But adaptation doesn’t mean acceptance. And my body has begun sending signals I can no longer ignore.
Sometimes, this all-consuming exhaustion hits me in waves that have nothing to do with the physical demands of learning to be blind. It’s different from the bone-deep tiredness that comes from navigating a world without sight or the mental strain of memorizing every step and turn and texture. This is something else—a heaviness that makes sitting on the couch feel like running an uphill marathon.
My breasts are tender in a way that makes even my cheap sports bra uncomfortable. I’ve been chalking it up to the stress of becoming a fugitive, to sleeping on shitty motel mattresses for weeks, to anything other than what it might actually mean. But the tenderness has gotten worse, not better. Now, even the soft cotton of my t-shirt feels like sandpaper against my skin.
The nausea comes and goes, usually in the mornings. I’ve been blaming the questionable diner food we’ve been living on. A diet of greasy eggs and burnt toast and coffee that tastes like it was brewed in a sweaty shoe isn’t exactly chicken soup for the soul, nor for the bone density. But it happens even when I haven’t eaten. A nasty, boiling queasiness that makes my mouth water and my knees tremble.
And my period. I’ve missed it.
In the chaos of the past seven weeks, I’d barely noticed. One month became two, and I told myself it was the stress making me go haywire. I mean, after all, trauma does things to yourbody, doesn’t it? Throws everything off-balance? So of course my cycle would be disrupted—my entirelifehas been disrupted.
But now, sitting here with Excalibur propped against my knee and Yasmin organizing spices in the kitchen, I can’t ignore the pattern anymore. Each symptom on its own could be explained away. Together, they form a truth I’ve been avoiding because acknowledging it would mean confronting everything I’ve been trying to outrun.
I press my hand against my stomach. Nothing feels different there. Not yet. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s too early for outward signs.
“El? You okay?” Yasmin’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I drop my hand quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
“Learning to be blind is exhausting,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.
She makes a noncommittal sound, and I hear her footsteps approaching. The futon groans like a wildebeest as she sits beside me. “We should probably get you to a doctor soon. For a checkup or whatever. Make sure everything’s okay with your eyes.”
My heart stutters. “I’m fine.”
“El—”
“Yas. Drop it.”
“Alright, alright. No need to snap, sugar plum.”
I soften my tone. “Sorry. I’m just adjusting. Makes me grouchy sometimes.”
“I know.” Her hand pats my knee. “But you don’t have to do it alone, okay? That’s why I’m here.”
The kindness in her voice makes my throat tight. If I tell her about everything that’s going on with me, she’ll insist we figure it out. She’ll want me to take a test so we can know for sure. And then what?
If I’m pregnant, it’s Bastian’s. There’s no question about that. The timeline matches perfectly. It’s been seven weeks since that night on the Olympus rooftop, since we had sex without protection because I was too caught up in the moment to care about consequences.
I’d wanted to feel alive. That was the whole idea: experience everything before the darkness came.
Well, mission accomplished.
Now, I’m blind, on the run, and possibly carrying the child of a man I watched dismember a corpse in an alley. I’m winning this messed-up game of Experiential Bingo.
“Elly?” Yasmin prompts. “You still with me?”
I force myself to reorient toward her voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
I could tell her, if I wanted to. Right now. I could just open my mouth and let the words spill out:Yas, I think I might be pregnant.
But the words won’t come. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. If I take a test and it’s positive, then I have to makedecisions.Keep it or don’t. Tell Bastian or don’t. Stay hidden or go find him and?—
No. I can’t think about that last one. How could I even consider the possibility of reaching out to him, after what I saw?
I stand up from the futon, Excalibur in hand. “I’m going to the drugstore.”
