How I had told myself it meant nothing.
How I had convinced myself I was using him.
How my body betrayed my logic.
I hated him.
And somehow I still let him touch me.
Stupid hormones. Temporary weakness.
Traitorous body.
One moment of impulsive surrender.
That was all it took.
God.
Please.
Don’t let this be pregnancy.
I locked the bathroom door behind me.
The sound clicked louder than necessary in the silence.
My hands trembled as I opened the first test.
I peeled back the plastic wrapper.
Sat on the toilet.
Held the stick carefully between my thighs.
And peed on the absorbent tip.
I tried to breathe normally.
Tried to calm my racing heart.
Then I placed the test on the counter.
Washed my hands.
And stared at myself in the mirror.
Eyes wide.
Fear clearly visible.
I looked like someone standing at the edge of a life-altering cliff.
The seconds stretched.
Slow.
Cruel.
