sit on the floor next to the toilet for a long time, knees drawn up to my chest as I keep staring at the little lines that seem like a guillotine hanging over my head.
I want to cry but the tears won’t come yet. The hum of the lights overhead fills the silence, and for the first time since taking the test, I realize I’m shaking.
For days after that, I move through life like a ghost wearing my own skin. I go to class, I take notes I can’t comprehend, I laugh at a joke my brain can’t compute, I stop by the grocery store andpick up things I can’t bring myself to eat, I wave at classmates in the hall and smile when they smile back.
From the outside, I look completely fine but inside I’m screaming.
The same thoughts loop over and over until my brain feels raw:What do I do? What will people think? What if Dad finds out? What if they all find out?
Every version of those questions ends in disaster.
Every imagined outcome makes my chest tighten until I can’t breathe.
I start avoiding calls from home, telling myself I’ll call Dad back when I’m ready, when I’ve made a decision for myself.
I tell myself I’ll figure it out, just not today.
A week passes before I finally do something.
I search online for clinics in town.
My hand trembles on the mouse as I scroll through the options, the words on the screen blurring in front of me:free consultation, confidential appointment, support services.
