NORA
Seven Days Late
Iwake up tangled in my sheets, the faint taste of champagne still lingering at the back of my throat and mascara smudged in smoky half-moons under my eyes. The dress I wore to the gala is draped across the reading chair like a collapsed diva—wrinkled, glittery, exhausted.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
Max left early this morning, mumbling something about grabbing coffee on the way to a meeting. Then the door clicked shut—and I didn’t even have the energy to miss him before I drifted back to sleep.
Now the sunlight is too bright. My head pounds—not quite a hangover, more like I’ve been run over by my own adrenaline. I rub at my eyes, sit up slowly.
And immediately regret it.
A wave of dizziness rolls through me. My stomach flips uneasily, and for a second I think I might actually be sick. I press a hand to my abdomen and breathe through it.
“Just nerves,” I whisper to the ceiling. “You pulled off a massive charity event. You’re allowed to feel… drained.”
Still, something feelsoff. Not in a sick way—well, not entirely—but in a wrong-frequency kind of way. Like my body’s playing a note just slightly out of tune.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen, still in Max’s oversized t-shirt from last night. I open the fridge, stare blankly at a half-eaten bagel and an alarming number of condiment jars, and shut it again.
Coffee. I need coffee.
But even the smell makes my stomach lurch. I wrinkle my nose and pull away. Not normal.
My chest feels… sore? I frown, press the heel of my hand gently against one breast, then the other. Yep. Tender. Unusual, but maybe my cycle’s being weird.
I glance at the calendar on the fridge. And then I blink.
I don’t panic at first, because maybe I remember the dates wrong?
I tell myself it’s nothing. A blip. Stress. The tail end of an exhausting whirlwind month. My body is just catching up, recalibrating after the chaos.
Except… I should probably open my cycle tracking app. Just to check. Just to reassure myself that everything is normal.
The screen loads.
And my heart lurches.
Seven days late.
I blink at the number. Then blink again.
That can’t be right. I always mark everything. I’ve been using this app for years, religiously. I scroll backward, looking at past entries—sure enough, the last cycle is logged. The timing is exact. The math is… not in my favor.
A strange ringing starts in my ears.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
I know I was careful.
Ialwaystook the pill. I had a system. Alarms, even. I remember sitting on the tour bus, double-checking the foil pack. I never missed one.
A chill runs through me. My fingers tremble as I set the phone down on the coffee table.
It’s not definitive. Not yet. But the sinking weight in my gut is harder and heavier than any tea or yoga pose or rationalization can shake.
I’m late. I’m queasy. I’m sore. And every instinct I have is screaming the same impossible thing.
