God. It all sounds so sterile.
So detached.
I book an appointment anyway and tell no one.
The secret sits heavy in my chest, too fragile and too raw to speak about.
When the day comes, I sit in the waiting room with my hands knotted together and eyes fixed on the clock.
Other women sit nearby, some alone, some with partners.
A girl across from me keeps biting her nails down to the nail beds, her leg bouncing uncontrollably.
When the nurse calls my name, my body moves automatically.
The hallway stretches ahead, bright and sterile, every footstep echoing against the linoleum like I’m marching toward something final.
Inside the exam room, the paper on the table crinkles as I sit down. I stare at the sink in the corner, at the small metal tray laid out beside it, each instrument lined up with precision.
Everything feels too clean, too clinical, too detached from the chaos inside my chest.
My pulse is beating so hard it feels like it’s lodged in my throat, every beat echoing in my ears.
When the door opens, the doctor steps in.
She’s in her mid-forties and has kind eyes and a practiced tone.
She smiles gently as she sits and asks me questions about my medical history, reading from the tablet in her hand.
Her voice is even, almost soothing, but it doesn’t reach me.
The words come in fragments, like I’m underwater.
“How far along…”
“…procedure is safe…”
“…it’s just a pill, you’ll be awake…”
They clang against each other in my skull until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
I nod when she pauses, but I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.
My vision’s tunneling, narrowing down to the edges of the paper under me that I’ve somehow managed to bunch in my fists.
My knuckles ache from gripping it.
My heart’s hammering so violently I think I might be sick.
Then suddenly, I can’t.
It hits me like a punch to the chest, sharp and certain.
I can’t do this.
I press a hand against my stomach—barely a curve, nothing visible yet—but it’s like my body is trying to tell me what my brain refuses to accept.
The doctor is still talking, outlining steps, timing, aftercare, but her voice fades into static.
